She’ll have to go to the house in Carlton where Diana followed her husband on Friday. But before that, Oli’s going to prison. It’s time to talk to Theo Bouris.

Oli has been in close proximity to murderers during her time as a crime reporter—mostly in court, once at a crime scene, and twice when she conducted interviews in prison. Only one, Jackson Roy, completely unnerved her, eagerly recounting his gruesome crimes in explicit detail, and repeatedly commenting on how much Oli reminded him of his third victim, a budding poet called Sienna Forrest with whom Oli shared more than a passing resemblance. Roy got under her skin, which crawled for days, but she knows evil exists on a scale just like everything else. Thankfully Roy is a rare breed of human. Most murderers made a terrible mistake, a poor decision. Drinking too much, driving too fast. Like most things in life, murder isn’t as black and white as people would like it to be.

Oli isn’t sure what kind of murderer Theo Bouris is. He’s from a crime dynasty of sorts: generations of people intent on colouring outside the lines, offspring resolutely groomed for the family business. Hardwired to feel hard done by, men like Bouris don’t tend to embrace self-reflection, but perhaps some of his hubris has faded now that he’s in his forties and facing up to another twenty years in prison. Regardless, he was the person who killed Isabelle. He cut her life short and ultimately changed the trajectory of Oli’s. The thought of being in his presence is both horrifying and magnetic.

Oli pulls her newly rented Toyota into the visitor car park and enters the prison. She presents ID, goes through security. She tugs at the hem of her shirt and tries to get some air against her skin as she waits. After thirty excruciating minutes, a guard who looks well past retirement age leads her to a closed door at the end of a short corridor. He stops and turns to her, his fingers on the doorhandle. ‘Any problems, you just yell out, but you should be fine. He’s restrained and generally pretty even-tempered. He can be a funny prick, to tell you the truth. Anyway, I’ll be right outside.’

Oli nods. Swallows and wipes her palms on her jeans. Steps inside the windowless room. There are three tables, and Theo Bouris sits at the one furthest from the door. Five chairs are arranged in a messy circle to his left as if the occupants exited the room in haste. Scuff marks from the rubber tips of the chair legs cover the grey lino.

The door closes behind her. Bouris looks at her expectantly, smiling. He has dimples. She takes a step backwards. What the hell is she doing here?