‘He also works—’ Oli cuts herself off. The cops don’t know about the studio, and all of a sudden she wants to keep it that way. He mistakes her hesitation for emotion. ‘Ol, I promise to let you know the moment we find anything, okay?’

She sniffs.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

‘Rusty, I think something’s going on.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ She begins to cry. ‘I think it’s all linked.’

‘Hey. Oli, talk to me. What’s linked?’

She bites one of her fingers. It hurts. ‘I’ve just been with Theo Bouris.’

There are a few beats of silence. Rusty’s breathing intensifies. ‘What? Why would you do that?’

The words come out in a rush. ‘I think someone tipped Bouris off about Isabelle that morning. He wasn’t acting alone.’

‘Oli.’ Rusty sounds wary.

‘I’m serious!’

He breathes out in a whoosh. ‘Where are you now?’

‘At the prison.’

‘You’re driving?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’m at home. Come past, we’ll go and get some food. Talk. I don’t think you should be alone right now.’

She bites her lip. Decides. ‘Okay. I’ll be there soon.’

The sky darkens as Oli drives back toward the city. She pulls up at a set of lights, keeping her gaze fixed forward. Feels the person in the next car staring at her. She shifts lower in her seat. Exhales as the traffic gives way and starts to flow.

Twenty minutes later, she arrives at Rusty’s townhouse in Kensington. Flashes the headlights into the front window a few times. His front door swings open, and he steps out and saunters down the path. He gets into the Toyota and looks at her doubtfully. ‘Oli,’ he says simply.

Her shock has given away to a grim determination. She throws the car into drive. ‘I don’t care if this all sounds crazy. I think there’s more to Isabelle’s murder than everyone thought.’

He flicks at the plastic sign hanging off the rear-view mirror and glances sideways at her. ‘Not your car?’

‘It’s a rental.’

‘Okay.’ He looks out the window then back at her. ‘Want to tell me why you’re driving a rental?’

She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. ‘Not really.’

Pulling at his jaw, he shifts in the seat. She can tell he’s tired. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and his freckles glow against his pale skin. ‘Want to tell me where this theory on Bouris came from?’

‘Still no.’

He expels air from his nostrils. ‘I understand Isabelle’s death must hold a strange fascination for you.’ He holds up his hands as if Oli has protested, before adding, ‘But I’m not sure that digging around, meeting with scum like Bouris, is a good idea.’