We are still the story as much as Daniel. Daniel’s movements from his home in Rotorua, stopping for petrol, telling his friends he’s ‘going to meet a girl’. Interviews with his neighbours, his old teachers, his ex-girlfriend. He had arrived at our house about fifteen minutes before we got home, waiting out at the road until we were inside. We haven’t given the media anything, yet they’ve still written about us, Cain’s history in the military, my job as an ambulance officer. People are most fascinated about the cameras, about the idea of this normal man, this man described as ‘shy, friendly, an average bloke’ installing cameras in our house. The gun was loaded. He was going to kill us. It’s almost as though this information is secondary, ancillary to the fact of his otherwise normal character. Every time there is breaking news I shiver and brace for something about the date we went on. Maybe someone at the pub, the barkeeper with the bowl cut who gave me soda and lime sans vodka. Would he remember my face, and would the police put two and two together? That’s how I imagine it happening, those sharp-nosed detectives from old movies turning up, asking leading questions, trapping me in my lies.

‘They took a photo on their phone, you mean?’ Cain says, scanning the passing crowds. I glance over to where the man was but now he’s not there. Maybe he was shooting something else?

‘They’re making me out to be a drunk,’ he continues. ‘I should have been the one to save you. Then you never would have had to do it. I wish I could have protected you and now the media…’ His voice trails off.

I check the time. ‘I’d better get to work.’ I push my keys and my phone into my bag. ‘I’ll be home in the morning.’

I lean down and kiss his cheek, the stubble rasps my lips. ‘We’re going to be parents, finally.’

‘I know, I can’t wait,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

I move quickly towards the car, striding in my soft black shoes before setting out for the ambulance station.

•

I put my bag in my locker, and head out to the ambulance to wait for Scotty. By five to four, he’s still not here. For all his faults he’s never been one to be tardy. Then at four o’clock on the dot the ambulance door opens. I have a sigh ready for him. Buzzer beater, I’m going to say – our old running joke – but it’s not Scotty who opens the door.

‘Hi,’ the girl says. ‘I’m Sara.’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘You’re rostered with me today?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I’m new.’

‘How long?’

‘Sorry?’