Dad leans back against the fridge, watching Holly. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he says. ‘A client shows up at your office, wanting you to defend him. He’s been arrested – and we’re not talking littering here; we’re talking something way out on the other side of bad. The more you talk to him, the more you’re positive he’s guilty as hell. But he’s got money, and your kid needs braces and school fees. What do you do?’

Holly shrugs. ‘I figure it out then.’

She doesn’t know how to tell her dad, only half of her even wants to tell her dad, that that’s the whole point. Everything the prosecutors have, all the backup, the system, the safe certainty that they’re the good guys: that feels lazy, feels sticky-slimy as cowardice. Holly wants to be the one out on her own, working out for herself what’s right and what’s wrong this time. She wants to be the one coming up with fast zigzag ways to get each story the right ending. That feels clean; that feels like courage.

‘That’s one way to do it.’ Dad pulls out a bag of carrots. ‘One? Two?’

‘Put two.’ He has the recipe right there; he doesn’t need to ask.

‘How about your mates? Any of them thinking of law?’

A zap of irritation stiffens Holly’s legs. ‘No. I actually can think all by myself. Isn’t that amazing?’

Dad grins and heads back to the counter. On his way past he lays a hand on Holly’s head, warm and just the right strength. He’s relented, or decided to act like it. He says, ‘You’ll make a good barrister, if that’s what you decide on. Either side of the courtroom.’ He runs his hand down her hair and goes to work on the carrots. ‘Don’t sweat it, chickadee. You’ll make the right call.’

The conversation’s over. All his careful probing and all his deep serious speeches, and she slipped right past without him laying a finger on what she’s actually thinking. Holly feels a quick prickle of triumph and shame. She chops harder.

Dad says, ‘So what do your mates have in mind?’

‘Julia’s going to do journalism. Becca’s not sure. Selena wants to go to art school.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Her stuff’s good. I meant to ask you: is she doing OK these days?’

Holly looks up, but he’s peeling a carrot and glancing out of the window to see if Mum’s on her way. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just wondering. The last few times you’ve had her round, she seemed a little . . . spacy, is that the word I’m looking for?’

‘She’s like that. You just have to get to know her.’