He lay down beside her. It was Joe Green who’d caused this. He should have known. It had been a shock, hearing his name, hearing her say it. It had made him do this terrible thing.

He held her hand as her blood spilled out across the floor. He closed his eyes.

The sky was darkening over the ocean. He stood in the sand with William’s body in his arms. Sea spray flew into his face. He’d known, before Mandy turned up, that this was what he would do. The thought had come to him, clear and undeniable, puncturing his grief. He walked out to the rocks where the water was deep and the current turned beneath the surface, kissed the boy, lowered him into the water and let him go.

He did not howl at the dark shape of William’s body before it was swept away. He turned his back on the ocean and held onto the horror, pushed it down, because he was not done yet. The rocks were slippery under his boots and he fell, picked himself up and kept moving, ignoring the pain. There was a job to be done and it was best to get on with it. Get the job done, Steve. It’s not meant to be easy. Who had said that? He reached the sand and a wave hit him from the side, sucking at the shingle as he moved across it. It would be hard to carry her body back up this way, to haul her onto the rocks and let the current take her. To see her pulled under. She never liked the water.

The wind took his scream away and he leaned into it, kept walking, unsure if he was screaming still. The hardest part of it was, he knew he could do it. The job would be done. He ran the length of the beach and went inside the cabin for his wife.

52

New South Wales, 1997

Isla stops the taxi on the street outside Scott’s double-fronted garage. It’s seven-thirty in the morning and the neighbourhood is quiet. Palm trees and ornate gateposts. Not a sound. She’s been awake since five, waiting for the right moment to arrive, to catch him before he leaves but not so early as to irritate. She has rehearsed what she will say and how she will say it. Her heart gallops with nerves and caffeine.

‘Nice place,’ the driver says.

Isla counts notes into his hand. She smiles and nods. Scott’s house is not the grandest in Bellevue Hill but anyone familiar with the suburb could figure that from his second-floor verandah he has a panoramic view of Rose Bay. They might assume he has a pool at the back of the house and possibly a tennis court. And they would be right.

She climbs the steps to his front door and rings the bell. For a minute there is no response and then a window above her slides open. From the balcony she hears her name.