‘You’d have been right.’

She thumps the couch. ‘Don’t do this, Scott.’

‘I’m not doing anything.’

‘You think he’s capable of—’ She can’t say it. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I think you should come back with me and Ruby, is what I think.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘I don’t want you here, with him.’

‘He needs me.’

‘And what if it turns into a murder case? What then?’

‘Then he’ll need me even more.’

He groans at her. They are back in their trenches: Scott firing shots at their dad, Isla taking the bullets for him. It’s been this way since she can remember. She has always known, without it ever being spoken, that her father had no one if he didn’t have her.

‘He doesn’t deserve your loyalty,’ Scott says.

‘Yes, he does.’

‘You’re being naive.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Wake up, Isla.’

She looks past him. In this light, the patch of plaster on the wall next to the dresser stands out, although it’s been painted over. She can see the brushstrokes.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ she says.

There are voices in the kitchen, too quiet to make out. Isla listens as they move into the hallway. A child’s voice, footsteps running ahead. Ben and Andrea, she thinks, with the little cowboy. Ben is still talking, saying something about databases, computer searches.

‘She’d be on the electoral roll if she was alive,’ Ben says. ‘The police have access to all that data.’

They let themselves out onto the street, shutting the door behind them. The sun drops behind the houses opposite and the room falls into darkness. Scott stands and pulls her to her feet. Her head meets his shoulder and he rocks her side to side a few times, gripping her tight against him. It throws her. She returns the hug hesitantly, scared she might sob into his polo shirt.

‘Call me,’ he says, ‘if you don’t feel safe. I can be here in half an hour.’

12

Sydney, 1967

Joe put his keys down on the kitchen table, which was exactly as he’d left it that morning. The ashtray was full. The toast he hadn’t eaten was still on the plate. The note Louisa had left – if you could call it that – was folded, face down, under a dirty coffee cup.

He sat, pushed the toast away. Tried to think straight. She’d been gone around twenty-four hours, he figured; she couldn’t have gone far. He’d checked her wardrobe; she’d barely taken anything. Isla’s Digby bear was still in her room, and so were most of her clothes. She must have gone to stay with some friend he didn’t know about, someone from work who could put her up for a bit. She was sulking; waiting long enough to scare him. He wasn’t going to play her games. But he had to admit, he was getting worried. The thing he hadn’t done, that he would have to do now, was call Hordern & Sons to see if she’d gone in to work. And if she wasn’t there, if they didn’t know where she was, he’d have to call the police. A sweat crept up his back at the thought of it.