I logged into the police LEAP system. Speaking about Crystal had reminded me to check to see what I could find on the death of her parents. I worked backwards. If Crystal was now fourteen and her uncle got her when she was four, that meant the parents had died around a decade ago. Since the surname was in doubt, I only had the first names: Brett and Shayna, which I typed into the computer search section. I got a hit on Shayna Millard nee Mowbray, dead at twenty-four. Death was the result of gunshot wounds to the head. That meant Brett was Brett Millard.

Brett Millard! I went to school with a Brett Millard. I switched to Google. There wasn’t a lot on the case, but one of the news stories had a black-and-white wedding photo of Brett and Shayna. It was him. Same crooked grin. I hadn’t seen him in years. A long time ago, we used to be friends.

He had been twenty-four too. Same cause of death: gunshot wounds to the head. There was an online summary of the case. Police had been called to the Millard farmhouse on Monday, 2 April. Two deceased adults, one live child. A daughter. For the next half-hour, I read through statements from family members—including Russell Mowbray—and Brett’s co-workers, who all said he was a good bloke, if a little reckless. He’d even crashed his car a couple of weeks before the murder-suicide, but he wasn’t injured. Everyone said he was in good spirits. Shayna worked part-time as a nurse at the local hospital and her mother looked after Crystal.

Not one person interviewed could give any reason for Brett’s actions—aside from the usual ones: a struggling farm, and debt. I looked out of the office window at the dripping green trees outside. The rain that had started light was gaining momentum. Hard to imagine this place in drought, but ten years ago, everything was different. For a moment, I pictured Crystal’s young parents looking out over a landscape cracked, tinder-dry and barren. A lot of farms sunk in those days.

People did crazy things when times got too hard.

‘Chicken salad sandwich.’ Wozza came through the doorway in a cloud of hamburger aroma. He tossed a white paper bag to me over the desk, and I caught it expertly.

‘You’re a star,’ I said, ripping it open, suddenly starving.

‘Whatcha doing?’ Wozza asked, settling himself at his desk with his lunch.

‘Reading up on the Mowbray case—except their surname was Millard,’ I said. Brett Millard …

‘Much there?’

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘Earth to Pollard.’ Wozza waved a hand in front of me. ‘You’re a million miles away.’

‘This is going to sound weird, but I think Crystal’s dad is a kid I went to school with.’