My second mother, Chris DeRoche, I’m not sure if you noticed but the climax of this book took place in your kitchen.

My parents, Ivan and Keera White, your pride and support fills me up (if anyone has seen a bearded man lurking in the book section of their local Kmart, pushing copies of The Nowhere Child onto unsuspecting customers, then you’ve seen my dad).

My dog, Issy, you continue to be my favourite person in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever have any human children, but if I do, I doubt I’ll love them as much as you. I’ll pretend to, but we’ll both know the truth.

Then there’s Summer. Best of wives, best of women. Sum, I couldn’t do any of this without you. You’re my best friend, my first reader, and the love of my life. More importantly, you told me who the killer should be.

READ CHAPTER ONE OF

THE NOWHERE CHILD

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

Now

‘Mind if I join you?’ the stranger asked. He was somewhere in his forties, with shy good looks and an American accent. He wore a slick wet parka and bright yellow sneakers. The shoes must have been new because they squeaked when he moved his feet. He sat down at my table before waiting for an answer and said, ‘You’re Kimberly Leamy, right?’

I was between classes at Northampton Community TAFE, where I taught photography three nights a week. The cafeteria was usually bustling with students, but tonight it had taken on an eerie, post-apocalyptic emptiness. It had been raining nearly six days straight but the double-glazed glass kept the noise out.

‘Just Kim,’ I said, feeling mildly frustrated. I didn’t have long left on my break and had been enjoying my solitude. Earlier that week I’d found a worn old copy of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary propping up the leg of a table in the staffroom, and since then I’d been busily consuming it. I’ve always been a big reader, and horror is a particular favourite of mine. My younger sister, Amy, would often watch in frustration as I finished three books in the same time it took her to read one. The key to fast reading is to have a boring life, I once told her. Amy had a fiancé and a three-year-old daughter; I had Stephen King.

‘My name is James Finn,’ the man said. He placed a manila folder on the table between us and closed his eyes for a moment, like an Olympic diver mentally preparing to leap.

‘Are you a teacher or a student?’ I asked.

‘Neither, actually.’

He opened the folder, removed an eight-by-ten-inch photo and slid it across the table. There was something mechanical about the way he moved. Every gesture was measured and confident.