It wasn’t hard to see why. The motel was marked by a giant fibreglass whale on the front lawn. It wasn’t a blue, as you’d expect, but an orca, positioned in a permanent breach, speckled with a decade’s worth of bird shit. It must have been ugly when it was first erected, but now, after weathering years of wild storms, baking heat and salty air, it had become an eyesore. The black and white paint had chipped and flaked away, revealing a faded red underbelly that looked like old blood. One eye was rotting, the other completely gone.

Kate felt a twang of guilt staying there without Mia. Her daughter was obsessed with the fibreglass whale and was convinced that staying in one of the rooms would be like sleeping under water. The walls would be made of glass, behind which fish and eels would swim. John had explained to her that it was just an ordinary motel, likely full of stale sheets, bad reception and mysterious stains on the mattresses. The most she could hope for would be an alarm clock shaped like a seashell or an aquatic-themed shower curtain. Mia held out hope.

It hurt to think about Mia. She couldn’t even think about having that conversation with her daughter, about the avalanche it would cause. Pam probably would have told her. Fisher had called his wife from the hospital car park, Kate watching him from inside the Lexus as light rain covered up the windows. He had climbed back into the car and said, ‘It’s done.’

She could almost hear Pam saying: Your daddy is up in heaven now, with Jesus and Mary and Charlie (Charlie was Mia’s pet rabbit, who met a sudden end when he hopped through their front gate and into heavy morning traffic). Maybe it was better for Mia to hear it that way. Pam would certainly be gentler with her. Still, as Kate thought about it, John’s words crept in.

‘If we don’t talk about the monsters in this world…’ she said aloud.

‘What’s that, love?’ Fisher asked.

‘Nothing.’

When they reached the motel, Kate parked in the shadow of the orca. They collected their keys from reception and, without a word, separated. There were no fish swimming inside the walls of her room, Kate could now confirm. The walls were made of cheap plasterboard, the bed was too soft, and the air smelled damp. Still, it was a warm place away from the thumping wind coming off the ocean.

She put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, sat down on the end of the bed and tried to cry. She had been carrying around a live emotional hand grenade all day, and if she didn’t pull the pin out and toss it soon, it might just go off in her hands. Nothing came out. She might have been in shock, or she might have been broken.