Marco knew more about Rome two thousand years ago than about my home, or this week.

Everything that happened turned more fingers of blame towards Caleb. Arson Squad police asked me repeated questions, while denying their investigation centred on my home. Clueless about legal ways to prove the truth, I decided to organise evidence like a museum exhibition. The investigation continued. Desperate to understand, I relived the day of the fire like a time-traveller. I canvassed Main Street door to door, destroyed shop to shop, asking who had seen Caleb and when. But backs were turned, glances averted, hearts closed. People were happy to discuss their fury about the lack of official action, but they believed the official stories about arsonists. Despite what Stephen had shared with me (country town gossip about who drank before lunch, who had affairs, and who had crushes back in high school) I’d never really belonged here, never really been one of them.

Beyond the crescendo of whispers, occasionally leading to shouts, I had no idea what was happening. I needed to know. My relationship with Jack now seemed fated, our involvement preparation for the firestorm that would engulf my life. Jack could help. I rang him to talk and then when I’d worried some more, I rang him again. I called him at the CFA office number, had no answer, then on his mobile. His colleague Amanda answered.

‘Jack, that woman’s calling for you again.’

‘Who?’

‘Wharton’s mother. I wish you’d put that cigarette out.’

‘Phoebe?’ Jack said, into the receiver.

‘Amanda’s answering your phone?’

‘I’ll take this outside.’ Jack’s voice sounded further from the receiver, speaking to Amanda. I heard footsteps and then his breath.

‘I’m coming into town,’ I said. ‘This is driving me crazy. You have to help me. Meet for a coffee?’

‘Phoebe, the cafe burned down.’ His voice was infinitely reasonable, as though it was careless of me to forget such a detail.

‘Well, you can make me a coffee. We’ll drink it in your office.’

Amanda let me in, wordlessly. Returning to her desk, she stared. I might deliver another arsonist if she abandoned her watch.

The door behind her opened and Jack stepped through.

‘Phoebe! Phoebe?’ Used to seeing me in make-up, not in a sweatshirt and baggy-kneed leggings, he looked concerned. I touched my hair. A little greasy. Did I smell fresh? I concentrated on not raising my arm for a surreptitious sniff. ‘Come in,’ he said.

Maps on his office walls were pierced with red pins, attached to names and photos. Victims. I glanced away. With water from an electric kettle on a filing cabinet, he made instant coffee. No milk, Styrofoam cup. I got right to the point. ‘I’m investigating the fire myself. I need to know what you think you’ve discovered. You said you saw Caleb that afternoon. Why don’t people believe you?’