I found his Year 11 yearbook and flipped through the black and white pages. There Caleb stood in his class photo, next to his school-friend, Ethan Bennett, who was still in hospital suffering from burns. And on his other side, Penelope. She was with him again in the senior debating photo, both wearing the happy, confident smiles of winners. These grins were repeated on other pages where they weren’t together – Caleb in the victorious boys’ AFL team, Penelope captain of netball. Caleb shaking hands with the principal, receiving an academic award for history, Penelope receiving a similar certificate for chemistry. I hadn’t noticed her in this book before. My eyes had only been on Caleb.

So much information here but what could I do with it? I tried Penelope’s phone number and once again listened to her voicemail. I sent her another email but once again could only wait for a reply. Presumably, Caleb had ways of getting through to her. There was still time to kill. Caleb had left his room open, an invitation. I needed to understand him. After all, it was part of my house. And you could argue that, in running away, Caleb had given me no choice.

Incredibly, the room was even messier than after the search. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Pants he hadn’t worn in years. Shirts I didn’t remember buying. And toys we could have donated to charity long ago! The wiry insides of a remote-controlled car, tangled around plastic dinosaurs. Boxes of Lego still in their original shrink wrapping. A treasured position on his cupboard’s highest shelf was held by the bear, Theodore. In this, the room of a boy who was just an ordinary kid, with just an ordinary kid’s things, police had looked for evidence of murder.

I had the perfect right to do this, I told myself. I was his mother. Caleb needed help. I was a researcher, trying to make sense of his life. I needed to know things he wouldn’t tell me, that he kept secret. His belongings were my primary sources. I should have done this earlier, before the police took away what they thought was evidence.

I examined his toys, his clothes, his bookshelf. I pulled out old schoolbooks, looking for him in the incorrect calculus and badly drawn graphs. Was some message hidden in his terrible essay about Atonement (originally graded at 70% and with 25% deducted for being a week late)? How had he expected to get into Law with grades like that? I knew I’d never ask. I have too many other questions.

Caleb, where are you? Why do people say these things about you?

I’d heard him confess to things before. Things that might shock other parents. That marijuana, again. ‘I did it. I’ll be honest with you,’ he said, as if that was the most important thing.