‘Why? What do you think it shows?’

‘It must have something to do with the case. Caleb came back for it. He won’t tell me why.’

‘If the police took it, it helps them. I thought most of his sketches were still about Sean and that accident.’

Every time I thought we’d put the accident behind us, it flared up again.

My old insomnia was returning. A couple of hours past midnight, I stood in the kitchen, staring through the open window at night that concealed the burned valley, the destroyed miner’s hut, Caleb’s yard. I’d loved him since before birth, loved the hiccups, pointy elbows, kicking feet. I recalled the feel of his long-ago little-boy hand, warm as a promise, safe in my own. How could I know so little about his motivations, his thoughts, desires? Surely, eventually he’d talk?

The wind changed. I felt the shift as a tickle along my jaw that I might not have noticed except, a moment later, a wisp of smoke appeared, corkscrewing its way upwards from the old manna gum at the end of my yard.

Smoke was such a familiar part of the landscape that at first I didn’t realise what it meant. The wisp grew heavier, unfurling and folding into the sky. Drifting upwards, it took the shape of a finger, pointing and then… I shook myself back into reality.

That finger of smoke meant the manna gum was on fire. The largest tree in my yard: it was burning from the inside. I raced outside, dialling Jack’s number.

Jack and his team arrived in a CFA tanker, sirens blaring, while I waited in the backyard. Flames had now joined the smoke, pointing skywards. Eucalyptus oil burned and popped. By the time the fireys finished, they’d pumped thousands of litres of water into the smouldering tree. Jack removed his helmet and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘I think we’ve got it licked. I can’t be sure. She could start up again.’

My mind raced through Facebook threats. ‘Who did it?’

Jack looked confused.

‘Who set fire to the tree? Was it an attack on Caleb? On my house? Do you know?’

Jack shook his head. ‘The tree’s been on fire for weeks. Deep inside. You wouldn’t have seen. The wind changed and flames found a knothole.’

I couldn’t understand him. ‘Weeks? I haven’t seen anything.’

‘You wouldn’t. It would have died right down. Just a tiny flame. Fires need oxygen. It was waiting for the right wind.’

Bushfire was indefatigable. ‘Will it start again?’ I asked.

‘Unlikely. There’s nowhere left for it to go. Are you all right?’

‘Caleb’s in his room,’ I said, irrelevantly. ‘He hasn’t been out here.’