‘Go ahead. Fire away.’ It was a line he’d used many times before.

‘When you leave here, are you going home to Mum or Ivy?’

‘Caleb!’ I said, shocked, and too loudly.

Stephen raised his hand, taking ownership of the conversation. ‘My home is with Ivy now. You know that.’

Caleb clenched his fists. ‘You’ll be staying in Hawthorn?’ he persisted. ‘Then I don’t know why you’re here. I’m not part of any family living in Hawthorn.’

Stephen looked bewildered.

‘Ivy doesn’t let him into the house,’ I explained.

Stephen, to do him credit, frowned, horrified. ‘What?’

‘I’ll explain outside.’

Caleb pursed his lips, refusing to speak. He looked meaningfully at my notebook and I passed it to him with my pen. He wrote me a note.

If you want to talk, get Dad to leave.

Seeing it, Stephen picked up his folder and left. I followed. ‘He’ll get over this. He just needs our support.’

He seemed baffled. ‘He has so little respect! He’s his own worst enemy.’

‘Not quite.’ I didn’t want Stephen to be sure what I meant.

‘Ivy doesn’t let him into the house?’ He looked disappointed, like he’d just discovered a new puppy would be hard to train.

‘I think it was only once.’

My anger about being let down drained when I returned to Caleb. Alone, head resting on crossed arms, he looked up at me. ‘Jack would have been a better father,’ he observed.

A jolt ran right through me. He was right. But I was glad Stephen hadn’t heard this.

‘We don’t get to choose family,’ I reminded him. ‘They’re still the most important thing.’

Caleb glanced down. Looking for the right words. For a request? It was a long time since he wanted anything from me. ‘Can Jack visit?’

‘I suppose so—’

‘I…’ Caleb stared at me. ‘I want to talk to Jack. And please email Penelope. Ask how she’s going.’ He told me her new email address.

‘I’ll do that.’ I stared at the folder I always carried. Any time I spoke to Penelope was a chance for information to add to it. Over the laminate table, I grabbed my son’s hand. ‘Will you talk to me, really? Tell me how you are? Explain?’

He was pale, defeated. ‘Mum, you’re fighting too hard.’

‘Fighting too hard?’

‘You’re acting like you really believe I’m innocent.’ My mind flashed through those terrible moments when I’d allowed myself to wonder about his guilt. I shouldn’t have doubts – I wouldn’t allow them.

But I was so confused by his reactions! ‘You are innocent, Caleb!’

‘Am I?’

‘You are not responsible for that fire.’

He sighed, giving in.

‘Caleb?’ I prompted.

‘Mum?’

‘Say it.’

Silence.