Did I have to give up on Stephen? ‘Plenty of people use the mother’s surname now.’ It was advice I could have given a stranger.

‘You didn’t, with Caleb.’

I didn’t want to hear his regrets. He had made his choice. ‘Those were different days.’

Caleb knew what had prompted our move. Separating him from his troubled friends, putting him back on what Genevieve and Stephen called the right path. I was offered the job of principal at the tiny Brunton school. Mary Ross had called to let me know.

‘We’ve examined your work in Hawthorn and are excited you’d like to join us,’ she said. ‘We’d love Brunton Primary to become the most innovative learning environment in the valley.’

Perfect. It had seemed.

‘Are you safe to drive home?’ Stephen asked in the foyer. ‘Remember what they said at the sleep lab?’

‘I’m fine.’

His pretence at caring was irritating. I needed to drive home and knew I wouldn’t doze off. There was a crowd of protesters to navigate and, anyway, my mind was racing, wishing I could control what everyone said on the witness stand. Doze. Ha. That was a laugh.

‘It won’t help Caleb if you have a car accident.’

I clutched my steering wheel, emotions on fire. Within a frame of charred branches, the road home had been swept clear. Bright green moss grew over ashes and charcoal as though an oversized graffiti artist had sprayed it from a can. In those areas the fire hadn’t destroyed, you could see how it had spread. Trees were decorated with strips of falling bark like tinsel. Just a touch of flame and they’d become torches.

Damn. Police cars lurked outside my house. Again. Maybe I should charge for parking. A man in a suit stood beside Hong Feng, looking frustrated by my locked front door. They turned as I approached.

‘This is the mother of the accused,’ Detective Feng said.

The suited man clutched a bundle of legal forms. With his other hand, he touched his head, looking like he wanted to doff a hat, if he’d had one. Perhaps he imagined himself in a black and white film. Cary Grant maybe. For all this, he had a wide-eyed expression of sympathy. He didn’t enjoy his job, but had to do it. ‘Phoebe Wharton? I have to inform you that the residence here owned by Mr Caleb Wharton is being secured against future claims.’

What? I imagined a hand reaching from the sky, fingers of flame, picking up our house. I’d thought nothing new could possibly astonish me. ‘You’re seizing our house?’

‘Not yet. But we do need to ensure it remains available for claims in the future. You will have to consult your own legal team of course.’

I tried to make the form he gave me swim into focus. ‘You’re taking our house? But I live here.’