‘I’ve mentioned you in my article,’ he said. ‘Something Caleb said, too. His line about Instagram and reality. I’m proud of this. Can you read it now?’

‘I’m standing in the middle of the street.’

‘Then listen.’ He read.

In those days, fake news took a lot longer to be disseminated. Art historian Phoebe Wharton has previously written about ancient statues of Nero that the Emperor’s cheapskate successors had altered into likenesses of themselves. Nero’s own reputation was subject to similar rebranding. His Domus Aurea began to be dismantled and put to other uses almost as soon as he died. The artificial lake, once large enough for battle ships to sail in, was filled in and became the site of the Colosseum. Gladiators and other slaves were quartered in the humble ruins of the palace’s halls. One story that could have begun as a Twitter rumour is that Nero, far from Rome in his hometown of Antium when the fire began, was inspired by news of the flames to take to the stage and sing about the destruction of Troy. More than a century later, the historian Cassius Dio first reported that Nero watched the city burn, while playing a musical instrument known as a kithara. But he didn’t Instagram it, so it didn’t really happen.

I laughed. And then – I couldn’t help myself – I sobbed.

‘Phoebe, what’s wrong?’

‘You need to see the Australian news. Google Caleb’s name.’

He’d see it, I knew. He was quiet. I began to run again, slowly, waiting for him to finally learn what was going on. His shocked breathing was audible.

‘Oh, Phoebe. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

What could I say? I’d had no idea either, until it happened.

‘I need to go,’ I said.

‘You don’t want to…? No. Okay, Phoebe. Remember to call if you need anything.’

I stopped suddenly, disconnecting. A memory had come back to me, one so terrible I didn’t understand why I hadn’t thought of it before now. At eight, Caleb’s favourite toy was a Nintendo Game Boy. I refused to buy him a new model because the old one still worked… so he burned the old one.

Burned it. Set fire to it.

No one knew except me. Well, me and Caleb of course. I stood there, the smell of burning plastic floating around me as it had floated all those years ago.

Was Caleb an arsonist?

I hated myself for wondering. What sort of mother indulged these doubts? The sort of mother I would not be. Genevieve had always doubted me. I pushed the thought from my mind. What I needed to wonder was when Caleb would get bail.

One foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot.