‘He was in a police station. For shoplifting, until the evening. Then he went to the hospital to ask about his parents. Did I tell you about reports on the Incident Control Room?’

‘What reports?’

‘You won’t believe what was going on in town. All the time spent drawing plans and warnings and ignoring them! We were racing fire to fire saving lives. But in these bloody Incident Control Rooms, they were telling each other not to believe our reports. I still can’t believe it.’

‘Is this why people want to blame Caleb? To avoid responsibility?’

Jack’s phone beeped. ‘This time it is the Retirement Home. Sorry.’ He put his phone on loudspeaker.

‘Mr Laskin?’ a woman asked, sounding anxious.

‘Jack,’ Jack said. ‘What’s…?’

‘It’s Rebecca here from the Brunton Retirement Home. We’re wondering if Mrs Laskin is with you?’

Jack tilted his head to one side as if he’d misheard. ‘No…’

‘Do you know where she might be?’

‘She’s with you. When did you last see her?’

‘It was… When was it, Johanna…? It must have been three hours ago.’

Jack slapped his thigh, distressed. ‘Three hours!’

I stood too, resting my hand on the small of his back.

‘Does she have money with her?’ Jack demanded.

Another quick conference on the other end of the line. ‘We think she might have a few dollars. We don’t know for sure.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Jack hung up. ‘Fucking incompetence.’

‘We’ll look for her,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

Jack drove his ute very slowly, gazing into roadside bush, now and then leaping out to search with a high-beam torch, as if Shirley were a secretive wombat. There were three houses near the Retirement Home. One by one, he knocked on the door of each, and returned, frustrated, to his ute.

Inside the home, staff maintained a pretence of calm. Jack erupted into reception and through the living room, approaching a gathering of nurses in ironed pink uniforms to demand, ‘Who’s responsible for this?’

It was a pretty spectacular display of projecting his own guilt. Nurses guided pyjama-clad residents neatly out of the way. Rebecca – the receptionist I’d met before – finger-curled her wig-like hair and offered tea. ‘We’ve called the police.’

Jack’s phone rang. Answering, his thumb shook. ‘Hello? Have you found her?’

He listened. ‘That’s not… I know. Thank God. All right. I’ll meet you there.’

I grabbed his arm as he disconnected. ‘She’s all right?’

‘She’s at my place.’ He scowled at the staff. ‘Phoebe, you’ll come with me?’

He threatened to return soon for answers while racing back to his ute. I had to jog to keep pace with him. ‘How did the police find her?’

‘She called them. Reported me for stealing her house. Wants to know where I put it.’