Maybe then I could have told him about my own addiction, the collection I’d have to confess to if I ever wanted again to share a house with a partner, the way I’d once had to confess it to Stephen. I don’t know. The moment didn’t last.

Jack frowned. ‘Yeah, I’ll pay for the patches.’

‘That wasn’t what I—’

Jack pulled out a torch because even at 10 am we remained in smoke-induced night. He peered into corners and drawers. ‘We’ve secured everything dangerous. Let’s move on.’

After a soaring eucalypt that played guardian to the crossroads near Setback Mountain, we passed tree trunks strewn over the road: a giant game of pick-up sticks. Coroner’s notices and more tape appeared on the gates to properties where people had died. The entire town was a crime scene. Where fire had been strongest the road finally failed, fading into the ashes of the Caltex as if that collapsed and deadened place had always been its final destination.

‘The fire reached this exact spot when the wind changed.’ Jack stood, one sturdy boot on untouched grass, the other on charcoal and ashes. Between his legs, the line marking what was burned and what survived ran uphill and out of sight, a demarcation between limbo and hell.

Fallen trees, still smouldering, made it impossible to stay on the left side of the road, so Jack kept his lights on and drove slowly. Closer to town, a block or two from the St Monica’s hall refuge, a horrifying sight took me back to the fire. A bloom of three cars huddled near a collapsed tree that blocked the road. I’d been here before with Caleb. The vehicles’ occupants had become trapped.

A police four-wheel drive was at the site. Bill Mackay approached, pulling a cap over his eyes. Another police officer in a high-vis vest used a chainsaw to attack the fallen tree.

‘It’s not good,’ Bill said to Jack. ‘I’ve started investigating. You should, too.’

‘Your investigation?’ I asked Jack.

‘Fire evidence is our speciality. Don’t get too close,’ Jack warned as we neared the wrecked cars. ‘This is a crime scene.’

Jack didn’t know I’d already been here. He peered through the window of the nearest vehicle, then pulled off his hat, wiping his forehead. The back of a dirty forearm left a smear like Ash Wednesday. I remembered the two charred shapes in the front seat, grotesque ashen crash-test dummies leaning towards one another. I saw them, strolling through Brunton on a sweltering hot day, thongs and baggy T-shirts, a wide pram.

‘You know them?’ asked Bill.

Jack nodded. ‘It’s Bryce Miller behind the wheel. Maybe Kate. I can’t tell.’