The radio program continued. ‘The suspect never really fitted in,’ Bernie Lippard told someone. An imaginary me slapped him right across his cheek, even though I knew I’d never do that. ‘He seemed unnaturally interested in fire but he never really did much.’

The evening lengthened. I went back inside. Food in my fridge had gone off. After searching my pantry, I heated tinned soup on our gas stove for a meal I was certain neither of us would eat.

Caleb came back. In his room, he made a lot of clattering noises. Drawers, sliding out. Mostly not going back in. I knocked on his door. The light of a small torch resting on his bed illuminated him dimly, standing, pulling a couple of T-shirts from the bag he took to Stephen’s place.

‘Can I come in?’ I asked.

He grunted in response.

Behind him, and behind his manga art, were ghost fingerprints where he once brushed jam against the wall. And a crayon figure he drew when small, which I had thought was very naughty. I wanted those crayons – that jam – back. They were part of the Caleb I understood.

I took his arm. ‘Caleb, we need to talk.’

‘Mum!’

‘You’ve seen the news? You’ve spoken to police. You know what’s going on.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘I know you didn’t light a fire. But what people are saying, Caleb! You’ve seen it. I know you have. Please work with me on this.’ His face remained stony and impassive. ‘Help me to help you. You said you came back for your sketchbook. But all that way, in that heat, for drawings. Why, Caleb? I don’t understand.’

Caleb wiped his eyes then smoothed his black fringe forwards to hide them. ‘That’s obvious.’ I remembered him crying – as a baby furious for food, as a toddler with a grazed knee, as a primary school boy fuming about a schoolfriend who stole his favourite Pokemon card.

‘Why did you come home? Really? Can you say you left the CFA to check on Rosie and Sean? Caleb. I want to help you.’

His disbelief morphed into a sneer. ‘I don’t want help. I want to be alone.’

‘Tell me you didn’t do this!’

His face went white. He shook my hand away. ‘No one will trust me if you don’t.’

He folded his arms across his chest, strong enough to force me from the room. I didn’t think it would come to that, but I had to do what he so clearly wanted. He slammed the door behind me, like a toddler.

Outside, I lingered, listening, wanting to comfort my child. I waited for howls but they didn’t come, not any reaction at all. After far too much silence, I walked to the sitting room. Eventually, he followed. ‘Mum, what do you want? The police don’t believe me. You already know the truth.’