‘They let him out?’ Clementine’s voice verges on panic. ‘He might come here!’

  ‘That’s exactly what he’d do,’ Kiara agrees. ‘If he was innocent, like you say. But we both know he isn’t. I think he’ll be headed for the Queensland border, or—’

  Clementine is pale, shuddering, her hands shielding her abdomen. ‘He’ll come back if he finds out.’

  ‘Finds what out?’ Kiara’s jaw hurts. ‘If you’re so scared of him, why won’t you help us prosecute him?’ Clementine is starting to cry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Just tell the truth! Why do you think Cole is coming for you?’

  ‘Not for me,’ she sobs.

  Her hands are still on her belly. It takes a second for Kiara to understand.

  Shit, she thinks.

  ‘What a mess,’ Kiara says, as she enters the granny flat. ‘Cole is missing. Clementine doesn’t want him to be charged for assaulting her, because she’s just discovered she’s three weeks pregnant. They stopped the IVF treatments a couple of months ago, and he knocked her up the old-fashioned way. It’s a fucking miracle. I can’t tell if she thinks he’s guilty of the murders or not, but either way, she doesn’t want her baby’s father to be in jail. Even though she’s scared shitless, convinced he’ll come back once he—’

  Kiara rounds the corner into the bedroom and sees that Elise has a suitcase propped open on the bed. Guppy is prancing around her feet, yapping. At first Kiara thinks Elise is still unpacking from the trip; then she sees that clothes are going in, not out.

  Her heart sinks. ‘What are you doing?’

  Elise folds a flannel shirt and puts it in her suitcase. ‘Leaving.’

  Kiara looks around. The house, usually filled with the comforting detritus Elise leaves behind, is immaculate. Panic starts to set in. Kiara deals with it the same way as always: straightening her spine, taking deep breaths, keeping her voice even. ‘Going where?’

  ‘That’s private.’ Elise slams the suitcase shut. When she tries to zip it up, the sleeve of a cardigan gets in the way.

  Kiara reaches in to help.

  Elise pulls the suitcase out of reach. ‘Don’t,’ she says, sounding so sad that Kiara can hardly breathe.

  ‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘You can’t make a decision like this on the basis of one traumatic event.’ She hates how dismissive she sounds. These days, smaller and smaller injuries are described as ‘traumatic’. The word no longer seems adequate to cover the sight of Isla’s rotting body, tumbling out of the oven.

  ‘Our whole relationship exists on the basis of one traumatic event.’ Elise has managed to close the suitcase. She lifts it like it weighs nothing. She’s always been strong.

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’ Kiara bunches her fists in her pockets. ‘I didn’t know about the body. And I shouldn’t have taken you to that house either way. It was a bad idea.’

  Elise just looks at her. ‘This isn’t about that.’

  ‘Then what is it about? Help me understand.’

  ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me the truth!’ Kiara snaps.

  Elise opens her mouth, then closes it again. She looks stricken, as though she’s the innocent party here—as though she hasn’t lied to Kiara and stolen from her. Then Elise carries the suitcase towards the door, and Kiara immediately regrets the outburst.

  She hurries after her. ‘Don’t go.’

  Elise keeps walking.

  ‘Please.’ It’s not a word Kiara uses often.

  Elise looks back, one hand on the doorknob. Tears shine in her eyes. ‘Come on, K,’ she says. ‘Don’t pretend this is working for you, either.’

  I can fix this, Kiara thinks. ‘Let’s not decide right now. I understand that you’re upset, but—’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Elise doesn’t look angry anymore, just sad. She squeezes Kiara’s arm. ‘We tried, didn’t we?’

  Half the cops in town are divorced. They all say the job ruined their marriages. They came home each night upset by things their partners couldn’t understand, or they didn’t come home at all because they were working late, and eventually found they were living with strangers.

  Kiara has tried so hard to prevent that. She took Elise with her, turning it into their job, not just Kiara’s—and that only made things worse. Now here she is, watching the woman she loves leave. A headlight sweeps across the curtains, and Kiara realises a taxi is already here.

  Elise takes the house key off her ring and places it on a side table, more neatly than she’s ever done anything. She scoops up Guppy with one arm; he tries to lick the tears off her chin.

  So this is how it ends, Kiara thinks. Not because the sex has gotten stale. Not because of an infidelity. I lost her because I tried so hard to keep her—

  ‘Wait,’ she says. Her head is spinning. There’s one motive she never considered until now, and it’s shining a light on everything from a different angle—changing the shape of some shadows, banishing others.

  Elise turns in the doorway and forces a sad smile. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  But she’s wrong.

  ‘Cole’s not the killer,’ Kiara says.

  LAST SUNDAY

  ISLA

  ‘She’s acting like she’s forgiven me. But I don’t know what she’ll do to you.’

  Isla hovered in the hall, listening. Her eyes were wide. It was her husband’s voice, but those weren’t his words. Oscar would never betray her like this. Would he?

  She had kept secrets from him, but hadn’t imagined he was capable of keeping them from her. He never showed any indication that he was thinking something he wasn’t saying. It didn’t seem possible that Oscar had been living a double life—especially not now, after that moment in the shower when she’d finally told him about the video, and they’d made love for the first time in months.

  But her husband had slipped out of bed and got dressed as though preparing to leave her here. Now it sounded like he’d just confessed to an affair with Felicity. What was going on?

  Lightning flashed. Seconds later, thunder rumbled. The rain grew to a roar. It felt like the whole house might wash away, breaking apart as it tumbled down the mountain.

  ‘Stop touching me!’ Felicity was shouting.

  Ever so slowly, Isla eased around the corner so she could peer into the kitchen. There was Oscar, talking to Felicity, head bowed. He reached for her arm, like he was trying to take her somewhere, but she shook him off. Isla couldn’t see his face, but she could see Felicity’s, twisted by cold fury.

  Oscar stiffened, as though he could sense Isla watching. He started to turn around, but Felicity grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  ‘You ruined everything,’ she snarled. With her other hand, she grabbed a knife from the block—

  And slashed it across Oscar’s neck.

  Isla wanted to scream, but it felt like her own throat had been cut. The world went monochrome. Her ears rang. She watched the blood splash the kitchen cupboards as her husband, the father of her child, dissolved into a puddle on the floor. Felicity raised the knife above her head with both hands like a high priestess, ready to make a sacrifice.

  Isla couldn’t move. Her brain had jettisoned her body. A million years of evolution held her still so the predator wouldn’t notice her.

  It didn’t work. Felicity, who had been about to stab Oscar, looked up. Her eyes lasered in on Isla, petrified in the entrance to the hall.

  ‘Wait,’ Felicity said.

  The word was like a defibrillator. Energy surged through Isla’s body and she turned to run, her feet squeaking on the tiles, her heart slamming her ribs, her nerves singing. She opened her mouth to scream for Cole and Clementine—

  She heard a faint whistle behind her, something hurtling through the dark, and then felt a horrible tearing as a shaft of red steel erupted from her chest. Isla looked down at it in horror. She tried to grip the knife, but her arms wouldn’t obey. The floor swung upwards to meet her, and she barely felt the impact. Thunder boomed again, and still she couldn’t scream.

  Footsteps padded across the tiles towards her. ‘I told you,’ Felicity said, sounding annoyed, ‘to wait.’

  OSCAR

  Oscar watched as Felicity dragged his wife’s body into the kitchen by the ankles, leaving a lurid smear on the floor.

  Don’t hurt her, he tried to say, as though it wasn’t too late. The sentence came out as a soft crackle through his ruined throat.

  When Felicity hurled the knife, he’d thought it would miss. It didn’t seem possible for a blade to fly that distance and do anything other than clatter to the floor. But Isla had been well and truly skewered, the handle dead centre in her back. Felicity must have been incredible in the circus.

  He understood it all, now. She had told him which bedroom to pick because she planned to kill him in there, but she got Dom by mistake. She’d tried again with the axe. If only he’d let her succeed. Isla would have been safe.

  Felicity rolled Isla onto her stomach and wrenched the knife from between her ribs. Oscar felt the pain as if the blade had been pulled from his own flesh. Not much blood came out—maybe her heart had already stopped.

  But Isla couldn’t die. She just couldn’t. What about Noah? Oscar thought. He needs his mum.

  Felicity rinsed the blade at the sink. When she turned back around she was unrecognisable, her mischievous eyes turned ruthless. This must be who she had always been underneath, but he’d never seen it.

  And Isla, beautiful Isla, dying on the floor beside him. She had always been kind underneath. He’d been blind to that as well.

  Isla’s head rolled, and they locked eyes. She looked frightened.

  It’ll be okay, he wanted to say. But fluid had filled his lungs. Instead, he tried to take her hand. His arm weighed a tonne. Sweat prickled all over his body.

  Isla’s hand twitched. She was reaching for him, too. Neither of them had the strength to meet in the middle. A membrane of air separated their fingertips. Oscar saw a hopeless longing in her eyes. There had seemed to be so much time. But now he realised the gap between birth and death was narrow, and the space between marriage and death narrower still. They had been together for only a moment, and had wasted most of it.

  At least they’d decided to love each other, in time to die side by side.

  Night was falling. The world slowly spun. A terrible cold crawled towards Oscar. He didn’t look at Felicity as she opened the huge oven door and started removing the racks inside. He didn’t take his gaze off his wife. He couldn’t go back in time and do things differently. But he could be with her, until the very end.

  He tried to smile, but his lips were numb.

  And then, there it was. Nothing changed in her expression, but he felt the moment she left, like a spark escaping from a bonfire, corkscrewing upwards to who knew where. Oscar sagged. She didn’t need him anymore. His duty as her husband was done.

  He watched Felicity push Isla into the oven. Then the darkness closed in, and he couldn’t see anything anymore. He heard footsteps, a door sliding. Some time later there was a scream. ‘Help! Somebody!’ Felicity sounded so real, so terrified, as if she’d flicked the switch from robot back to human.

  But he heard something deeper, too: Isla’s voice, whispering to him. He couldn’t make out the words—she was too far away. But he could tell she wanted him to follow.

  NOW

  KIARA

  ‘I remembered where we met before,’ Kiara says.

  Felicity smiles pleasantly. ‘Oh?’

  They’re back in the interview room, with the peeling blue paint, the battered table and the camera. It’s only 8 a.m. When Kiara asked her to come in for a follow-up interview, Felicity said she had plans for the rest of the day. Kiara assured her this wouldn’t take long.

  The deputy commissioner hasn’t called to fire her. Maybe Jennings hasn’t reported the assault yet. But Kiara is aware this may be her last interrogation as a detective.

  She’s going to make it count.

  Outside the jewellery shop, Felicity looked like a zombie, shell-shocked after her husband’s death. Now, even though it’s early, she’s wearing light foundation and her hair has been blow-dried. She’s dressed casually in a T-shirt and jacket, but the clothes are new, the colours not yet faded, no scratches on the buttons, the stitching pristine. The crucifix around her neck has been polished.

  Kiara gets the feeling Felicity has chosen the outfit carefully because she’s nervous about this interview. She should be.

  ‘You were a minor at the time,’ Kiara says. ‘That’s why your name didn’t show up when I searched the database. You called the police to say your boyfriend was threatening you with a sword. The emergency squad showed up, saw he was armed, and shot him before anyone could get his side of the story. Later they realised the sword was taped to his hands. There was a lot of meth in his system, though none of his friends or family said he had a drug habit. Except you, of course.’

  ‘He hid it well. I’ll always be grateful to the police for saving me.’ Felicity squints. ‘I don’t recall you being there.’

  ‘I was a junior constable. You probably met a lot of police that day.’ Kiara opens her manila case folder and lays out her notes. ‘Anyway, I know why you killed your husband.’

  Felicity’s eyes widen. ‘I what?’

  ‘It was because you loved him.’

  She looks devastated, angry and confused all at once. ‘Of course I loved him. But—’

  ‘And you tried so hard to keep him that you lost him.’

  Felicity stands up.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave yet,’ Kiara says. ‘Your lawyer will want to know what evidence I have as soon as possible.’

  ‘I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything.’

  The guilty summon lawyers faster than the innocent—Felicity probably knows that. She still thinks she can convince Kiara she didn’t do it.

  Kiara just looks at her. Eventually, Felicity sits back down.

  ‘I have to say, I’ve seen plenty of people murdered over who they had sex with,’ Kiara went on. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen someone killed over a kiss. An overreaction, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Felicity says. ‘This is outrageous.’

  ‘You made one stupid mistake: you kissed Oscar in your backyard, on the night of the party just after Dom bought the Tesla. I don’t know why you did it, exactly. You’ve always been impulsive, haven’t you? Easily bored. Prone to risk-seeking behaviours.’

  ‘You don’t know me,’ Felicity snaps.

  Kiara doesn’t. But she knows people like her: dishonest, narcissistic, manipulative. She’s put plenty of them in prison. The signs aren’t obvious, but they’re consistent. Sometimes it feels like she’s catching the same criminal over and over, wearing a different face each time.

  Psychopaths typically have abnormal thought patterns and a hunger for attention. Kiara should have guessed the killer would turn out to be the stand-up comic.

  ‘Oscar just wouldn’t let it go, would he?’ Kiara says. ‘He followed you around like a puppy, wanting more. If he kept it up, you knew Dom would find out. So you came up with a plan. You were going to kill Oscar, and frame Isla.’

  ‘What a load of crap.’ Felicity’s disbelief looks real, but Kiara isn’t fooled.

  ‘Rick Basking and Clementine Kelly both thought Oscar was delusional,’ Kiara says. ‘But he wasn’t imagining it, was he? You’d been leading him on. A month ago, you started calling and texting him, though you both deleted the records. I assume you told Oscar to do that so Isla wouldn’t find them, but actually it was us you were worried about. And rightly so—cybercrime has recovered some of the messages you erased.’

  This is a bluff. Cybercrime only rescued two messages, and neither one was incriminating. But Felicity goes very still.

  ‘To Dom, you suggested a weekend away,’ Kiara continues. ‘A chance to reconnect with his team-mates from high school. You told Oscar you intended to propose some partner swapping. You’d make it seem spontaneous, but you’d each lay some groundwork ahead of time with your partners and friends. On the night, you and Oscar could pick the same bedroom, and have a wild time together right under the noses of both your spouses. You told him it would be a thrill.

  ‘Oscar thought you were desperate to have sex with him, but really you planned to bludgeon him to death as soon as he walked in the door of the bedroom. His wife would be the obvious suspect, but you thought you could make her the only suspect. You’d planted a letter about a divorce in her bag and somehow gotten her fingerprints on it. You threw in a ski mask for good measure—cops love finding ski masks in suspects’ bags.’

  Kiara keeps her voice calm, almost casual, like she can prove all of this. But thanks to Jennings’ incompetence, any half-decent defence lawyer could get most of the forensic evidence ruled as inadmissible. This case cost Kiara the love of her life. And if she doesn’t get a confession, it was all for nothing.

  Felicity glares at her. ‘This is offensive.’

  Kiara leans forward. ‘But Dom already knew about Oscar. He’d guessed the two of you had conspired to choose the same room. So when he saw Oscar try to get the west downstairs bedroom, Dom took it instead. Unfortunately, you didn’t recognise him right away. You only hit him once before you realised—but it was enough.’

  Under the fake disbelief, Kiara can see real pain. Felicity is haunted by her mistake. But Kiara doesn’t care if killers feel guilty. She wants them out of circulation.

  ‘You panicked,’ she says. ‘Not only had you killed the man you loved, you’d framed Isla for the wrong crime. Soon the body would be found, and everyone would reveal which bedroom they’d picked. You’d be exposed as the killer.

  ‘But you’re smart. In minutes, you had a new plan. You waited until you heard Isla leave the east downstairs bedroom and Oscar go into the shower. You covered Dom’s head with his pillowcase to avoid leaving a trail of blood, then you dragged him into Isla’s room and hid him under the bed, trying to confuse the situation so you wouldn’t be the obvious suspect. Did you move the wine bottle upstairs then, or later? Probably later, right?’