We’re running out of food. I’ve taken Mum’s bank card out of her wallet, and I know her PIN number off by heart – I’ve done the grocery run too many times to count. Summer is technically over, but the cold never sets in until June at least, and even then it’s a mild, defeated kind of cold, still cowering under the thumb of our relentless sun. Right now it’s still hot enough to make the asphalt quiver, and the car bonnets will sear your arm if you’re stupid enough to lean on one. The grocery store is three blocks away and there’s nothing quite like the feeling of stepping inside, and that gorgeous shiver as the air-­conditioning sucks away the beads of sweat that had been dripping down your neck.

I take a basket and meander down the aisles, picking up items. All home brand, of course. It’s embarrassing, the way your groceries mark you as poor, with those plain ugly boxes which don’t even attempt to seduce you or lure you. Poor people aren’t even worth a marketing spiel. I mostly feel bad about having to buy the home-brand cage eggs. When I’m rich I’m going to buy nothing but free range, even if they cost double the price. That’s when I’ll know I’ve made it. I sigh and drop the cheapest carton into my basket, the ones where the eggs come from chickens who spend their whole lives in tiny cages, their beaks chopped off, so that whenever I eat omelettes I always think they taste a little bit like misery. Mrs Willis, Noah’s mum, is ahead of me in the checkout line. She reminds me of Noah, with her sandy, straw hair and freckles, except where Noah’s tall and lean, she’s box shaped and sturdy. She’s practical looking. Sensible and reliable. She smiles at me as we’re waiting.

‘G’day Kirra, how good you are, doing the shopping for your mum.’

I shrug, and smile back shyly. I wonder how good she’d think I was if she knew I’ve had my mother chained up to her bedpost for the last few days. The person ahead of us is disputing the cost of lemons with the cashier, and Mrs Willis rolls her eyes at me.

‘Oh, by the way, do you know if Noah had people over on Saturday night? Did you hear music or anything?’

Shit.

I am a terrible liar, so I keep my eyes focused on the confectionery stand in front of the checkout, and I shrug as if I didn’t know anything.

‘I went to bed pretty early that night . . .’

This isn’t a lie, I was probably in a drunken coma by nine o’clock. Mrs Willis looks quizzically at me, but doesn’t press it.

‘Well, I suppose the goldfish got into the blender by itself, then,’ she says, unconvinced, and she starts unloading her trolley onto the counter. I don’t even really hear her, I’m distracted by the newspaper rack above the stacks of Mars bars. On the front page is a picture of Josh Hohol, the kid from the library. The headline shouts out to you in thick black ink – LOCAL BOY MISSING – but it’s the first paragraph that chills me. A SUSPECTED RUNAWAY, ACCORDING TO POLICE SUPERINTENDENT DONALD MCGINTY.

I quickly pay for the groceries and race home. I make Mum a sandwich, and when she asks me if I want to watch Doctor Who with her I shrug.

‘I need to go see someone . . .’

She thinks I’m going to see a friend, and it breaks my heart, how she actually looks happy for me.

‘Okay. Scamper, then. I’ll face the Daleks by myself.’

I keep thinking of how McGinty killed Boogie. Josh made McGinty think he knew about Boogie. He pretty much called McGinty a murderer; of course McGinty would want to silence him.

This is all my fault.

On top of that, Josh, is exactly the type of kid that Boogie had been. Josh is no stranger to McGinty – he once got suspended for throwing water balloons full of flour at a maths teacher he didn’t like, and then there was that time he came across a school bus with the keys still in the ignition, so he decided to give himself an impromptu driving lesson and accidentally drove the thing into the creek. All the town knows that. In short, he’s trouble. I keep thinking of what McGinty’s face looked like when he slit Boogie’s throat, that hint of triumph etched onto his features, as though he was finally allowed to act in the way he always wanted to. As though he was doing society a favour by culling the town of troublemakers before they grew up enough to get worse. The way he liked it. I shiver. If McGinty had dealt with Josh like he had with Boogie, then of course he’d say that he was a runaway . . . but would he have had time to dispose of the body yet?

And would I be next?

There’s nothing else to do.

I have to investigate.

The sun dazzles in the sky today, and it stretches its arms as wide as it can across the blue. My board shorts are sticking to my thighs as I pick my way through the track to McGinty’s house. It’s a twenty-minute shortcut through the bush, and my heartbeat is all that’s keeping me company. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I get there. I just need to look around, see if there’s any sign of blood, or struggle, or you know, Josh’s sliced-up body. The thought of that makes me shudder, despite the heat. I come to the clearing, and step gingerly around the old scrap pile. My thongs leave footprints in the dirt here, the dirt that once came from the dormant volcano, Mount Warning, which sleeps on the horizon. Its name seems ominous today.

McGinty’s house isn’t what you’d call fancy. It’s a one-storey, off-white, fibro building, which is being strangled by an overeager bougainvillea vine. I tread up to the house and press my back into the vine so it half swallows me, the purple flowers papery against my cheek and the thorns making needy little grabs at my t-shirt. I stay there for a few minutes.

Be brave, Kirra.

I am not brave.

But I know that if McGinty’s killed Josh, then I’m going to be next, and I need proof to make sure he’s arrested before it comes to that. My hands are squelchy from where they’re clasping together and I concentrate on the feeling of my knotted fingers. When you have nobody to hold your hand to keep you safe you just have to use your other one so you can hold onto yourself.

I step back out into the sunlight’s grip and I pretend that I am a brave person. My nerves don’t believe me, though. I’m a terrible liar, even when I’m only lying to myself.

And this is it. I sneak over to the nearest window and look inside. It looks like the sort of house owned by a sixty-four-year-old widower; even the furniture is steeped in loneliness. I don’t think anything’s been updated in several decades, it’s almost like a time capsule. The living room doesn’t seem to have any signs of struggle or blood, but I recognise it from Boogie’s flashback, and the saggy cane couch where Margery was murdered looks far more unsettling than a cane couch should. I try the window and I’m surprised it opens. I slide it up, and with my heart thumping in my mouth, I climb inside. I’d like to say I was graceful, like a cat, but it’s more of an awkward scramble, and it takes everything I have to not crash onto the matted old carpet with a thud.

Ignoring all of my nerve endings screaming at me to get out of there, I pick myself up and tiptoe around the living room, trailing my fingers over dusty china ornaments and stained coffee cups. Everything looks in order, so if there was a struggle, McGinty’s done a good job of tidying up afterwards. On top of the sideboard, beside a yellowed cordless phone, sits a framed picture of McGinty and Margery. In the photograph they’re looking at each other like they’re sharing a joke, their eyes are twinkling with laughter, and it’s hard to reconcile this smiley-eyed woman with the nagging hag of Boogie’s flashback. The living room leads into McGinty’s bedroom. The doorway’s ajar and I swing it open, bracing myself for bloody clothes or the kind of knife you slice coconuts with. It’s utterly ordinary. A queen-sized bed dominates the space, it’s unmade, except that only the right half of the bed is rumpled. It’s like McGinty still keeps to his own side, waiting for Margery to slip into the bed next to him, even though it’s been almost two decades since she died. It knocks me sideways, the way a half-rumpled bed could look so sad. I close the door behind me until it’s only slightly ajar and I chew my lip, wondering where to begin. I look under his bed but there’s nothing but shoes, lined up neatly, in pairs. The closet is bare, except for some shirts and jackets hanging neatly from the rack. Squished in the corner is a dress, large and dated, it has to have been Margery’s. It’s a cut-grass green colour and festooned with yellow flowers. It’s so large and bright it looks like there’s a big slice of meadow just hanging there in the cupboard. It’s so forlorn, a field of flowers, there in the dark amidst the suits, that I have to close the door to shut away the sadness. Next, I rummage through the dirty-clothes basket in the corner, and hold up each item of clothing, turning them around for any signs of blood. Nothing. It’s all so ordinary. The last place to look is the kitchen. He might not have had time to ditch the murder weapon yet, and I can imagine the knife still sitting in the sink, Josh’s blood crusting on the blade. I’m about to step back through the living room when I hear a sound. A whistle.

It’s definitely a whistle.

Someone is whistling ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ in the kitchen.

Shit!

I wonder what McGinty’s doing home in the middle of a weekday, when I realise he works for the police. Policemen don’t have regular nine to five hours, their work schedules are all over the place. Crime doesn’t care about weekends or after hours, so obviously they’d sometimes have days off during the week.

Panic bashes into me.

I want to scream.

I grip my hand over my mouth to keep the sound inside of me.

Peering through the ajar bedroom door, I see McGinty walk into the living room from the kitchen. A whistle has never sounded so threatening in my life. I can’t believe he hasn’t heard my heartbeat by now, I feel it gonging so loud inside me. McGinty’s carrying a chipped china plate with a chunk of cheese, cold meats and crackers balanced on top, but what grabs my attention is the knife, which is catching the afternoon light and it glints at me, almost like it’s winking. I scan the room for an exit strategy, except the bedroom window isn’t like the living-room window – this one has a fly screen on it, and there’s nothing around to cut through the wire.

Shit.

There’s space under his bed for me to hide, except I don’t like the thought of being trapped down there while a murderer makes the bedsprings squeak above me. My mind is racing, and my palms are slippery with sweat. I’m going to die. I can’t stop staring at the knife and imagining it opening up my throat, and how I’d watch as my blood spilt free from my skin. I don’t want to die at fourteen. I don’t want McGinty’s purple face to be the last thing I ever see.

And Mum.

Nobody knows she’s chained up to her bedpost. Nobody will save her.

She’ll starve.

It takes everything I have to stop myself hyperventilating.

McGinty stops whistling. He looks over to the living-room window, which is now open and letting the day in with deep, hot breaths. Still carrying his plate, he wanders over to the window, looking at it curiously. His ear is cocked, like he’s listening for anything strange.

Shit.

I wish my heartbeat wasn’t so loud, and my stifled breaths sound to me like the wind howling down at South Beach.

Slowly, McGinty wanders over to the bedroom, as nonchalant as can be. It’s creepy, the way he seems so calm. All I can see is that knife getting closer and closer. If I spring to get under the bed I’m certain he’ll hear me, and then I’ll be trapped under there with nowhere to run. Even if I did want to hide, I can’t. I can’t move. My body is giving me the silent treatment and I stand rigid, as though someone’s glued me onto this space. I count down the seconds I have to live, as McGinty gets closer. Eight. Seven. Six. Five . . . But four never comes. Instead, I watch the plate and knife clatter onto the floor. A lone cracker rolls itself through the crack and settles next to my feet.

McGinty follows the plate.

He thuds to the ground, like a plum falling from a tree, and he lies there, still. I don’t know whether this is some ploy to get me to reveal myself, so I wait.

I wait for a good thirty seconds.

He doesn’t move.

Suddenly, my body starts to work again. I creak open the bedroom door.

He still doesn’t move.

Carefully, I tiptoe toward him.

He still doesn’t move.

He’s not breathing.

I bend down and check his pulse.

He still doesn’t move, and neither does his pulse. I shake him, and shout at him.

Nothing.

Shit.

This is the man who killed Boogie. This is the man who may have killed Josh. Should I let him die? Does he deserve to die? The flashback of his face, when he killed Boogie, races before my eyes, but that face looks nothing like the one lying here, quiet and still, turning blue. His eyes look like the sort of eyes that a kindly old uncle would have, even if they’re rolled back in his head. I don’t want to have his death on my hands. If he’s guilty, then he’s guilty, but it’s not up to me to punish him. I don’t have that right.

Quickly, I race to the phone on the sideboard and call triple zero. As it’s ringing I bend over McGinty and try to remember the CPR lesson we learnt in physical education class. I cradle the phone between my ear and my shoulder and I press my two hands on his chest, at the space on top of his breastbone, pushing down on him to the rhythm of the Bee Gees ‘Stayin’ Alive’. It’s an apt song to try to save someone’s life with.

‘Hello, emergency,’ says the woman on the line.

I keep pushing on McGinty’s chest, and my voice is jagged.

‘I think a man’s had a heart attack. I need help. I need an ambulance.’

I give the address and the woman tells me that the paramedics are on their way. I tell her that I’m doing CPR and she instructs me as I go. About eight minutes have past. The longest eight minutes of my life. I’m drenched in sweat and I don’t know how much longer I can push for, when I hear a knocking on the door.

It’s the paramedics. I let them in.

One of the paramedics takes over CPR, while another is setting up the defibrillator to try to jump-start his heart.

A third one asked me what happened and I don’t know what to say to him. That I was doing what a ghost told me to do and looking for clues to prove he’d killed a second teenage runamok who’d uncovered his murderous secret? I stare down at McGinty’s glazed-over eyes, and the words come to me, from I don’t know where.

‘I was looking for scrap wood, out the back there,’ I gesture to the window, ‘and I heard a crash. I think it must have been that plate.’ The plate sits cracked in half by our feet. ‘I looked through the window to see what the sound was, and, ummm, he was lying here, so I jumped through the window and called you guys.’

I’ve never lied so easily in my life. The paramedic is looking at me like I’m the bravest person in the world. He doesn’t know me at all. He doesn’t know how badly my own heart is racing.

‘It’s a bloody miracle you were here. A bloody miracle,’ he tells me, and we watch as the defibrillator is switched on.

McGinty convulses.

His heart doesn’t start.

They try again.

He convulses again.

And this time, it works.

It works.

The paramedics bundle him into the ambulance, and all I can do is stand there, watching the man who could have killed me as he’s wheeled off to be fixed. To be saved. I curl down into a ball and I wonder what I’ve done.