Rachel’s mobile rang just as she got to the end of Rob and Lauren’s street. She pulled the car over to answer it. It was probably Marla, ringing for Janie’s anniversary. Rachel was happy to talk to her. She felt like complaining about Lauren’s perfectly toasted hot cross buns.

‘Mrs Crowley?’ It wasn’t Marla. It was a woman’s voice. She sounded like a snooty doctor’s receptionist: nasal and self-important. ‘This is Detective-Sergeant Strout from the Homicide Squad. I meant to call you last night, but I ran out of time, so I thought I would try and catch you this morning.’

Rachel’s heart leapt. The video. She was calling on a Good Friday. A public holiday. It had to be good news.

‘Hello,’ she said warmly. ‘Thank you for calling.’

‘Well. I wanted to let you know that we received the video from Sergeant Bellach and we have, er, reviewed it.’ Detective-Sergeant Strout was younger than she first sounded. She was putting on her best professional voice for the call. ‘Mrs Crowley, I understand you may have had high expectations, that you even thought this might have been something of a breakthrough. So I’m sorry if this is disappointing news, but I have to tell you that at this stage we won’t be questioning Connor Whitby again. We don’t think the video justifies it.’

‘But it’s his motive,’ said Rachel desperately. She looked through the car windscreen at a magnificent gold-leafed tree soaring up to the sky. ‘Can’t you see that?’ She watched a single gold leaf detach itself and begin to fall, circling rapidly through the air.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Crowley. At this stage there’s really nothing further we can do.’ There was sympathy there, yes, but Rachel could also hear a young professional’s condescension towards an elderly layperson. The victim’s mother. Obviously far too emotional to be objective. Didn’t understand police procedure. Part of the job to try and soothe her.

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. The leaf vanished from sight.

‘If you’d like me to come around and talk to you after the Easter break,’ said Detective-Sergeant Strout, ‘I’d be happy to make a time that suits.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Rachel icily. ‘Thank you for the call.’

She hung up and threw the phone so that it landed on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

‘Useless, patronising, miserable little . . .’ Her throat closed up. She turned the keys in the ignition.

‘Look at that man’s kite!’ said Isabel.

Cecilia looked up to see a man on the crest of the hill carrying an enormous kite in the shape of a tropical fish. He was letting it bob about behind him like a balloon.

‘It’s like he’s taking his fish for a walk,’ huffed John-Paul. He was leaned over almost double, pushing Polly on her bike, because she’d just complained that her legs had turned to jelly. Polly was sitting upright, wearing a glittery pink helmet and plastic rock-star sunglasses with star-shaped lenses. As Cecilia watched she leaned forward to drink cordial from the purple water bottle she’d packed for herself in the white mesh basket.

‘Fish can’t walk,’ said Esther without looking up from her book. She had a remarkable ability to walk and read at the same time.

‘You could at least pedal a bit, Princess Polly,’ said Cecilia.

‘My legs still feel like jelly,’ said Polly delicately.

John-Paul grinned at Cecilia. ‘It’s okay. Good workout for me.’

Cecilia breathed in deeply. There was something comical and wonderful about the sight of the fish-shaped kite swimming jauntily through the air behind the man in front of them. The air smelled sweet. The sun was warm on her back. Isabel was pulling tiny yellow dandelions from hedges and sticking them in between the strands of Esther’s plait. It reminded Cecilia of something. A book or a movie from her childhood. Something to do with a little girl who lived in the mountains and wore flowers in her braid. Heidi?

‘Beautiful day!’ called out a man who was sitting on his front porch drinking tea. Cecilia knew his face vaguely from church.

‘Gorgeous!’ she called back warmly.

The man ahead of them with the kite stopped. He pulled a phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.

‘That’s not a man.’ Polly straightened. ‘That’s Mr Whitby!’

Rachel drove robotically towards home, trying to keep her mind completely empty of thoughts.

She stopped at a red light and looked at the time on the dashboard clock. It was ten o’clock. At this time twenty-eight years ago, Janie would have been at school and Rachel was probably ironing her dress for her appointment with Toby Murphy. The bloody dress that Marla had convinced her to buy because it showed off her legs.

Just seven minutes late. It probably made no difference. She would never know.

‘We won’t be taking any further action.’ She heard again the prim voice of Detective-Sergeant Strout. She saw Connor Whitby’s frozen face when she paused the video. She thought of the unmistakable guilt in his eyes.

He did it.

She screamed. An ugly, blood-curdling scream that reverberated around the car. She beat her fists just once on the steering wheel. It both frightened and embarrassed her.

The lights changed. She put her foot on the accelerator. Was today the worst anniversary yet, or was it always this bad? It was probably always this bad. It was so easy to forget how bad things were. Like winter. Like the flu. Like childbirth.

She could feel the sun on her face. It was a beautiful day, like the day Janie died. The streets were deserted. Nobody appeared to be about. What did people do on Good Friday?

Rachel’s mother used to do the Stations of the Cross. Would Janie have stayed a Catholic? Probably not.

Don’t think about the woman Janie would have been.

Think nothing. Think nothing. Think nothing.

When they took Jacob to New York, there would be nothing. It would be like death. Every day would feel as bad as this. Don’t think about Jacob either.

Her eyes followed a squall of fluttering red leaves like tiny frantic birds.

Marla said she always thought of Janie whenever she saw a rainbow. And Rachel said, ‘Why?’

The empty road unfurled in front of her and the sun brightened. She squinted and lowered the sun visor. She always forgot her sunglasses.

There was somebody out and about after all.

She grabbed hold of the distraction. It was a man. He was standing on the sidewalk holding a brightly coloured balloon. It looked like a fish. Like the fish in Finding Nemo. Jacob would love that balloon.

The man was talking on a mobile phone, looking up at his balloon.

It wasn’t a balloon. It was a kite.

‘I’m sorry. We can’t meet you after all,’ said Tess.

‘That’s all right,’ said Connor. ‘Another time.’ The reception was crystal clear. She could hear the very weight and timbre of his voice, deeper than in person, a bit gravelly. She pressed the phone to her ear, as if she could wrap his voice around her.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘Standing on a footpath carrying a fish kite.’

She felt a flood of regret, and also plain, childlike disappointment, as if she’d missed a birthday party because of a piano lesson. She wanted to sleep with him one more time. She didn’t want to sit in her mother’s chilly house having a complicated, painful conversation with her husband. She wanted to run around her old school oval in the sunshine with a fish kite. She wanted to be falling in love, not trying to fix a broken relationship. She wanted to be someone’s first choice, not their second.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘You don’t need to be sorry.’