And now she was choosing him.

“Has Abigail spoken to you about . . .” Nathan winced a little, as if he were referring to a delicate health issue.

“About living with you?” said Madeline. “She has. Just this morning, actually.”

The hurt felt physical. Like the start of a bad flu. Like betrayal.

He looked at her. “Is that . . .”

“Fine with me,” said Madeline. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“We’ll have to work out the money,” said Nathan.

He paid child support for Abigail now that he was a good person. Paid it on time. Without complaint, and neither of them ever referred to the first ten years of Abigail’s life, when apparently it hadn’t cost anything to feed or clothe her.

“So you mean I’ll have to pay you child support now?” said Madeline.

Nathan looked shocked. “Oh, no I didn’t mean that—”

“But you’re right. It’s only fair if she’s living at your place most of the time,” said Madeline.

“Obviously, I would never take your money, Maddie,” he interrupted. “Not when I . . . when I didn’t . . . when I wasn’t able to . . . when all those years—” He grimaced. “Look, I’m aware that I wasn’t the best father when Abigail was little. I should never have mentioned money. Things are just a bit tight for us at the moment.”

“Maybe you should sell your flashy sports car,” said Madeline.

“Yeah,” said Nathan. He looked mortified. “I should. You’re right. Although it’s not actually worth as much as you . . . Anyway.”

Skye gazed up at her father with big worried eyes, and she did that rapid blinking thing again that Abigail used to do. Madeline saw Nathan smile fiercely at the little girl and squeeze her hand. She’d shamed him. She’d shamed him while he stood hand in hand with his waif-like daughter.

Ex-husbands should live in different suburbs. They should send their children to different schools. There should be legislation to prevent this. You were not meant to deal with complicated feelings of betrayal and hurt and guilt at your kids’ athletics carnivals. Feelings like this should not be brought out in public.

“Why did you have to move here, Nathan?” she sighed.

“What?” said Nathan.

“Madeline! Time for the Kindy Mums Race! You up for it?” It was the kindergarten teacher, Miss Barnes, hair up in a high ponytail, skin glowing like an American cheerleader. She looked fresh and fecund. A delicious ripe piece of fruit. Even riper than Bonnie. Her eyelids didn’t sag. Nothing sagged. Everything in her bright young life was clear and simple and perky. Nathan took his sunglasses off to see her better, visibly cheered just by the sight of her. Ed would have been the same.

“Bring it on, Miss Barnes,” said Madeline.

Detective-Sergeant Adrian Quinlan: We’re looking at the victim’s relationships with every parent who attended the trivia night.

Harper: Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have certain theories.

Stu: Theories? I’ve got nothing. Nothing but a hangover.

25.

The kindergarten mothers gathered in a ragged, giggly line at the start line of their race. The sunlight reflected off their sunglasses. The sky was a giant blue shell. The sea glinted sapphire on the horizon. Jane smiled at the other mothers. The other mothers smiled back at her. It was all very nice. Very sociable. “I’m sure it’s all in your head,” Jane’s mother had told her. “Everyone will have forgotten that silly mix-up on orientation day.”

Jane had been trying so hard to fit into the school community. She did canteen duty every two weeks. Every Monday morning she and another parent volunteer helped out Miss Barnes by listening to the children practice their reading. She made polite chitchat at drop-off and pickup. She invited children over for playdates.

But Jane still felt that something was not right. It was there in the slight turn of a head, the smiles that didn’t reach the eyes, the gentle waft of judgment.

This was not a big deal, she kept telling herself. This was little stuff. There was no need for the sense of dread. This world of lunch boxes and library bags, grazed knees and grubby little faces, was in no way connected to the ugliness of that warm spring night and the bright downlight like a staring eye in the ceiling, the pressure on her throat, the whispered words worming their way into her brain. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.

Now Jane waved at Ziggy, who was sitting on the bleachers near the sidelines with the kindergarten kids under the watchful eye of Miss Barnes.

“You know I’m not going to win, right?” she’d said to him this morning at breakfast. Some of these mothers had personal trainers. One of them was a personal trainer.

“On your marks, mums!” said Jonathan, the nice stay-at-home dad who had gone with them to Disney On Ice.

“How many meters is this, anyway?” said Harper.

“That finish line looks like it’s a long way away,” said Gabrielle. “Let’s all go have coffee instead.”

“Is that Renata and Celeste holding the finishing tape?” said Samantha. “How did they get out of this?”

“I think Renata said that she—”

“Renata has shin splints,” interrupted Harper. “Very painful apparently.”

“We should all stretch, girls,” said Bonnie, who was dressed like she was about to teach a yoga class, a yellow singlet top sliding off one shoulder as she languidly lifted one ankle and pulled it up behind her leg.