“We decided not to get the police involved this time, but if I hear that you go near my wife again I’ll be taking out a restraining order against you, quick-smart, Jane, because I will not stand for this. I’m a partner in a law firm and I will bring the full weight of the law down on your—”

“You need to leave now.”

It was Tom, carrying a plate of pancakes. He placed the plate on Jane’s table and cupped one hand gently over the back of Ziggy’s head.

“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry we just . . .” fluttered Harper. The mothers of Pirriwee were addicted to Tom’s coffee and treated him as a beloved drug dealer.

Graeme straightened and pulled once on his tie. “All OK here, mate.”

“No,” said Tom. “It’s not. I won’t have you harassing my customers. I’d like you to leave right now.” Tom’s teeth weren’t jutting, but his jaw was clenched.

Graeme tapped his closed fist, knuckles down, on Jane’s table. “Look, legally, mate, I don’t think you actually have the right to—”

“I don’t want legal advice,” said Tom. “I am asking you to leave.”

“Tom, I’m so sorry,” said Harper. “We certainly didn’t mean—”

“I’m sure I’ll see you both another time,” said Tom. He went to the door and held it open. “Just not today.”

“Fine,” said Graeme. He turned and pointed a finger an inch away from Jane’s nose. “Remember what I said, young lady, because—”

“Get out before I throw you out,” said Tom, dangerously quiet.

Graeme straightened. He looked at Tom.

“You just lost yourself a customer,” he said as he followed his wife out the door.

“I certainly hope so,” said Tom.

He let the door go and turned and looked back at his customers. “Sorry about that.”

One of the men in overalls clapped. “Good on ya, mate!” The woman with the toddler stared curiously at Jane. Ziggy twisted around in his seat to look out the glass windows at Harper and Graeme hurrying off down the boardwalk, then he shrugged, picked up his fork and began to eat his pancakes with gusto.

Tom came over to Jane and crouched down beside her, his arm on the back of her chair.

“You OK?”

Jane took a deep, shaky breath. Tom smelled sweet and clean. He always had that distinctive fresh, clean smell because he surfed twice a day, followed by a long, hot shower. (She knew this because he’d once told her that he stood under the hot water, replaying all the best waves he’d just caught.) It occurred to Jane that she loved Tom, just as she loved Madeline and Celeste, and that it would break her heart to leave Pirriwee, but that it was impossible to stay. She’d made real friends here, but she’d also made real enemies. There was no future for her here.

“I’m OK,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you for that.”

“Excuse me! Oh dear, I’m sorry!” The toddler had just spilled his babycino all over the floor and was crying.

Tom put his hand on Jane’s arm. “Don’t let Ziggy eat all those pancakes.” He stood and went over to help the woman, saying, “It’s OK, little buddy, I’m going to get you another one.”

Jane picked up her fork and took a mouthful of the apple pancakes. She closed her eyes. “Mmmm.” Tom was going to make some lucky man extremely happy one day.

“I wrote it down,” said Ziggy.

“Wrote what down?” Jane used her fork to cut another edge of the pancake. She was trying not to think of Harper’s husband. The way he’d leaned over her. His intimidation tactics were absurd, but they’d also worked. She’d felt intimidated. And now she felt ashamed. Had she deserved it? Because she’d kicked at Harper in the sandpit? But she hadn’t actually kicked Harper! She was positive she hadn’t actually made contact. But still. She’d let her temper get the better of her. She’d behaved badly, and Harper had gone home upset, and she had a loving, overprotective husband who had felt angry on her behalf.

“The name,” said Ziggy. He pushed the notepad at her. “The name of the kid who does stuff to Amabella.”

Samantha: So apparently Harper’s husband won’t let her go into Blue Blues anymore. I said, “Harper, it’s not 1950! Your husband can’t forbid you to go into a café!” But she said he’d see it as a betrayal. Bugger that. I’d betray Stu for Tom’s coffee. Jeez. I’d murder for it! I’m not the murderer, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t think coffee was involved.

• • •

Jane put down her fork and pulled the notebook toward her.

Ziggy had scrawled four letters across the page. Some were enormous. Some were tiny.

M a K s

“Maks,” said Jane. “There’s no one called—” She stopped. Oh, calamity. “Do you mean Max?”

Ziggy nodded. “The mean twin.”

59.

It’s two o’clock. I’m going for my meeting now,” said Perry. “Madeline is picking up the kids. I’m going to be back by four, so just stick them in front of the TV until I’m home. How are you feeling?”

Celeste looked up at him.

It was a kind of lunacy, really. The way he could behave like this. As if she were in bed with a bad migraine. As if this had nothing to do with him. The more time that passed, the less anguished he looked. His guilt slowly seeped away. His body metabolized it, like alcohol. And she colluded in his lunacy. She went along with it. She was behaving as if she were ill. She was letting him take care of her.

They were both crazy.

“I’m all right,” she said.

He’d just given her a strong painkiller. She normally resisted analgesics because she was so susceptible to them, but the pain in her head had finally become more than she could stand. Within minutes the pain had begun to melt away, but everything else was melting as well. She could feel her limbs becoming heavy and somnolent. The walls of the bedroom seemed to soften, and her thoughts became languid, as if she were sunbathing on a hot summer’s day.

“When you were little,” she said.

“Yes?” Perry sat beside her and held her hand.

“That year,” she said. “That year when you were bullied.”