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sucking in deep breaths, trying to ignore concerned questions from those around her. It had left her rattled and made her wonder if she was doing the right thing by returning here.
    With her free hand, she adjusted her bulky duty belt. Her police uniform was stiff, and itched her skin like it was a hessian bag. On the mainland, she’d been able to wear nice clothes. Nice, comfortable clothes. Now look at her. Throttling an innocent sandwich, hyperventilating like a rookie and obsessing about how she looked in her uniform.
    The Camden police station stood before her, a quaint little building in the centre of town, framed by snow-peaked mountains. The main street of Camden itself was a screenshot of beauty, with green trees lining the road and little gingerbread shops and storefronts for local breweries and homemade fudge. People greeted each other as they walked, no one rushing to deadline, everyone travelling at their own pace.
    â€˜Good morning.’
    Lydia stifled a surprised yelp and turned. A woman with sausage curls in her hair and crooked eyebrows stood beside her, holding the leash of a nervous-looking toy poodle.
    â€˜Hello.’ Lydia shuffled around as the dog sniffed her leg like it was looking for a good spot to urinate.
    â€˜I don’t believe we’ve met yet.’ The woman stuck out a gnarled hand and Lydia smelled liquor on her breath. ‘I’m Morgan Wilcox. I work at the Red Roof Inn out on Hinkler Avenue. Dive of a place, but at least they let you drink on the job. Probably so you don’t notice the cockroaches.’
    â€˜Um, right. Yes. I’m Constable—’
    â€˜Gault. Yes, I know. Your mother and I used to be in the same social club in a different life.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Every Friday night.’ Her eyes crinkled at the corners, adding dozens of lines to the ones already there. Lydia realised her eyebrows had been drawn in with eyeliner, one sitting higher than the other. ‘Good times. We were quite the force to be reckoned with back then. Your mother was particularly ferocious.’
    â€˜Sorry, I don’t understand.’ Lydia tried to recall her mother being part of any social group. Sure, there were times she had to go into town for errands, but Lydia had no memory of her mother doing anything other than working in her office and pottering in the garden. ‘What kind of social club was this?’
    Morgan gave Lydia a grim smile and deftly changed the subject. ‘Terrible thing that happened yesterday morning, don’t you think? That poor girl, being killed like that. I heard she was from that hippie place outside of town, Crystal Waters. You know it? One can only wonder who would do such a thing to a poor, defenceless girl. Do you have any ideas on what happened to her? I heard she was shot in the back. Is that true?’
    â€˜There’s been no solid leads yet, Mrs Wil—’
    â€˜Call me Morgan.’
    â€˜Morgan. I’m sure the senior sergeant will make a community announcement when we have something.’
    Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Frank? That man couldn’t find his own backside if he was sitting on it. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know what happened on the Tanner orchard.’ She paused and waited expectantly.
    Lydia suppressed a sigh. ‘What happened at the Tanner orchard?’
    Morgan tapped her nose. ‘I heard some backpackers were out there, claimed a large dog attacked them.’
    â€˜And where did you hear this?’
    â€˜CB radio.’ Morgan tisked at her dog, who had started straining on the lead, impatient to get on with the walk. ‘The things those truckers talk about, not fit for a lady’s ears sometimes.’
    â€˜Well, it was lovely talking to you, Morgan.’ Lydia lifted her sandwich. ‘I should go and have my lunch while I can.’
    â€˜Perhaps we can catch up later then. Maybe grab a coffee from that new bakery that’s opened up