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a day. The little girl? She’s our daughter – everybody’s daughter – faceless. Nameless.’
    Joanne lets this sink in. ‘It’d be nice if we had something to direct the outrage at, put it into context... but the public. They can pin it on anyone really. It’s universal. Everyone has somebody they want to blame for something, right? Let them choose and then we can run with it.’ Looking to her writers to confirm the reasoning, Barry is only able to offer her a noncommittal shrug while Ava, straight-faced, is quiet with confidence. ‘Type it up. Get that photo over to the fixers, I want her coat at least twice as bright. Is that oil leaking from the car? Make it look like blood. Have it all online in the next twenty minutes.’
    Barry groans in protest and Ava allows herself a victory yelp, but as they notice Joanne’s face overcome with a sudden frost, they turn to see where the cold snap has come from.
    Social Agent Mullen is standing at the door.
    ‘So that’s how the news is made at ChatterFive.’
    They thought they’d locked him out of their transactions. Seeing him stand there is like finding out an adult has discovered them indulging in a game they’re far too young to be playing. Having weighed the merit of each story by the emotional content and initial impact against possible libel, only now, under the gaze of the social agent do they notice how untouched it could all seem. Their reactions to the realisation are noted one by one in the mind of Francis.
    Joanne, feathers ruffled, removes her glasses. ‘That’s how the news is made everywhere, Agent Mullen. I thought we’d closed that door.’
    ‘It was, eh, left open a little.’
    She stiffens at his explanation, Ava smiles, somewhat titillated, and Barry winks to him knowingly.
    ‘There you have it, ladies and gentleman,’ Joanne sours. ‘If you leave a crack open, anybody can work their way in. Even the unassuming Agent Mullen.’
    ‘It’s not like that,’ he says, flustered.
    ‘Don’t worry about it mate,’ Barry pats him on the shoulder as he leaves the room. ‘I look forward to the interview. Got a few suspects myself.’
    Ava follows her colleague, but stops as she passes the social agent to reach out and adjust his crooked tie. ‘Keep up the good work, Francis. Let me know if you need anything.’ As he gulps to find an answer for her, she’s already dashed away. Having performed one sleight of hand, she’s intent on executing her next.
    For his part, the social agent only finds himself wondering how she knew his name. He’s chastising himself for it when, like a punch to the chest, he realises that he can’t remember if he told her and scrambles to retrace his steps back to the car pack. There’s no mistaking it, Francis Mullen has been dazzled. Left with the man, Joanne Victoria keels forward to touch her forehead against the cool of the table.
    ‘Agent Mullen, can you turn the light off on your way out?’ And as Francis obliges the request, she says, ‘Thank you, Agent Mullen.’

CHAPTER 4
     
    In a window on the second to top floor of her building, Ava, framed by a set of undrawn curtains, reclines, half naked as music rolls over her to pump faintly against the glass. At a still point in time the window is a painting, then, as though Ava’s forgotten to check something, she hunches toward her laptop, face a vacant cast as she taps at the keyboard to bring up the details of the night ahead. Seemingly pleased, she sits back, crosses her leg and watches it bounce, then stands and closes over the glowing screen. Draped on the couch is a knee length stretch satin dress. Gathering it, she guides a foot through the slip and pours herself into the material for it to hug her curves. As she leaves the window, it becomes a landscape without reference – her apartment is empty but for the necessities of life and a few pictures strategically placed to cover bare walls. Ava is of the type who searches for entertainment outside