Prologue

Leonard Masters stood in his driveway, hose in hand, watching the foam slide down the side of his new Camry. It was his retirement gift to himself. The late summer sun beat down, making the soap bubbles shimmer. The scene looked peaceful. It wasn’t.

His son-in-law, Nick, had given him a car wash kit for Christmas, full of fancy products he claimed would make the job easier. Leonard thought it was a ridiculous idea—washing the car was exercise, and at seventy, exercise mattered. But Nick had insisted. So, out of curiosity more than necessity, Leonard had finally given it a go.

He was halfway through the job when he felt it, the faint tug of something off-kilter. A bird that wasn’t singing. A breeze that didn’t move. The foam had just reached the tyres when a police car pulled into the driveway. It was just after noon. Carmel was inside, setting the table for lunch. They ate at twelve-thirty, every day, without fail. A routine. A comfort.

At first, Leonard assumed the officers were here for the young couple across the road. The girl was nice enough, but her boyfriend had the look of a man always on the verge of a fight. Neighbours had heard the shouting. It wasn’t hard to imagine things had finally escalated.

Then he saw the female officer step out of the car and look directly at him. Not across the street, but at him. She closed the car door with deliberate care and started up his driveway. Her expression stopped him cold.

Leonard’s gut clenched. A thin, sick certainty took hold. They were here for him.

Carmel. No, she was inside.

His children? Jack was at work, busy in the planning department at council making sure Bennington stayed true to itself. Leanne, too, cutting and colouring in her salon, chatting with clients, keeping the books full.

Please, God, not the grandkids. Not Sam. Not one of the girls.

His mouth went dry. He dropped the hose. It thrashed gently against the driveway, water fanning out in lazy arcs, soaking his shoes. Cold. Real. The officer hadn’t spoken yet. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t the girls.

It was Jack.

Carmel’s wail tore through the air, raw and inhuman. The kind of sound that doesn’t come from the throat but from somewhere deeper, older. The female officer moved quickly, guiding her inside, her voice low and soothing. Leonard barely registered the words. He turned away, his legs moving on instinct, heading for the front steps before he suffocated.

Another officer followed, his expression careful. “Mr. Masters, I’m sorry for your loss. Can we sit?”

Leonard shook his head. “No. Just tell me.”

Jack’s neighbour had called the police. His son was found at home. Alone. No sign of forced entry. They were asking about his mental state, if he had been struggling.

Leonard heard the words, but they didn’t land. They floated, hovering just out of reach. Jack wasn’t depressed. He wasn’t suicidal. Not that Leonard had seen.

Did he miss something?

Leonard’s mind raced back to Sunday lunch. Jack had barely touched his food, something that never happened. He had three beers before Leonard had finished his first. He had laughed when Leanne told him to slow down, but the smile hadn’t reached his eyes. Leonard had driven him home that night. Told him to take care. That was the last time he saw his son alive.

Now the driveway smelled of citrus and silence. The foam slid slowly down the side of the car, bright against the silver paint, as if nothing had happened. But everything had.