I stand up, brush off dirt and twigs. Run. Hope fuels each step. If I can make it to the village, I’ll be safe. Behind me, the dogs bark. Up ahead, I can see the lights of the village.
Car tyres screech. Headlights flash, illuminating the road. I pant as I run, my heart pumping hard; it takes up all the room in my chest. The dogs sound closer. I push my legs faster. I’m on the outskirts of the village now. I can do this.
Blue and red flashing lights in the main street. Police cars block the road. Henry’s security cars are coming behind me.
Nowhere to run. A police officer is walking towards me.
‘Estelle Meehan,’ he says. There’s still about ten metres between us. I toy with running into the scrub next to the road, and into the wide open farmers’ land. I’d rather die in the outback than face this. So much for freedom. I sink to my knees; I permit myself time to sulk, to cry.
I open my eyes; the officer’s feet are the first thing I see. Shiny black shoes, buffed and polished. No ordinary country copper.
‘I’m taking you in for questioning over the alleged murder of Henry Boston,’ he murmurs, extending a hand to help me to my feet. I sob; snot gushes from my nose onto my lip. I wipe my face with my arm and then my arm onto my tights. A snot trail shimmers in the light. It would look pretty, if it wasn’t mucus, I think sadly.
The officer leads me into the back of the police car. It’s all over.