‘Weet-Bix or toast?’
‘Toast, please.’
I put bread in the toaster and laid out margarine and a range of spreads for her, then filled her mug with boiled water. She hid her face in the mug for a few seconds, then she looked straight at me. ‘Where’s my mum?’
There were several things I could say, those euphemistic things like ‘passed on’ or ‘gone to a better place’, but they stuck in my throat. And I couldn’t say her mum would be fine. I was pretty sure she’d known what was going on and heard the gunshot. I took a breath and let it out.
‘I would say by now she’s in Melbourne. Being looked after.’
‘In the morgue? f**k off.’ She banged her mug down on the table.
‘They’re looked after in there. With care. I know.’
‘What? You saw it on TV?’ The scorn on her face was palpable. She shook her
