She turns and lifts her shirt, and the cold air slides over her back. She’s procrastinating. Should she take something to Amber? Flowers? Food? What do you take a woman who’s lost her kid? Disappeared to no one knows where. Her camera? Portrait of a woman grieving! Maybe not. Her mother would call that inappropriate. It’s all right when a journalist does it, but not one of your employees, even if you did go to school with them and you have known each other since you were four years old.
The phone rings. She glances at the number on the caller ID, but doesn’t recognise it. She turns the radio down and at the same time hears a car in the driveway. She peeks through the window. Her parents are home. She clicks off the air-con, the phone ringing in her hand. It drives her father batty—wasting
