“Amabella likes Star Wars too,” said Ziggy. “She knows all this stuff because she’s a really super-good reader. So we don’t really play, but sometimes if I’m a bit tired of running we sit together under the Sea Dragon Tree and talk about Star Wars stuff.”

“Amabella Klein? Amabella in kindergarten?” checked Jane.

“Yeah, Amabella! Except the teachers won’t let us talk anymore,” sighed Ziggy.

“Well, that’s because Amabella’s parents think you’ve been hurting her,” said Jane with a touch of exasperation.

“It’s not me who hurt her,” said Ziggy, half sliding off his chair in that profoundly annoying way of little boys. (She’d been relieved to see Fred doing exactly the same thing.)

“Sit up,” said Jane sharply.

He sat up and sighed again. “I’m hungry. Do you think my pancakes are coming soon?” He craned his neck to look back toward the kitchen.

Jane surveyed him. The words he’d just said registered properly. It’s not me who hurt her.

“Ziggy,” she said. Had she asked him this question before? Had anyone asked him this question? Or had they all just said over and over, “Was it you, Ziggy? Was it you?”

“What?” he said.

“Do you know who has been hurting Amabella?”

It happened instantly. His face closed down. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His lower lip trembled.

“But just tell me, sweetheart, do you know?”

“I promised,” said Ziggy softly.

Jane leaned forward. “You promised what?”

“I promised Amabella I wouldn’t tell anyone ever. She said if I told anyone she would probably get killed dead.”

“Killed dead,” repeated Jane.

“Yes!” said Ziggy passionately. His eyes filled with tears.

Jane tapped her fingers. She knew he wanted to tell her.

“What if,” she said slowly, “what if you wrote down the name?”

Ziggy frowned. He blinked and brushed away the tears.

“Because then you’re not breaking your promise to Amabella. That’s not like telling me. And I promise you that Amabella will not get killed dead.”

“Mmmm.” Ziggy considered this.

Jane pulled a notebook and pen from her bag and pushed it toward him. “Can you spell it? Or just have a go at spelling it.”

That’s what they were taught at school; to “have a go” with their writing.

Ziggy took the pen, and then he turned around, distracted by the café door opening. Two people came inside: a woman with a blond bob and an unremarkable businessman. (Graying middle-aged men in suits all looked pretty much the same to Jane.)

“That’s Emily J’s mum,” said Ziggy.

Harper. Jane felt her face flush as she remembered the mortifying incident in the sandpit, where Harper had accused her of assault. There had been a strained call from Mrs. Lipmann that night, advising Jane that a parent had made an official complaint against her and suggesting that she “lay low, so to speak, until this difficult matter was resolved.”

Harper glanced her way, and Jane felt her heart race, as if with a terrible fear. For God’s sake, she’s not going to kill you, she thought. It was so strange to be in a state of intense conflict with a person she barely knew. Jane had spent most of her grown-up life sidestepping confrontations. It was mystifying to her that Madeline could enjoy this sort of thing and actually seek it out. This was awful: embarrassing, awkward and distressing.

Harper’s husband tapped one finger smartly on the bell on the counter—ding!—to summon Tom from the kitchen. The café wasn’t busy. There was a woman with a toddler in the far right-hand corner and a couple of men in paint-splattered blue overalls eating egg and bacon rolls.

Jane saw Harper nudge her husband and speak in his ear. He looked over at Jane and Ziggy.

Oh God. He was coming over.

He had one of those big, firm beer bellies he carried proudly, as if it were a badge of honor.

“Hi there,” he said to Jane, holding out his hand. “Jane, is it? I’m Graeme. Emily’s dad.”

Jane shook his hand. He squeezed just hard enough to let her know that he was making the decision not to squeeze any harder. “Hello,” she said. “This is Ziggy.”

“Gidday, mate.” Graeme’s eyes flickered toward Ziggy and then straight back again.

“Please leave it, Graeme,” said Harper, who had come to stand next to him. She studiously ignored Jane and Ziggy; it was like at school in the sandpit when she’d played that freaky “avoid eye contact at all costs” game.

“Listen, Jane,” said Graeme. “Obviously I don’t want to say too much in front of your son here, but I understand you’re embroiled in some sort of dispute with the school and I don’t know the ins and outs of all that, and frankly I’m not that interested, but let me tell you this, Jane.”

He placed both palms on the table and leaned over her. It was such a calculated, intimidating move, it was almost comical. Jane lifted her chin. She needed to swallow, but she didn’t want him to see her gulping nervously. She could see the deep lines around his eyes. A tiny mole next to his nose. He was doing that ugly teeth-jutting thing that a certain type of shirtless, tattooed man did when he was yelling at reporters on tabloid television.

“We decided not to get the police involved this time, but if I hear that you go near my wife again I’ll be taking out a restraining order against you, quick-smart, Jane, because I will not stand for this. I’m a partner in a law firm and I will bring the full weight of the law down on your—”