Grace has learnt to keep her certainty to herself. She shifts her gaze over to Peter. He reclines in the chair, his exposed belly spreads like melted ice-cream over his otherwise skinny frame. The air-con splutters and she feels her own body sagging under the weight of both the heat and middle-age.
She weighs up the possibility of telling him she saw him walking behind the reporter. It was Rory's long-legged stride. As Rory passed, his ragged coat showing signs of homelessness, Grace knew, as only a mother can know, the profile of her own son.
She can feel the tingle of knowing her son is alive, not necessarily safe, but walking the streets of Brisbane.
The glare of her iPad blinds her for a second. Prices for a flight are affordable. She could go as early as tomorrow. Peter doesn't have to come this time.
She thinks about how to broach this with him, knowing he is weary. He was never one for travelling, preferring to stick with what he knows. For years, their family holidays were in the same caravan park. The day they got a message saying the place burnt down, she was ecstatic. Grace had no problem booking them into a new caravan park, this time up in the mountains, content with the thought of not having to deal with sand and sunburns.
The last trip, to Adelaide, saw Peter declare that this madness needed to end. No more trips to other cities.
Grace booked the flight for the morning. She'll tell him her sister was ill and needed her for a few days.
This was the right thing. She knew it. Bringing her baby back will make everything right. Perhaps they can go on a family holiday. Maybe back to that caravan park Rory loved, right by the beach.