He was a doctor. He wasn’t supposed to do this.

But, yeah, he was, he thought grimly. This was his choice. He, Harry and Cordelia did routine work, clinics in Outback settlements, flying in and out at need, but they also took Search and Rescue shifts. Sometimes it was incredibly satisfying, saving people from their own stupidity. Sometimes, though, like now…

Sometimes it was the pits.

Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham.

‘Where are you, sweetheart?’ After this time he knew they were searching for a body, but it was still incredibly important to find her. The parents could bury her, could grieve, could know exactly what had happened.

‘So what was happening when the call came in?’ Harry asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who’s Lucy?’

‘You read my email?’

‘Of course I did,’ Harry said, unabashed. Harry was a highly skilled pilot, good-humoured and big-hearted, but his downside was an insatiable nose for gossip. ‘You took thirty seconds to put your gear on, and you didn’t supply alternative reading material. So someone called Lucy’s coming on Friday and can you please put her up. You going to tell us who Lucy is?’

Riley thought of all the things he could say. Mind your own business. A friend. Nobody important. Maybe it was the grimness of the night, the tragedy playing out beneath the chopper, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to say anything but the truth.

‘My daughter.’

My daughter.

The two words resonated through the headset, sounding… terrifying. He’d never said those words out loud until now.

He’d never had reason to say them.

‘You’re kidding us,’ Harry breathed, turning into the next sweep. They were over the cliff now, momentary time out while Harry centred the machine for the next run; checking bearings so they weren’t covering sea that had already been searched. ‘Our solitary Dr Chase… A daughter! How old?’

‘Eighteen.’