In Sal’s living room, overstuffed cushions on couches with wicker frames and palm-leaf-patterned fabric gave the space a jungle vibe. In the corner there was a tall, dark, curved-sided wooden cabinet stuffed with china. Alison looked around the room; it had been that way forever. Or as long as she could remember. A woolskin rug on the floor under a smoky glass coffee table. Over there, by the big casement windows, a shelf stuffed with vinyl, another with photo albums, and one more with board games. Scrabble, Cluedo, Monopoly, Balderdash, Scattergories, Trivial Pursuit . . . She remembered the game nights so vividly. She went over to the shelves, pulled out one of the photo albums, and thumbed through it.
Sal and Geoff by a tent next to a river. Three kids, two long-limbed ibis-like toddlers, and a ball of fat on his stomach. Patrick. Naked on the ground, big dimples in his plump cheeks. The older kids, Susan and Chris, couldn’t have been more than four and three, respectively. Alison remembered that spot; they’d all gone together every Easter since she could recall. She turned the page and saw her mother there in a pair of acid-washed denim shorts and her T-shirt that said “Swan Lager” on it. She thumbed a little further in the book, found a picture of her and Pat, covered in dirt, holding shovels, with broad smiles, huge storm clouds behind them. Alison remembered that morning. The smell of eucalypt and tea tree, woodsmoke and mud, in her nostrils. The buzz of mosquitoes and sand flies about her ears.
“Al, love, will you come help dig the trench?” Her mother’s question carried the nonnegotiable tone Alison hated the most. She struggled out of her sleeping bag, slipped on her thongs, and trudged outside. Her mother was holding a shovel and looking at the sky. “There’s a storm meant to come through in a couple of hours; we’ll get washed away if we don’t dig a proper trench. Come on, love.” She looked past Alison and her mouth formed a perfectly disappointed line. “Alison, how many times do I have to tell you to zip that bloody tent up after you?”
Alison mumbled an apology and hurried back to close the fly. She ambled slowly back over to her mother and took the shovel from her. Started to dig. Stabbing at the ground, imagining it was perhaps her mother’s face. Across the campsite she heard the whoosh of a zipper and Patrick emerged, shirtless and brown from the sun, hair a mess, eyes full of sleep.
“When you’re done over there, Al, we’re next,” he called, curls of amusement at the corners of his mouth. Alison narrowed her eyes at him and pitched a shovelful of sand in his direction. Sal appeared from behind his tent and smacked him across the back of the head.
“Geez, Ma, don’t you know you’re not supposed to hit your kids these days?”
“I think you’ll survive it. Stop ribbing Alison and go get our shovel and get to work.” She waved over in Alison’s direction. “Morning, sweetheart! Want a cuppa? Where’s your mum?”
“Morning, Sal, I think she’s washing up down the river. Saw her take the dishes a minute ago. Tea would be lovely, thanks.” It was already hot, and the sweat slipped down her forehead into her eyebrows and onto her cheeks. She kept digging. It was oddly satisfying.
“Last one to finish has to do all the other tents by themselves.” Patrick’s voice called out to her, issuing the challenge. Alison looked at him, dubious.
“Where’s Chris? Suze? How did they get out of this?”
“Went out with Dad and Mal on the boat at sparrow’s fart. Didn’t you hear ’em?”
Alison had heard something as the tent began to color with daylight, but she’d paid no attention. Now she wondered why her dad hadn’t asked her if she wanted to come. “They know about this storm?”
“Yeah, that’s why they went so bloody early. Woke me up but there’s no way I leave my sleeping bag at five a.m. to sit in a boat with Chris and kill fish. The sick fuck enjoys it too much.”
Alison laughed. She was making OK progress on the trench; she’d be done with it soon enough. She looked around, counted the tents. No way she wanted to be stuck doing all of them. She looked over at Patrick’s efforts. He was behind, but she knew him well enough to know he was dragging on purpose. “No deal. I’m not a sucker, and I’m not digging all these trenches on my own. I’ll admit I don’t think I’m fast enough to win the bet, thus proving myself smart enough not to make it.”
Patrick groaned and rolled his eyes. “I tell ya something, Alison King, you are no fun. And if you weren’t my best fucking friend, I wouldn’t bloody talk to you.”
Alison pitched another shovelful of sand in his direction, this time with more force. It sprinkled around him, catching in his wild hair and softly smattering his back. He turned, shook the sand from his hair, and glared at her, faux annoyed.
“That’s it! You are gonna pay for that.” He dropped his own shovel and covered the space between them quickly, effortlessly wrestled Alison to the ground, and straddled her, picking up handfuls of the sand she’d just turned out of the ground and dusting her hair and face with it. Alison squealed and squirmed, but like he’d always been, Patrick was bigger and stronger than her. He held her down, grinding her into the dirt with glee.
“Patrick Marsh, get off her this instant!” Sal’s voice cut through the commotion and Patrick froze, clearly surprised by the edge to it. “Get up right now.” Alison had never heard Sal talk like that, so clipped and high, so loud, shrill almost. Patrick stepped off her, extended his hand to help her up, and turned to face his mother.
“No harm done, Ma, Al’s fine.”
“I really am, Sal, we were messing around.” She looked down at her state. Her pajama shorts were streaked with dirt, and her tank top rode up under her newly acquired breasts. She tugged it down. Patrick leaned over to whisper in her ear, but before he got anything more than hot breath out Sal called out to him again.
“Patty, come back over here right now and finish this trench, and when you’re done, you can do all the others too. Alison, leave that, and come sit with me and have some tea. Pat’ll finish it for you.”
She didn’t know what they had done wrong, or why Patrick was being punished, but if it got Alison out of the boring grunt work of trench digging, she was OK with it. She pulled him in for an apologetic hug and then skipped lightly over to the camp stove where Sal was busy with the kettle. She watched her rummage for the tea leaves and scoop them into the enamel teapot. The hot water sluiced a little over the edges of the pot as Sal filled it, a little too far, a spurt of leaves and liquid dribbling out the spout.
“Shit.” Sal dropped the word under her breath, clearly annoyed with herself. She grabbed cups from the drying tub, and the long-life milk from the Esky, and put everything on the table in front of Alison. “Alison, honey, I think it’s time we talked about boundaries.” Alison’s stomach flipped, realizing what Sal was alluding to and desperately wanting to escape it.
She laughed nervously. “Oh, no, I don’t think—”
“You’re fourteen years old and I know you’re not stupid. You’re growing into a very pretty young woman, and boys are gonna notice you.”
“Sal, really, I don’t need you to worry about me.”
“Well, truth is, honey, I’m not worried so much about you, but I am worried about my son. Boys . . . boys your age don’t have the same maturity as girls, and they are reckless and impulsive and easily led. I know you and Patty have always been close, but now you’re older you might need to start putting up some boundaries. So neither of you get hurt, or hurt each other, you know?”
Alison had always appreciated the way Sal spoke to her, not like she was a child, but more like an equal. She hated this conversation, but she was glad Sal was at least speaking plainly to her. She returned the favor. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea. Patrick is my friend; that’s all he is, all he’ll ever be. We both know that. I don’t have a brother, but I might as well.”
“Love, life doesn’t always work out in such an orderly way. I’m saying, you’re teenagers now, and you’re not siblings, and things change. Things happen. I want you to protect yourself, and I want to protect my son. And, Alison, I mean this. Whatever does happen—no matter what it is—you can always, always tell me, honey. I won’t judge you or be mad at you. And I’ll always try my best to help you, I promise.”
Alison turned the teapot three times like her grandfather had taught her, and then she poured out the tea, straining the leaves over their cups. “OK, Sal.” She poured a splash of milk into hers; murky clouds billowed up, and she stirred the tea smooth. It tasted sharp in the cool of her mouth. Different. She looked down at her short shorts, covered in filth, her tank top scooped low and clinging tightly. She saw her body in a new way. “It’s not like that with Pat, I promise.” The words hung between them softly, and Sal gave her a wan smile.
“How things are doesn’t always matter. Life gets in the way, you know.”
She didn’t. But she didn’t want to admit it. They finished their tea in silence and Alison went back out to see how Pat was going with the trenches. The clouds overhead seemed full, serious. There was a long, low rumble of thunder and Alison picked up the spare shovel and helped Patrick finish the work. Their mothers rushed around, making sure the windows were all zipped in the tents, and the tarps were securely roped. As the first fat drops began to fall, they heard the tumble of voices down the trail to the campsite. The others were back. Her dad, out the front of the pack, leading them home, his camera around his neck. When he saw Alison, still covered in the sandy dirt from her skirmish with Pat, he laughed.
“Look at you two! My god, a pair of animals. Come on, get together quick.” He motioned at them, raising the camera. Pat’s arm hung heavy around her shoulders, and Alison instinctively elbowed him in the ribs. He retaliated by tickling her along her diaphragm, and as she erupted into laughter she cast her gaze toward Sal, standing under the tarp, watching them with careful eyes. Alison pushed his hand away, self-conscious. Turned her face full to her father’s lens and smiled broadly, forcing the weird feelings down. The shutter clicked a few times, and then the sky lit up bright, and the rain began to bucket down in sheets.
“Your parents loved it there.” Sal was suddenly behind Alison, making her jump.
“I didn’t know you had these.”
“Your dad gave me copies of all the camping pictures. He loved to take ’em, and I loved to collect ’em.”
Alison thumbed through more pages, more holidays. The crowd thinning as time passed. First Suze, then Chris, then Geoff, until the last few were Sal and Alison’s mother, her father still behind the camera, not in front of it. “Have you been out there since . . . ?”
“No, love, it’s still too much for me. That’s a place I love, where I went with people I love, and, well, they’re all gone. It hurts. It’s too big a hurt.”
In the kitchen, Suze called out for Sal. “Ma, this gravy won’t go smooth. I can never get it right!” Sal rolled her eyes so Alison could see. She squeezed her arm.
“I’m glad you came this year, hon. You shouldn’t be alone.” Alison watched her retreat into the kitchen, heard her tell Suze to get the strainer. On the other side of the room, the Christmas tree glinted and glimmered. Branches laden with ornaments, base obscured by presents. Outside she could hear the littlies splashing in the pool. Chris calling to them, his voice deep and full, like his father’s. The front screen banged shut and heavy footsteps trudged up the hall. Alison turned, saw Pat and Andrew, forced a smile onto her face. Pushed her mum and dad out of her mind. Tried to, anyway. And when Patrick pulled her in for a hug, she felt his arms heavy on her shoulders and remembered the awkwardness of her body like she was fourteen all over again.
History made things better and worse all at once.
Detective Mitchell was sitting in Emergency when Alison came back from splashing water on her face in the bathroom down the hall. Sal had to have her spine checked, her brain scanned; they wanted to keep her in for observation overnight, in case of concussion; they were worried too about the stress on her heart. Pat Marsh was driving up from Melbourne, probably collecting plenty of speeding tickets along the way. His sister was also on the way. Alison scanned the room for Billy, but he wasn’t there.
“I sent Meaker back to the station to start working on the warrant for Michael Watson.”
“I feel sick.” Alison sat in the hard plastic chair next to the detective. Put her head between her legs.
“We’ll need your statement too, but it can wait. You should go home, nothing more to do here.” She spoke with a gentleness that surprised Alison, and it reassured her, made the nausea recede. This had to stop. Was it over? Now he had her computer, did he think he had everything? Would he leave her alone? She didn’t think so.
“Right, of course. I think I’m going to go clean up Sal’s, don’t want her coming home to the mess he made.” She got up, nodded good-bye, and walked out of the hospital. She was in Healesville. No car. She called a cab and sat in the cool of the night, waiting. A car rolled into the taxi rank, but it wasn’t a taxi. It was Chris Waters’s sedan.
“Little birdie told me you might be here.”
“What do you want?”
“You need a ride?” He sounded kinder than she thought he was, and the look on his face wasn’t inquisitive; it was soft and gentle.
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Let me take you home anyway.” She didn’t know when the cab would come, and she didn’t want to go into Sal’s house alone. What if Gil was there? Could she even go back to Sal’s? She knew she had to. “Come on, Alison, let me help you.”
“All right.” She got into the car and buckled her seat belt. Turned her body away from the driver’s side, gazed out the window, not really seeing anything, looking into the blackness on the highway back to Sal’s. He hadn’t asked her where she was going, and he didn’t say a word as the car rocked along. Instead, he fiddled with the radio until he found some music. ABC Classic FM, violins rising and falling, a cello, a viola; the sounds swelled and swayed and soothed her.
The dark of the road. The silence in the car. The way Chris Waters seemed both urgent and unhurried at once. His rough, sun-scarred forearms and large brown hands. The warmth of the notes rising and falling as horsehair dragged waxy pressure across the strings, tight as they needed to be, just there, just in the sweet spot, right above the bridge.
The sound of a siren out there in the night, in the ink of the black heart of the day. She shivered at the way it pulled her away from the waves the bows created in the cocoon of the car, the soft rocking of the music and the chassis. This womb, speeding her somewhere.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked him.
“You still staying at the Marsh place? I can drop you there?”
“No. I don’t know if I can.”
“Well, your place got electricity yet?”
“Doubt it. Can you drop me at the Imperial, please?”
“Sure can, staying there anyway.”
Alison pulled her phone out, stared at it for a while before she remembered why she had it in her hand, its luminous screen fading to black, reflecting the interior of the car, the glass of the window gleaming in the glass of the phone screen. She touched the right button, made it light up again.
Are you at work?
Billy replied so fast, she wondered if he’d been staring at it, willing her to get in touch. Yeah, finishing up soon. Where R U?
On my way to the Imperial. Can’t stay at Sal’s tonight. Can I stay with you?
No answer for a minute or more. Alison thought about time, how a minute and an hour can seem the same if you’re waiting for something.
Yeah, maybe. I’ll come find you.
Ahead, the faint lights of Lake Bend’s main drag illuminated the freeway, behind her the cross on the road where her parents had died. The hospital where her only remaining anchor was resting. The house where she was raised, had fled, and then sought to hide from herself and her life and her choices. The scarred, charred remains of a place that no longer existed. A place that was no longer capable of making her feel safe.
The car rolled into the lot out the back of the Imperial and Alison had the door open before Chris Waters could cut the engine.
“Thanks, appreciate it,” she mumbled as she stuck one leg out into the night and then the other.
“Wait, Alison, can I ask you some questions?”
“Always asking questions. Never offer something for nothing, do you, Chris Waters?”
“I wanted to check you were OK. Not for publication.” He looked sincere, creased above his eyes, in the place between the bushes of his brows.
“I’m fine, Sal’s fine, everything’s fine. I don’t want this deal anymore. Write whatever you like about me. Do your worst. I don’t care.”
“Look, not that it probably changes anything, but the coppers say Simone’s death was just horrible circumstances. They’ve ruled out murder. Radiant heat. No foul play.”
Alison wasn’t sure why he didn’t have the same information Detective Mitchell did about the autopsy. Or maybe she was lying to Alison. She didn’t know who to believe. Chris Waters knew city coppers and coroner’s office people and politicians and prosecutors.
“Yeah? Ask Anne Arnold. Simone’s dead because of Gil. She’s dead because she was running from him. My friend’s in hospital because he’s here and he’s dangerous, so off the bloody record or on, I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or you’re telling me some story the police fed you. I don’t really care. Gil is out there, and I’m scared of him, and that—that is the fucking truth.”
Alison stomped so hard as she dropped one foot in front of the other on her way into the pub that her heels hurt with every step. Chris Waters didn’t try to follow her, talk to her again. In the barroom the atmosphere was subdued, almost reverent, evoking the sort of feeling you get in a cathedral in the middle of the afternoon. The lights were turned way down and there were only a couple of old-timers, blokes Alison had seen around but never spoken to, old enough to be her grandparents; one of them even looked like her granddad, thick shock of gray-slicked brown hair, broad shoulders, barrel chest.
She flagged down Molly and ordered a gin, plenty of ice, couple of squeezes of lime. It made her flinch a little for the first couple of sips, but by the third it was going down fast and easy. She finished it, ordered another, finished it, ordered another. Her cheeks pinked and pickled. Sandalwood. Billy sliding onto the stool to her left.
“How many to catch you?”
“Too many.”
“Al, it’s not your fault. Sal’s going to be OK.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t excuse me from this.” She finished the third one.
Billy asked Molly for a house whiskey and nodded in Alison’s direction. “Get her another, and we’ll have a packet of salt-and-vinegar chips, please.” The booze came. They drank it silently. Billy tore open the bag of chips, slit it down the middle like he was gutting a fish, the crinkled insides heaped on the mirrored, salt-slicked plastic. Alison crunched down on a big one, a ridge at a time. Billy watched her, a smile forming on his face. “One fucking ridge at a time. You never change.”
The sentiment enraged her and comforted her all at once. The last few days, the last few years, the whole entirety of her life since she left Lake Bend, could be erased that easily for him. By her doing that one thing that she’d always done, eating a crinkle-cut chip one ridge at a time. Last time he’d seen her do that, they would have been teenagers. Last time, he didn’t know how she tasted or felt. He didn’t know how messed up she was or how stupid she could be. She didn’t know either.
Alison gripped the greasy, grainy chip so that the ridges dug into her fingers and left a wave in their wake. Eventually it shattered and she felt the shards stick to the pads of her thumb and forefinger. Saw the splinters fall to the countertop, smooshed the remnants into her tongue, felt the briny acid of the flavoring season her palate. “I don’t want to do this dance with you again, Bill.”
He looked at her; she held his gaze. Felt him trying to wear her down or convince her of something that he wasn’t fully convinced of. “So let’s just cut to the part where you come home with me and I pretend I care less than I do so I can hold on to you while you sleep.”
She crunched through another chip. Rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t sleep well with others.” He grinned at her, and Alison couldn’t tell if he was trying to make her think he really did care as little as she did, or if he thought it was charming not to be hurt by her. “I need a place to stay. I don’t want there to be strings.”
He deflated a little and she saw the flash of hot cold steel in his eyes, saw the way his jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything. Drained the whiskey. Tapped the counter to signal for Molly to replenish it. Out of the corner of her eye, Alison saw Bob and Anne Arnold enter the bar; they were with Chris Waters. Anne caught Alison’s eye. Gave her a nod of sad recognition. Molly came over to refill their drinks. Billy knocked back his whiskey too fast. Slapped his card on the bar, pushed it toward Molly. “I got these. Can you square us up, please?”
“I’m not ready to leave.” Alison was sipping her gin slowly now, watching the Arnolds and Chris Waters, the way they were talking in hushed tones and he was behaving as though he were part of their world. Leaning in close, smiling at things Bob said, shaking his head in anger at what Alison assumed were exactly the right times, playing the tune to perfection.
“Well, I am.” He was all hard edges tonight and she didn’t want to be around it.
“So, go. I’ll figure something else out.” She watched him walk away, saw how deliberately he placed one foot in front of the other, how much tension collected in the sinews of his neck, thought he must be trying so hard not to turn back, not to check if she, Alison, the declared girl of his dreams, was watching him walk out of her life. If he did turn, would he see the relief on her face or mistake it for exhaustion?
She caught Molly’s eye, nodded for another drink. As Molly set it down on the bar Alison leaned over and asked if they had any rooms free for the night. Molly was able to sling her a key to a room upstairs at mates’ rates, and Alison took it, tucked it into her jeans, and kept on sipping the gin, a little too bitter in her mouth, not enough ice to mask the strength of it, too many previous drinks now for her to really care. The day was blurring around the edges and Alison thought she should probably go upstairs. Slide into bed and forget about all of it. She felt the scrutiny of a pair of eyes on her back. Decided to ignore it, drained the rest of the gin from her glass and set it down too firmly, pushed away from the bar and headed up the stairs to the accommodation level.
She walked past the Arnolds’ room, past two more closed doors, and found her room at the end of the hall. She could still feel eyes on her, looked around—there wasn’t anybody there—turned the key in the lock and cracked open the door, slipped into the dark room, and shut it tight behind her. The lamp on the bedside table cast a dim glow when she clicked it on, illuminating the edges of the walls, the way the pressed metal on the ceiling was rusted through in spots. When she sunk into the bed it folded up around her like a half-inflated pool toy. Alison lay on her back fully clothed, door locked, lamp emanating enough light that when the heavy boots stopped at her door and the hard knock of fist on wood rang out, Alison could see the way the vibration made the dust dance in the air.
She sat up, stared at the heavy shadow under the door, the wood the only thing between her and him. Him being whoever it was at the door; Alison thought it could be Gil, or it could be Billy back again, never really one to take a hint. She peeled herself off the bed and walked toward the door. Paused with her hand on the smooth of the knob. Stopped letting the hot air out of her mouth and drawing it back in again. Leaned the weight of her body fully on the frame, wanted to absorb any further knocks, pretend they did not exist.
“Alison, I know you’re in there. Can we talk?” Chris Waters. He wasn’t even on her radar. She could imagine his slouching shoulders and soft middle age, a lace monitor basking in the sun. She flicked the lock, turned the handle, cracked the door.
“What?” She didn’t care to indulge him.
“The Arnolds told me you might have something that explains what Simone was doing down here. Implicates Gil? I thought we had a deal.”
“I told you, I’m done with that deal. I don’t have anything for you.” She didn’t open the door far enough to let him get a boot between it and the jamb.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re nosy.” Who was he to talk to her like that? Why did everyone think she owed them something, some part of her, private parts of her, the most private?
“I’m just trying to do justice to Simone. Her parents understand that; why can’t you?”
“You’re trying to win a Walkley, more likely. You don’t care about Simone, or me, or any of the other people who died here, died in this fire and didn’t have the extra-special cachet of maybe being murdered. Natural disaster’s not enough for you?”
She saw him slouch even further into himself, as though he’d heard the accusation so many times now, it had sunk into his bones. “Come on, you know that’s not true.” He held up a bottle of gin. “Can I come in?” She didn’t care anymore. Cracked the door wide, let it swing loose on its rusty hinges, and walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m not going to tell you what Simone had, or why Gil wants it. I’m guessing that since Anne Arnold didn’t tell you she’s decided it’s up to me, and I’m not going there.”
“Anne hinted at it, but she said she didn’t have the evidence. She said you did.”
“I do. I’m not sharing. Ask something else.” Alison reached out for the bottle of gin, unscrewed the cap, and gulped back a mouthful.
“What happened in Cairns, Alison? Why did you go?”
“I’m an idiot. I thought there might have been something there for me to find out, some kind of clue as to what had happened. But there wasn’t anything.”
“You didn’t meet the new man Simone was spending time with?”
“You know about him too?”
“The Arnolds told me about him, but they didn’t know his name.” Chris Waters was standing in the space between the door and the bed, watching Alison like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Well, don’t look at me. First I heard of him was from the busybody running the milk bar across from my old building.”
“So, he hasn’t contacted you?”
Alison looked at the hard lines of his face, the way his eyebrows pushed upward and closer together, created creases in the center of his forehead. “No, why?”
“He called me, after the first story, said he knew what Simone was doing down here, said he knew you, knew you knew what Simone was doing.”
It made no sense. “That’s bullshit. I’ve told you everything I know. Who was he?”
“Wouldn’t give me his name, but he did send me a picture of Simone to prove he knew her, and that she knew you.” He was scrolling on his phone as he talked; then he turned it around so she could see the screen in the low light of the little room.
It was the laundry room at the apartment block. Alison could see herself in profile, clearly talking to the woman leaning, relaxed, on a machine across from her. She could see that it was Simone, recognized the hair, the curve of the cheek, but she couldn’t remember this moment. Couldn’t place them together in this room. The photo was taken from far enough away that she could see the way the concrete of the open stairwells framed the space. Once again it seemed as though the fragments of her mind no longer connected to one another as they should, as though they could no longer be relied upon to tell her the truth.
“I don’t understand. I don’t remember that at all. We lived in the same building and we obviously were just chatting while we waited for our laundry.”
“Why is there a photo?”
“Why are you asking me? This is beyond creepy and the first I’ve heard of it. You’re saying Simone’s new boyfriend gave this to you?”
“Someone who claimed to be him, yes.”
“But you think it’s not him?”
“It could be; he could be more than one thing.”
“What does that mean?” The gin was rapidly diminishing.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that Gil was able to track Simone all the way here? That police never saw any evidence he was watching her or in touch with her, but he knew where she was?”
“Did he? Or did he just come here after he read about her in the paper?”
“I guess we don’t know.”
Alison offered the gin back to Chris Waters, motioned for him to sit next to her on the bed. He perched on the edge, a wide stretch of covers between them. “So, you obviously have a theory. What is it?”
“He texted me today. Said I should ask you why you were protecting Gil.”
“I’m not.”
“I don’t know if you realize it, but if you know something and you’re not sharing, then maybe you are.”
“Fuck off. I share with who I have to. The cops know what I know.”
“So, I’ll find out eventually, then. Why not just tell me?”
“Why is a dead woman’s boyfriend texting you about me anyway? I know you have a theory about this, and since it’s my life, you really should share it.”
“I think he’s Gil’s friend. I think maybe Gil tricked Simone into trusting this guy because Simone had something he wanted. Or Simone met him through Gil and then Gil threatened them both somehow, found a way to make him help him. I think this boyfriend was plan A. I think following her here was plan B. I think killing her was never the plan, but that if the fire didn’t kill her, then maybe he got carried away.”
“You think he killed her now?”
“I don’t know. It’s not a perfect theory. Everyone who can tell us the truth is dead or missing. But he certainly scared the shit out of her.”
“Scotty.”
“What?”
“Scotty, Gil’s friend at the hotel we worked at together. A bartender. Smooth, fuckable, real gift with the ladies, as they say.” It had to be him. Alison thought about how Scotty had talked about Simone. Like he really cared. Gil had those naked photos of Simone. He was probably using them as leverage. Making Scotty help him.
“Why are you so sure?”
She told him about what Scotty had said to her in Cairns. He shook his head and sipped on a dainty capful of gin. He wasn’t looking to stop being in control. “It’s a possibility I guess.”
“So, what now?” Alison asked as they sat quietly pulling together the things they knew, the leaps they’d made, and the dots they were trying to connect.
“You think I know?”
“Let’s message him. The boyfriend.”
“And say what?”
“Ask if he can meet you. If you can fly him down for an interview.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t get that involved. I’m reporting this. I’m not a player in it.”
She leaned over toward him on the bed. Tilted her head and carefully poured a little more gin into the cap, tried to smile in a cute way, be alluring. “But you are, aren’t you?” She reached out and put her hand on his leg. He pulled away immediately.
“You’re drunk, Alison, and I’m married.”
“First man I’ve met to give a shit about that.”
“I’m not your dad.” She tried to laugh it off. Of course he knew about her parents, about the scandal, about the crash, about the way they’d died on the side of the road. She tried to shake it off, slid back to the corner of the bed she’d been occupying, hung her head so he couldn’t see the pink of her cheeks or the slice of her tears.
“I don’t know what would make you think I thought you were. You should go.”
“I should.” He left the empty cap on the bed, walked to the door, and opened it. Stopped for a minute before he left, looking back at her, concern in his eyes. “Not every man wants something from you, Alison.”
“You mean, not every man wants sex? Because you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re a man who doesn’t want anything.”
“I guess I just mean you’ve got more to offer than your body.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me.” She picked up the cap from the bed and lobbed it at him. He let it bounce off his chest, shook his head, and stepped out of the room.
“If you change your mind about telling me what you know, I’m around,” he said, and pulled the door shut behind him. She listened as his footsteps receded down the hall, her cheeks hot from the booze and the embarrassment and the night and the room. She drank more of the gin, too much more, and fumbled into the bed. She didn’t know what time it was when she passed out.