10.

Oliver left Clare’s vineyard through the palatial-looking gate and veered left onto the road that went all the way into town. He drove into the hotel’s parking lot and realised, as he patted his pocket, that he’d left his phone on Clare’s table. He checked between the seats, in the cup holder, but no dice.

Shit. He wondered briefly whether he could wait until the morn­ing, but he wasn’t sure when he might need it. The truth was, he felt safer waking up with it by his side because it doubled as his alarm.

Walking upstairs, he entered the room. Spotted a fake bunch of globe artichokes in a glass vase and decided it would do. After rinsing the vase in the sink, he opened the bottle he’d brought with him and quickly decanted the wine. He then swirled the liquid around the vase and left it to open up.

Oliver struggled out of his jeans, which were definitely feeling too tight after the bowl of buttery pasta. He took a shower and changed into a tracksuit. Pouring himself a small taste of the wine, he decided it needed a bit longer to open up – it would be perfect when he returned.

Back into the car, heading off along the main road. There was another way that would get him there at a similar time, but he didn’t want to think too hard about the route he was taking. Apart from one car in the distance, the road was quiet, cold. Gum branches flapped in the breeze, intensifying his anxiety. The grass on the roadside was long after the rain, and Oliver kept checking it fastidiously for roos. About one hundred metres from Clare’s driveway, the sedan in the distance put on its blinker and turned into the winery.

Oliver touched the brakes, but then decided to keep driving slowly to avoid suspicion. He looked at the car’s clock: nine-fifty-four pm. Driving past the gate, he watched as the sedan crept towards the cellar door, where he had parked a few hours earlier.

He turned his car into another of Clare’s driveways, a hundred metres or so away. There was a gate – this one a touch more spartan – with a padlock and a chain alongside a ‘NO TRESPASSING’ sign. It was the road that some of the viticulturists and labourers used to access the westerly vineyards.

Who would be visiting Clare now? Oliver had asked about her life; she hadn’t volunteered anything unorthodox, hadn’t mentioned any love interests. Maybe he should turn around and go home? He really had no intention of interrupting Clare in the throes of passion. Another thing he’d never be able to unsee.

Sighing, he switched off the ignition and decided he might as well check out what was going on, see who was inside. Even if the visitor had turned up at Clare’s on a romantic whim, Oliver would still have time to say hello and grab his phone before anything intimate began. Clare wasn’t a teenager anymore. Surely, she and whoever was with her couldn’t light the fire that quickly in the cold.

Closing the car door, he was halfway towards the gate when he realised he’d left his lights on. Oliver walked back to the Jag, flicked off the lights and locked the doors. Then he leaped over the gate and jogged alongside the vines, through some shiraz plantings, until he could see the house. The lights were still on in the kitchen. As he moved closer, he could see the sedan not far from where he was. He couldn’t read the numberplate. It was an older model, maybe from the late nineties. It was probably red once. A rough life and years of weather had helped paint it pink.

He stepped up onto the balcony. One of the dogs was barking, the other yelping.

A man’s voice, a baritone.

Oliver walked towards the door. Pulling his fingers into a fist, he knocked twice. A couple of seconds passed and he heard the sound of a gunshot. It was immediately followed by another. Muffled, as if they’d been fired through a silencer. The pew of the blast reverberated through Oliver’s ears. A sound he’d heard hundreds of times in films, but never in real life. The dogs began to howl.

Fuck.

He felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. As he crept to the end of the balcony, but just before he’d turned the corner, a man dressed in black-and-grey tracksuit pants and a hoodie ran out the door. Oliver didn’t see his face. Had the man seen him? He didn’t have time to decide.

Once Oliver turned the corner, he galloped across the grass towards the vines, into the dark, as fast as his legs would take him.

He sprinted until he reached the fence of the neighbouring property. As he doubled over, trying to catch his breath, he scolded himself for being so unfit. The man obviously hadn’t chased him, for if he had Oliver was certain he would have been shot dead. Inhaling a couple of deep breaths, he stared at the lights in the distance. He couldn’t hear anything. The vineyard was quiet; no birds, cicadas, crickets. Just the crunch of grass and fallen leaves at his feet. He heard the exhaust of the faded red car, could hear it moving through its gears as it sped away.

Was the shooter going to come after Oliver now? Was he waiting back at the house? Oliver didn’t think so. Whoever had fired the gun was halfway to town and not returning.

Heading reluctantly towards the house, he dreaded what he was going to see. Two shots. Surely Clare was …? He’d run away before he even knew if she was dead or alive.

Coward.

No, there wasn’t much of a choice between fight or flight. There was no fight he could have attempted unarmed, he told himself. There might have been two dead winemakers. He’d flown so he could fight for Clare now. Please be alive, he begged silently, starting a slow jog, gaining momentum. Please let me save you.

The dogs were no longer barking. They greeted him outside, desperate for attention. If the intruder had shot Clare, why not the two wieners? At least he’d spared the dogs.

Taking a deep breath, he walked into the house. And found Clare sprawled on the kitchen floor. No movement. He went to look again, but scrunched his eyes closed instead. Needed a minute to compose himself. This was the second time in a week he’d seen tacky pools of blood, some of which the dogs had stepped in, unwittingly painting the kitchen tiles. When he opened his eyes, there were two bullet wounds: one through the temple, another in the sternum. The heater was still going. Oliver found the remote and turned it off. He knew it was already too late to worry about touching things, with his fingerprints already peppered throughout the house.

Doing his best not to throw up, he walked to where they’d eaten dinner and found his phone sitting where he’d left it – beside an ornamental bowl in the middle of the dining table. He began to call triple zero, but stalled on the final digit. Let his fingers hover over the buttons. He backspaced and called a different number, instead.

Gabe answered after a couple of rings. ‘Are you bored in Orange?’

‘Someone’s coming after us.’ Oliver was still out of breath as he walked out of the kitchen and closed the balcony door behind him.

‘What?’

‘Someone just shot Clare.’

‘Whoa, whoa, slow down.’

‘Someone was here. They shot her, Gabe. I had to run—’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘I just, um—’ Oliver had to stop and take a couple of breaths. He could feel himself on the cusp of a panic attack. He started the slow jog towards the car, needing to stay active, to keep his mind moving. ‘I came back to get my phone. Left it on the table after dinner. Someone was here. I heard them shoot her, Gabe. A fucking professional.’

‘Have you called an ambulance? The police?’

‘No. She’s gone, mate.’

‘The cops? You need to call the police, Oli. Right now.’

‘I can’t.’

Oliver arrived at the car, unlocked it and jumped in. There was no one around him. The road was dark, the stars gold and raw and almost offensively bright.

‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘They’ll think I killed her,’ he cried. ‘They’ll try to pin it on me. They’re already trying to pin Theo on me. Whoever shot Clare knew I was at her place. They waited until I was gone and then they swooped in. I’m going to kill the—’

‘Take a deep breath. Where are you now?’

‘I’m going to get my shit from the hotel. Maybe they’re waiting for me there? I don’t know, I’ll see if it looks safe. I’ll come tonight. Can I stay with you?’

‘You don’t even need to ask,’ Gabe said. ‘I saw Penny this morning. She’s gone to Sydney to see her mother.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Oliver wondered if she’d told Gabe about their quarrel. ‘Look, I’m worried. I shouldn’t be the one to get locked up over these murders. You know I wouldn’t kill them, don’t you?’

‘Calm down, Oli. If Clare’s dead there’s not much more we can do.’ Gabe made a choking sound. ‘Shit, I can’t believe I just said that. You need to keep safe and look after yourself. Maybe stay at the hotel tonight. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to drive.’

‘No, I won’t be able to sleep.’

‘Well,’ Gabe sighed. ‘Get your stuff. Drive slowly. Come back here and we’ll sort it out, all right?’

‘Okay,’ Oliver said, and when Gabe didn’t reply, he said it again.

No one was waiting at the hotel. There were three other cars in the parking lot that Oliver remembered seeing earlier. No sign of the faded sedan. He walked up the stairs to his room, put his ear to the door and made sure there were no noises on the other side. After a minute, he moved inside and scoured the room.

Empty.

Hastily packing his bag, he did a final sweep, making sure he’d left nothing behind. He poured the wine out of the decanter and back into the bottle, put the lid back on and placed it in his bag, leaving the stained vase in the sink. Then he tossed the key onto the bed.

Two hours later, he pulled into Four Dogs Missing. Gabe flicked on the light and came outside in a striped dressing gown, Luna by his side.

‘Jesus, I said slow. You shouldn’t be here for another half an hour.’

Oliver walked up and hugged Gabe, letting out what sounded like a single sob. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, standing up straight, composing himself.

‘Come in. I’ll open a bottle.’

‘I’ve got one in my bag. I decanted it earlier.’

‘Of course you did,’ Gabe said, peering into the night.

Once Oliver walked in, Gabe turned off the light, closed the door and clicked the deadlock.

***

Oliver was numb. He sipped the wine slowly, unable to relish it as he usually would. He kept imagining flies falling into the liquid, drowning, dead on their backs, and couldn’t touch his glass again. Gabe sat across from him, stroking Luna’s fur, the dog snoring on the chair beside him. Oliver was jealous of the ease with which the dog could fall asleep. Gabe looked defeated, as though words had evaded him.

‘I don’t understand,’ Gabe said finally.

Oliver nodded. ‘Makes two of us. Surely, Harold doesn’t have something to do with this?’

‘Harold? What happened at your dinner?’

‘He came to my place early. Ida saw him snooping around the house when we were at Penny’s bar on Monday night. Theo stole two of Mum’s paintings from him.’

‘What?’

‘They’re unfinished, and he wants them back.’

‘I’ve never quite trusted that man either,’ Gabe said, concern swamping his features. ‘He’s suave, but … I don’t know, Oli.’ He stood up. ‘You need to tell that detective everything. Maybe go into some kind of witness protection.’

‘Nah,’ Oliver said, his voice raspy with tiredness. ‘I’ve got to do this alone, mate. My gut is telling me that Harold knows something that’s going to solve this mess.’

Gabe walked to the kitchen and when he returned, he brought back a bottle of Lagavulin. ‘Tip this down. You need to sleep. You’re not going to be useful to anyone with insomniac theories and bloodshot eyes.’

They both took a large swig.

‘Could it be related to the business?’ Gabe asked.

‘What do you mean?’

Gabe took another gulp from the bottle and winced. ‘I don’t know. A competitor. At the moment, nothing’s out of the question.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘You’re the Howard Hughes of the Australian wine world. Don’t go chasing people.’

‘Can you at least compare me with a less creepy recluse? I’d prefer to be the Emily Dickinson of the Australian wine world.’

Gabe was too tired to jest, and Oliver felt ashamed of making a joke. But the whisky was waking him up, pumping more adrenaline into his body, rather than calming him down.

‘Just let the police do their job,’ Gabe said. ‘You’ll make things worse.’

‘I can’t sit back and wait. I’m not going to let someone set me up for this.’

After a moment, Gabe said softly, ‘I need to call the police in the morning, you know that.’

‘Don’t, Gabe.’

‘They’ll trace our calls. Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to confront Harold. I think he killed Theo.’

‘You go, Oli, but the police need to know. I’ll let you leave in the morning and then I’m going to tell them. We can’t both go to jail.’

‘I think he’s behind all of this,’ Oliver said, focused only on his theory. ‘I just don’t know why he’d kill Clare and Orson.’

‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow. It’s getting late.’

Oliver glanced at the clock above the fireplace. He picked up the bottle of whisky and studied the label, before placing it back down onto the coffee table.

Gabe found him a blanket, said goodnight and let the fire smoulder to embers.

Lying there, studying Gabe’s ceiling, Oliver felt more alone than he’d ever remembered feeling before. He really was on his own. When he’d first moved to Mudgee, it had felt like a permanent vacation. The smell of chimney smoke everywhere. Sipping red wine by the fire. It was the best kind of wine holiday, one that refused to end.

But now it had.

In the morning, as soon as it was light, he would get in his car and drive to Terrigal. Straight to Harold’s house by the beach. He’d acquire a gun, a small one, something that he could use to scare Harold, something he could use as leverage to coax him into admitting that he’d killed his twin brother. For what, a couple of incomplete prints? He was involved in something too deep for Oliver to fathom. Absurd scenarios roiled through his mind, plans he knew were no longer beyond him. If he found out who had hurt Theo and Orson and Clare, he didn’t know what he’d do. The last week had changed everything. Did he even want to make wine anymore? He wasn’t sure. He thought about calling Penny, but it was nearly two am, so he sent her a message, instead.

Everything’s fucked. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my family. Or my past. I’ve never really dealt with it well. If you give me a chance, I’ll explain it all. I miss you. Je suis désolé, mon amour.

Eventually, listening to the wind and the spitting embers, Oliver’s imagination dissolved and he lost his thoughts to sleep and fell into a deep dream.

***

Oliver was seventeen. One afternoon, when Theo was out and his parents weren’t home, he took the keys to the Barina. Immediately after entering, he needed to throw out some empty bottles from the passenger’s seat; there were pill packets and fast-food wrappers scattered across the floor. Winding down the window, he let the sea breeze move through the mildewed scent of the old hatchback. Oliver jolted out of the driveway and stalled at the bent ‘give way’ sign at the end of the street. It was the first time he’d driven a manual car on the road; his palms were clammy as he tried to kick the car into gear.

He cruised along the esplanade slowly, perusing the shops and the cars and the people dotted along the pavement. It was late winter, which meant there were barely any tourists in Terrigal. After fifteen minutes, he spotted her. Rosie was sitting alone outside the corner store at the end of the street. He idled beside the gutter and before he turned off the car, before he thought of something witty to say, Rosie had already slipped into the passenger’s seat beside him.

‘Can I smoke in here?’ she asked, a cigarette clasped between two fingers.

Bit late to ask now, he thought. ‘Yeah, won’t be the first time.’

Oliver drove. The sun pierced the windscreen and he pulled down the visor, his hands sticking to the wheel with sweat. They passed the school, continuing to drive up the hill, towards the trees and the park. He passed Miles, standing on the side of the road. His hands were cuffed together and he was dressed in a green tracksuit.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Dunno,’ Oliver said, too scared to peer in the rear-view mirror. The radio didn’t work and the silence lingered like a bad smell. He eventually glanced back, but Miles was gone. ‘Do you want me to drop you home?’

‘Pretty sure you don’t want to drive me all the way to the city,’ she said, but he couldn’t remember where she was from. Sydney? Melbourne?

‘You don’t like the coast?’

She paused a moment, and said, ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Always is.’ Oliver glanced at her legs; the cigarette smoke was a kind of offence against the purity of her school uniform.

He flashed then to an image of her on the beach, her body in a bikini and her skin wet and slippery as the waves crashed and pummelled her to the shore. He wanted to dive into the water, clip her damp hair behind her ears and feel her skin pressed to his own.

Then he saw Orson walking along the shore. He closed his eyes, opening them again and focusing instead on Rosie beside of him.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Nah, never mind.’

‘You can tell me,’ Oliver said.

Rosie sat, adamant, shaking her head. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It’s obviously something,’ he pressed.

Her posture straightened as she pouted, and he noticed then the freckles dotted around her nose.

‘Do you think I’m a bad person?’ she asked, tossing the cigarette from the open window.

‘What?’

‘A slut?’

Oliver looked to the road ahead, running straight, nowhere to turn. A question so blunt was out of character for Rosie, wasn’t it? He tightened his grip on the wheel and spoke in short bursts.

‘No. Definitely not. Who cares about that stuff.’

She scoffed. ‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter.’

‘It obviously does, if it’s worrying you this much.’

‘Do you think life would be easier if I was more like other people?’

‘I don’t. Well …’ Oliver said softly.

‘It’s true. People think I’m easy. That’s why you pulled over today and picked me up, isn’t it? So you could take me someplace and nail me in the back seat?’

Oliver flashed to a picture of her on the beach, the car parked in the darkness down the end of some dirt road, violently rocking to and fro, nothing moving between them but the auburn drape of her hair.

‘What? Fuck no.’

‘So,’ she said, vexed, ‘you wouldn’t want to?’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

She exhaled and faced the road ahead, her eyes closed and her throat moving up and down with regret. She’d bunched up onto the seat, cocooned herself into her legs. Oliver saw Clare approach the passenger’s window, an empty black hole through her temple, her fingers dripping with blood. Don’t look, Rosie! he nearly shouted. Instead he closed his eyes, willing her away.

‘Sorry. I just hate it here,’ Rosie said.

‘No need to apologise.’

‘Do you ever just think one day you’ll wake up and not a single person in the world will believe a word you’ve said?’

‘What?’

‘They won’t be able to tolerate your shit anymore.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Oliver said. ‘Why wouldn’t people like you?’

Rosie wasn’t listening. ‘Even if the person isn’t worth it, you still worry, don’t you? Why do we care so much? My mum is old and smart, but she still spends so much time fretting about the littlest things.’

Clare was trying to open the car door, but Rosie didn’t hear the sound of the handle rocking up and down.

Oliver quickly drove her in the direction of the shop. The car halted and she opened the door and stepped once more into the heat of the day.

‘Are you going to the party on the weekend?’ she asked him, leaning half her body in, a bead of sweat slipping down her forehead.

‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. ‘I guess I’ll see you there.’

‘Bring me a bottle of wine. Something sweet?’

Day blended into night in seconds. Oliver continued driving, finding himself on Rosie’s street. It was months later, a memory flooding in. He turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and crawled by her house again, just to be certain. To make sure it wasn’t Theo’s ute parked in her driveway at two in the morning. He drove past again and again, but the image remained the same.

What was his twin brother’s ute doing in Rosie’s driveway? When Theo knew that Oliver loved—