‘What is it, Mum?’
I slam the door shut and step backwards, shooing Ben into the lounge room. My teeth crack against each other and I taste vomit.
‘Mum?’
‘It’s nothing. I just remembered I need to make a phone call before we go.’ I walk into the kitchenette, a hand on my churning stomach. ‘Why don’t you pop the TV back on, okay?’ Forcing a smile, I rustle through one of the drawers trying to find the guest book. All I can see is the demented grin of the dead possum, its row of jagged teeth, the horrible red mess of insides spilling from its throat.
I find the book and call the reception number.
‘The Parrot Hotel, this is Cam.’
‘Cam, it’s Gemma Woodstock. I need your help with something.’
‘Gemma!’ His voice is warm. ‘Of course. What’s going on?’
I bite my lip, trying not to cry. ‘Can you come to my room, please? You’ll see what I mean.’
Ben is on the couch oblivious to my panic, lost to the TV again.
‘Just wait here okay, sweetheart?’ I say, and he grunts.
When I open the door again, I’m half expecting the possum to be gone, but it’s still there. Several ants are marching toward the bloody puddle. I snap a few photos with my phone.
Cam appears around the far end of the building, his tan face cheerful as he lumbers over. ‘Detective Woodstock, what seems to be the trouble? Oh.’ He slows as he approaches our doorstep, eyes widening. ‘What’s this? Who did this?’
‘I don’t know. It was here when we went to leave this morning.’
Cam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing madly. ‘Where’s Ben?’
‘Inside. He hasn’t seen it, and I want to keep it that way.’
‘Okay.’ Cam grips his jaw and briefly closes his eyes. ‘Wait here. I’ll get something to cover it.’
‘A garbage bag,’ I say automatically. ‘A brand new one. I’ve taken photos, but I think I should call someone in from forensics to test it.’
‘Of course.’ He turns to go but swings around again. ‘This is . . . Fuck, are you alright, Gemma?’
I nod, the stone in my core hardening even more. ‘I’m fine.’ I attempt a laugh. ‘Someone around here clearly thinks they’re the Aussie version of Don Corleone.’
Cam just gives me a worried look.
I wait next to the dead possum, Ben’s cartoons audible through the thin door. The sun has pushed between the clouds, beaming down hot and hard. I feel exposed, as if I’m standing on stage under a spotlight. I know I need to call Tran, call Vanessa, call the team at the station, but I feel numb.
My phone beeps with a message from Owen Thurston. I’ve worked with him on every case I’ve been assigned in Sydney so far. He’s probably the best partner I’ve ever had; he is extremely conservative, more librarian than cop, but he’s shrewd and funny and incredibly kind. He’s divorced and childless, and I’ve been told he’s bisexual but it’s not something we’ve ever discussed. We’re close while knowing very little about each other’s personal lives.
Owen’s text tells me that a key witness in the case we were working when I left Sydney has turned up dead, executed at point-blank range in his driveway, his wife and kids less than five metres away.
I’m standing in the sun, my back to the possum, as I scroll through the cast of faces I’ve been intimate with for the best part of this year, trying to work out who could have pulled off a kill like that. I feel stuck between two worlds, dizzy and impotent, unable to do either version of my life properly. I reply to Owen that I’ll call him later.
Cam reappears holding a roll of garbage bags and two bricks. ‘Here, I think this will work.’
I help him unfold the sheet, and we lay it lightly over the possum just as my phone starts to ring.
A young couple emerge from their hotel room a few doors up, chatting excitedly about their plans for the day. The man lifts his hand in a friendly wave. ‘Morning!’
‘Morning,’ Cam manages, kneeling down and pinning each side of the plastic to the ground with a brick.
I realise my phone is still ringing. It’s Jodie, probably wanting to speak to Ben. I switch it to silent.
‘Take it,’ says Cam. ‘I’ll wait here.’
I nod, but then the world tilts. Clenching my feet, I press my heels into the ground. I need to get it together.
I cross the road and pace the empty block next to the service station. Everything is racing: my pulse, my thoughts, my breathing. I exhale slowly, trying to walk through the panic, trying to ignore the growing sense that coming here was a big mistake.
The sun beams down, and I fix my eyes to the ground, shielding them with my hand as I ignore the missed call message from Jodie and dial Tran’s number.
Weeds, cigarette butts, ants, bits of plastic. A nail.
My call goes straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, Inspector Tran,’ I stammer, ‘this is Detective Woodstock. Gemma.’
And then I see the blood.