11.

Caleb shut the laptop. Frankie was looking at him, eyebrows raised.

‘He wants me to lip-read a video,’ he said. ‘Maggie.’

A video of Maggie talking to a colleague, or of an argument that led to a large man smashing her head into the floor? Frankie looked as though she was going through the same thought process: tensed, her eyes on the laptop. Happy to steal from her sister but obviously deeply worried about her.

A sibling relationship even more complex than his with Anton. Ant, his little brother. The worry never went away, an ache like an abscess. Ant was in email contact these days, slow to answer Caleb’s messages, quicker to answer Kat’s. His bank withdrawals showed he was travelling up the east coast, but that was it. No phone number, no visits, no video calls – which meant he was either getting clean or diving to the depths of his heroin addiction. One day Caleb might forgive himself for dragging Ant into a case and fucking up his life. He hoped not.

Frankie straightened from the bench. ‘I’ll put Tilda to bed.’ She stopped halfway across the kitchen. ‘Make sure the sound’s off. The speaker icon.’

Good tip. He waited until she’d taken Tilda into one of the bedrooms, then moved to the glittery table. The video was webcam footage, Maggie dressed for a party, hair up, silver glinting at her ears, typing one-handed as she spoke on the phone. Steady speech but nothing instantly readable except for a clear ‘No’. Or maybe it was ‘know’. Fucking homonyms, should be banned.

A few seconds in, she stiffened, mouth opening. An impen­etrable tangle of words spilled from her lips, then she lowered the phone, eyes wide. The screen went blank.

He started as the table vibrated beneath his hand, Frankie tapping to get his attention. He closed the laptop.

‘Tilda wants to say goodnight,’ she said.

Not entirely sure how to take that. ‘Why?’

‘What am I, Dr Spock?’ She nodded at the computer. ‘What is it?’

‘Maggie on the phone. Have a listen, see if you can get anything.’ He stood and went to the bedroom.

The bedside light was on, casting a gentle glow across the room. Tilda was lying with the puce bedspread pulled to her chin, her home-cut fringe sticking up in tufts. The price tag was still on the collar of her pyjamas. She sat up, hands clasped neatly in her lap. ‘Thank you for looking after me today.’

‘It was a pleasure.’

There was a stiffness to her, as though the worries of the day had wrapped steel bands around her. Handed from person to person and picking up on everyone’s tension, no idea where her mother was. If she was his child he’d tell her a story, then lie beside her so she could drift easily to sleep.

‘Would you like a bedtime story?’

She considered it, then shook her head.

‘OK.’ An oddly deflated feeling. ‘Goodnight.’ He signed his favourite version of the word, the double-handed thumbs-up that turned into the setting sun, and was rewarded with one of her blossoming smiles. A glimpse of the child from the photo at Maggie’s, laughing with her father. She signed ‘goodnight’ and lay down, still smiling.

Frankie looked up from the screen as he came in. ‘She OK?’

‘Worried, but stoic.’ He hesitated. ‘Was she close to Petronin?’ Instant regret: stupid to have revealed his underbelly to Frankie.

She gave him a long look. ‘You did Tilda and the universe a favour by killing Petronin. She might have a few fond memories of the guy, but he was a violent piece of shit. Even Maggie was celebrating.’ She stood. ‘Can’t hear a thing on this, there’s a party going on. Doof-doof music.’ She flopped onto the couch and went to kick off her boots, then gave up and lay back with them on, seemed to go straight to sleep.

He sat and played the tape at half-speed. It took a few repeats but the first section unfolded as he got a feel for Maggie’s speech patterns, remarkably similar to Frankie’s.

‘It’s safe. I’m the only one who knows.’

A good start, but the next part was harder. Much harder. Words tumbling and skidding, with no gaps to shape them. He slowed the tape to quarter speed, then eighth, gradually untangling the threads.

‘No! Don’t tell anyone about —— Please.’

A missing two-syllable word that had to be a name. Start with the obvious ones – not Martin or Amon or Tilda or Frankie. Damn it, names were the worst: infinite combinations of vowels and consonants, half of them looking like something else. Hard enough in real life, but almost impossible with no depth to the image. There was a strong chance he wasn’t going to get it.

A memory surfaced: his father repeating a sentence over and over, waiting for him to understand. The daily drills. He’d forgotten about them. The meaningless shapes of what had once been sound, the disappointment in his father’s face, the gut-twisting tension. They’d started when he was five, soon after the meningitis, gone on for years. Funny not to have remembered something that had loomed so large at the time.

He turned to Frankie, still lying with her eyes closed, Doc Martens propped on the arm of the couch.

‘You awake?’

She sat up, bleary-eyed. ‘Not really.’

He told her what he had, and what he didn’t have.

‘A name?’ She winced. ‘The one thing you’re truly shit at.’

A bit harsh: he was shit at other things, too. ‘It starts with a vowel or open consonant. Something like Shona. Maggie ever mention a name like that?’

‘No, but she wouldn’t. She doesn’t trust me enough.’ A grimace. ‘Always was the smart one.’ She sat back and went to kick off her boots, turned the action into an unconvincing stretch. The second time she’d done that

Her boots.

The only clothing she hadn’t ditched in her Earth Mother makeover. Safe and unremarkable: the perfect place to hide a safety deposit key.

An easing in his chest. A way out. No jail, no gunman, just give Imogen the key and get on with his life. It’d take a bit of managing with Tilda here, but her presence would make things safer, too. If he brought Imogen to the motel, Frankie would hand over the key without a fight: she wouldn’t risk the girl being hurt or alarmed. But he’d better confiscate Imogen’s taser, just in case.

He stood. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow. When are you leaving? It’d be good to run any possible names by you.’

‘Late check-out’s twelve. I’ll give you till then.’ She came to lock the door behind him, paused before closing it, some emotion clouding her eyes. A moment to recognise it as sorrow. ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I know you’re only in this because of my fuck-ups.’

He stood motionless as she closed the door. Fuck.

***

A brisk walk around the corner to his car, but no large men were lurking in the shadows. He’d parked outside a busy convenience store: good cover for his presence if Imogen really was tracking his phone. He wasn’t going to give her anything until she’d agreed to a few demands. Doors locked, he unwrapped the phone from its foil envelope and put it in the dash holder. Kat first – catch her before bed. She crashed early these days.

The video icon flashed for a long time. He was about to give up when Kat appeared, the image wobbling as she propped the phone on the coffee table and curled up on the couch; in her slop-around-home clothes of leggings and an oversized T-shirt, the dark blue one she’d pinched from him years ago, a little faded now. A deep, deep need to be there beside her.

He flicked on the light so she could see his hands. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘At nine-thirty? Please. I don’t go to bed until at least nine-forty.’ She peered at the screen, her smile dipping. ‘Why are you in your car? Has something happened?’

‘Yeah, I found Frankie. It’s over.’

She briefly closed her eyes. ‘God, what a relief. How’d you find her?’

‘Long story.’ Their hiatus meant they’d been avoiding evening visits, but it didn’t have to stay that way. He could be on that couch in fifteen minutes, in her bed, in her arms. ‘I could come over, if you like. Tell you in person.’

‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’ She hesitated. ‘But I should warn you, I’ve got company.’

Probably one of her older sisters. Kat’s family had always been frequent visitors, but since the pregnancy her sisters had been on a roster. Always wise to know what he was getting into. He liked all three women, but his status as potential not-ex-husband for Kat was currently under very vocal review. ‘Multiple sisters, or just one?’

‘Just Georgie.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Plus Jarrah.’

Aware his smile had turned into a grimace, but unable to control it. Jarrah sitting across the table from Kat, being relaxed and charming and definitely thinking about the heat of her soft body. Disturbingly easy to imagine them as a couple: the shared passions and backgrounds, the joys of a relationship unburdened by sorrow. If Caleb asked, Kat would tell him about her feelings for the man. Which he must never, never do.

‘You’ve got a full house,’ he said. ‘How about Friday? I’ll cook.’

‘You’re on.’ She crossed her arms over her chest as though holding him to her: I love you. A kick to his heart every time; years thinking he’d never see her sign it again.

‘Love you, too.’

He ended the call and stayed sitting, not quite able to take the next step. He owed Frankie nothing. She was a lying, manipulative criminal who’d hurt Kat to save herself.

Who’d risked everything to save him.

Had held him up in his lowest moment and coaxed him from his pain.

He banged his head against the seat, each thump a little harder. Do it. He grabbed the phone and typed.

—Docs are in a deposit box. Know where key is. Written confirmation you’ll leave Frankie and me alone when you’ve got it

Imogen’s reply came so quickly, she must have been holding her phone.

—Where?

—Confirmation we’re out. Make it good in case I have to show it to the media or your bosses

The next text took a long time to arrive.

—I, Senior Constable Imogen Blain of the Australian Federal Police, confirm that Caleb Zelic and Francesca Reynolds will have no further questions to answer from me upon receipt of the safety deposit key.

The phone vibrated again.

–Address

—Have to take you there. Logistics involved

—I’m not in Melb. Stop stalling or I’ll talk to homicide

How the hell could she not be in Melbourne? In the middle of some dodgy case, her colleague’s face shot off, and she’d popped out of town. God, he just wanted this to be over.

—Not stalling, there’s a child involved. Threats won’t make me change my mind

Another long wait and the phone buzzed again.

—Back early am. Will txt. DO NOT FUCK ME AROUND

He turned off the phone. The delay was hard, but worked in his favour. Frankie probably wouldn’t even argue with him and Imogen if Tilda was awake; a protectiveness to her with the girl he’d never seen before. And he was the arsehole who was going to use it against her.