I’m woken by the pop of our toaster. The fridge opens and closes, then a knife scrapes against crisp bread. Ben has never liked anything on his toast except butter and is increasingly liberal with its application. He’s going through a Milo phase, and I wait for the slosh of milk followed by the quiet slurping from his Mario Kart mug in between bites of toast. Overdue a haircut, he’ll be intermittently hooking wayward dark strands behind his left ear. I love that I know my son’s quirks, his emerging routines; that I’m able to predict his expressions a beat before they appear on his face, and how he’ll phrase a sentence before he speaks. I feel closer to him than I ever have, even though he’s on the cusp of the mysterious teenage phase everyone has warned me about.
When I was pregnant with Scarlett, I worried her arrival would create distance between us. Scott had only just died—a sudden, horrible death we were all reeling from—and I’d come back to Smithson after four years away, with Mac in tow. I was aware it was already a lot for Ben to adjust to without the disruption of a sibling. But I needn’t have worried. There are a lot of things I regret in my life, but my relationship with Ben isn’t one of them. Despite everything he’s been through, he’s a great kid. He’s still hurting—Scott was his hero—but the four of us have found our own groove, and Ben is as besotted with Scarlett as Mac and I are.
Yawning, I roll onto my back. Mac’s side of the bed is empty. I vaguely remember Scarlett crying out earlier and him saying the magic words: ‘I’ll get her, you keep sleeping.’ Gratitude catapulted me into a deep slumber—but now, instead of feeling rested, I’m groggy and sluggish.
I roll over to peer at the cuckoo clock on the wall, one of the few things of my mother’s I’ve kept. The spring broke several years ago, so the garishly painted bird doesn’t do its hourly routine anymore, permanently jutting out of the little wooden doorway instead. When I was little Mum would hold me up to watch the bird burst out and announce the new hour, and I screamed in delight every time.
I entertain the idea of more sleep, but it’s almost eight. I need a shower, and then I should run Ben to school so Mac doesn’t have to. Sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day is anticipating the reprieve at the end of it.
In the shower I stare at the aqua tiles as I play back scenes from last night. I picture the hospital like a blueprint, all parts visible at the same time. I’m on the third level with Dad when someone cuts the power, allowing them to sneak onto the day ward and set off the alarm. Did they then leave the hospital and bring the car around to the morgue, or did they contact their accomplice—or accomplices—and meet them from the inside? Possibilities churn in my mind until I shake my head and turn off the tap.
I twist my hair, forcing the water out, as I notice how much grime has accumulated in the grout. God, this place needs a decent clean. How will I manage going back to work when I can’t get on top of things now?
I pat myself dry and pull on my robe, wrap a towel around my head and rub a circle into the mirror fog. My skin glows pink, and my lashes clump together in thick spikes. Thank god I don’t look as tired as I feel.
When I come out of the bathroom, I almost collide with Mac.
‘It’s Candy,’ he says wryly, handing me my mobile. ‘I’ve made you breakfast,’ he adds, ‘muesli and fruit.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve got to jump on a call. Ben’s watching Scarlett.’
I nod and smile. ‘No worries. I’ll run him to school.’
‘Are you okay? Last night sounded intense.’ Mac’s pale eyes bore into mine.
This is the deal we made: to show up and pay attention, to be present every single day.
‘I’m good.’ I grip his hand again and flash him a smile to show I mean it. Then I shove the phone inside my towel turban. ‘Hey.’
‘Jesus Christ, Gemma, I’d kill for your luck!’ Candy is beside herself. ‘I can’t believe you were there. I didn’t hear a peep about it until this morning. Tell me absolutely everything.’
‘You mean at the hospital?’
‘No, on the spaceship,’ she says witheringly. ‘I want everything you have on the body-snatcher situation. My network is shot to shit, and I’ve got nothing.’
Candy Fyfe is my best friend. She’s also a journalist who was made redundant from her role as editor-in-chief of the local newspaper while on maternity leave. Her little girl, Lola, is six months older than Scarlett, and in that time Candy worked her way through blazing fury, a fleeting depression and several nights of drunkenly plotting revenge against her former employer. Throughout this emotional roller-coaster, she developed a comprehensive business plan and launched a news website—The Long & Short—that is slowly gaining traction.
I switch the phone to speaker and rummage through my wardrobe. ‘I can’t tell you much, Candy. It’s an active investigation. And officially I have nothing to do with it—I’m on leave.’
‘Officially.’ She dismisses the word as if it has something wrong with it.
‘I was visiting Dad.’
‘Oh, right. How is he?’
I roll my eyes. ‘He’s fine, thanks.’
‘Okay,’ Candy says, working her way up to a negotiation, ‘at least tell me about the stolen corpse. A woman, right?’
‘Yes, it is, but with no ID. As of last night, none of the New South Wales missing person reports were a match—but that might have changed in the last eight hours.’
‘And there was an emergency at the hospital as well … ? I’m hearing there was a bomb threat … ?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ I’m growing frustrated. ‘The fire alarm was activated, but it might have been unrelated to the other incident.’
‘It’s all pretty fucking weird.’
‘Clearly.’ I remove the towel and run a brush through my hair.
‘Surely it’s all linked?’
‘I would assume so, but like I said, I’m not working the case.’ I grab my denim jacket before deciding on a navy blazer. ‘You’re doing a story, I gather?’
‘Of course. Some weirdo gets off in the middle of the night with a corpse … I mean, the headlines write themselves.’
‘Well, don’t quote me.’
‘I know the drill!’ Candy says dramatically. ‘When are you going back to work? I’m sick of you not feeding me secret information.’
‘Candy,’ I warn.
‘Yeah, yeah, you would never do that, I know, I know … Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an interview lined up with Henno. He was at the pub when it all went pear-shaped there last night. Talk to you later, Gem.’
The call cuts off before I can ask what she’s talking about.
I quickly finish getting ready and make a token attempt to neaten up the room.
Our house is a rental. It’s shaped like a shallow U and hugs a dusty but decent-sized backyard. There are three bedrooms, a bathroom and a study, plus an extra toilet off the kitchen. The décor is as old as me, but the kitchen appliances are new and the front garden is full of flowering natives.
A high-school teacher and his pastry chef girlfriend rent Mac’s small but stylish apartment in Mosman and cat-sit Arthur, his ten-year-old Burmese. They are keen to stay another year, while our lease is up in just over two months. We really need to decide what we’re going to do. I don’t own any property, and the majority of Scott’s life-insurance payout went to his wife, Jodie. Mac lost a lot of money in his divorce, so he still has a sizeable loan on the apartment. We’re okay, but things are tight, especially with Mac freelancing. I think it would be nice to use our savings to put down some proper roots, but I’m not willing to press the issue. As to whether Smithson is the right place for us, I’m not sure. My feelings toward my home town remain complicated.
In the lounge I drop a kiss on Ben’s head and get down on my knees to kiss Scarlett. Her blue eyes fix on me, and she frog-kicks aggressively. The heart shape of her face is the same as mine, but her fair colouring is all Mac.
Ben polishes off the last of his Milo. ‘How was Grandad last night?’
‘He’s doing well,’ I say. ‘He really appreciated you visiting him the other day.’
‘I’m still worried about him.’
‘Same,’ I admit. ‘But I think he’s going to be okay.’
Ben and I tend to navigate optimism and hope carefully—once bitten, forever wary, I guess. And from where I sit, it’s better to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised rather than the other way around. It seems Ben is the same.
I add, ‘The doctors think he’ll be home on the weekend.’
‘Really?’
I take his chin in my hand. ‘Really. Now come on, grab your stuff. You’ve got school, and I’ve got a meeting.’
‘You’re working today?’ There’s a hint of alarm in Ben’s voice.
‘Not work, just a catch-up with Jonesy.’
Ben pulls his schoolbag onto his narrow shoulders. ‘Okay.’
Ever since Scott died, Ben has worried about me being a cop. A few of his friends have given him grief, no doubt passing on comments overheard from their parents about the dangers of my profession. It rattles him. And because of what happened to us last year, when I was working a murder case in a town up north, I can’t exactly blame him for worrying. We were lucky to avoid serious harm or worse during a terrifying confrontation with a ruthless killer. Ben and I don’t talk about it much, but he still sees a counsellor once a week; I’m sure he discusses it with her, along with his grief over losing his dad.
I sigh. ‘You know I’ve got to go back to work eventually, Ben. I want to.’
But even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. The pull is undoubtedly there at times—it was certainly present last night—but how much of that is habit versus desire? And how am I supposed to tell the difference?
‘Ben?’ I press. ‘You understand, right?’
‘Yeah.’
I run my fingers through his hair. ‘It will be fine. I’ll be fine.’
‘Okay.’ He ducks his head, clearly not in a mood to talk about it.
‘Good,’ I mutter. I’m annoyed at myself for not knowing how to reassure him—at the same time, I don’t want to give him false hope that things will be different in the future. I’ve been a cop his whole life. It’s not just a job: it’s part of my personality. I have no idea what would happen if I gave it up.
I check the time. ‘Hey, we’ve got to go.’
‘I’m ready.’ Ben nods and straightens his shirt. He’s so like his dad, so solid and reliable, and I feel a sharp jolt of sadness that Scott isn’t here.
I stuff the nappy bag full of the various things we’ll need today and locate my handbag, making sure I have my wallet and keys. After I lift Scarlett from the playmat, I pad down the corridor to say goodbye to Mac. The study door is closed, so I twist the handle and stick my head inside.
Mac is staring intently at his phone. On the desk behind him, an autopsy report is loaded on his laptop screen. His sandy hair catches the morning sun, and a smile plays on his lips as he types a text message. All those late nights we worked together come flooding back—moments before we were a couple and then all the ones after. We had a connection akin to telepathy. Was that only eighteen months ago? I feel like we’re completely different people now. Or maybe we’re the same but just in a completely different environment.
‘We’re off,’ I say.
Mac snaps his laptop shut, puts his phone down and hastily gets to his feet. ‘I didn’t realise it had gotten so late.’ He kisses me and then Scarlett. ‘Have a good day, you two. Let me know how you go with Jonesy.’
‘I will.’ My eyes trail from the phone to Mac’s face. ‘How was your call?’
‘Fine.’ He doesn’t meet my gaze but tickles Scarlett’s foot.
‘Okay, well, bye.’ I pull the door shut and press my lips against Scarlett’s downy head, an odd little chill creeping up my spine.