I reel off options and answer her questions as best I can. I don’t dwell on what she’s said, I just try to make sure Minnie knows I believe her. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I repeat a few times. It’s going to be okay, I tell myself.
I leave Minnie’s flat, letting the shock I’ve been keeping at bay flow through my system. I’m struggling to come to terms with what she told me. A hundred moments bubble up in my mind: a reassuring palm on my shoulder, a pat on the back, an encouraging nod.
Jonesy has always been supportive of me. There’s never been anything sinister about it, and I’ve never seen him be inappropriate with anyone. I’ve heard rumours about other cops, stories of drinks that got out of hand and senior sergeants manipulating the roster to give themselves access to female team members; I’ve witnessed tawdry jokes and unwelcome physical contact dressed up as paternal concern. In every station I’ve worked at, the female staff know who to tolerate during the day and give a wide berth to at drinks. But to my knowledge there have never been rumours about Jonesy. He’s old-fashioned, sure, and not always the most tactful when it comes to using the right terms or language, but he is always kind. Something I learned from him is that no matter our personal views, every colleague, suspect and victim deserves our time, attention and respect.
And yet I have no doubt Minnie is telling the truth. Her fear and frustration are so pure, her anger at having to deal with the inconvenience of what he’s done so real, that there is no doubt in my mind.
One-offs are rare. Has this been happening the whole time? Did no one tell me because they know Jonesy and I are close? I can’t bear the thought that my trust has been used as a cover, that my status as a female ally might have acted as an insurance policy for him.
I do another lap of the circuit I’ve established, driving past Minnie’s apartment block again. I process the details she provided like I would a case. It happened at the end of a night out, when everyone was celebrating a solve. She’d only had one drink when she offered to drive Jonesy home, noticing he was leaving at the same time and didn’t have his car. Drunk and creepy, he laid it on thick in the car park, grabbing at her like they were in a playbook sexual harassment training scenario. She laughed it off and went back inside, staying at the pub for another hour just to be sure he’d gone.
So where does that leave me and my relationship with my boss and mentor? Years of loyalty are torn apart. The sense of loss is unfathomable. I’m aware I need to stand up for Minnie, that I need to help her deal with this, but the thought of confronting him feels impossible.
It’s as if my insides are straining against my skin. I don’t know where to begin, what horrible thing to deal with first. I think I’m going to be sick.
Before I have a chance to pull over, a dog walking on the footpath darts out in front of my car, its teenage owner screaming and chasing after it. I calmly pump the brakes, years of training taking over. A driver diagonally opposite blasts his horn as he flies across the intersection, unable to stop. The dog miraculously evades being hit and bounds back to its owner, tongue flying. ‘Thank you,’ the teenager mouths in my direction before he scolds the dog, looping the leash around his wrist. The other driver screams abuse out the window and disappears down the road.
The blare of the horn lingers in the air as the tension drains from my jaw and limbs. My monkey mind has been jolted into focus. Only one thought remains: I need to find my sister’s body. I can’t stand the thought of her discarded and lost forever.
I’ll go to the police station. Hardly anyone is likely to be there at this time of night, or at least no senior staff, and I always liked working there on my own after hours.
I check my phone. Mac has called twice, and texted me, but there are no calls from Dad or Rebecca. I wonder if they’ve all spoken, and if Mac has suggested they leave me alone for a while.
When I arrive at the station I pretend to talk on my mobile, flashing a quick smile at the constables on the front desk before confidently scanning into the main office. The only sound is the unhealthy hum of the ancient fridge in the kitchen. The rows of shadowy desks look oddly beautiful, but the truth is revealed when I flick on the lights, illuminating the years of wear and tear.
I go to my old spot, where I used to sit when I was a cadet. The view of the room from this angle jolts me backwards in time, and I recall the daily anticipation of the unknown, the constant fear I would make a mistake despite my bravado. I wasn’t happy back then, the trauma of Mum’s and Jacob’s deaths never far from my mind, but the job gave me something I’d never had before: a sense of purpose. And policework has been the one constant in my life ever since. It’s still my North Star, I realise—it’s still the thing that gives me my bearings.
Jonesy’s ghost lingers here, too, his unwavering support as I forged my path, but I don’t let it haunt me right now.
My laptop whirs to life, and I log on to the network. My mother’s maiden name was Cullen, so I start my search with that and find nothing. Next, I search the name used in the articles about the trial: Morrow, Justine Morrow, a name I’d never heard before.
As I click through the dead ends, I think about the boxes in the garage. Did they hold clues as to who my sister was? Maybe I should just call Mac. I know he’ll tell me everything he can, but something bristles in me. I don’t want his help—it feels important that I do this by myself.
Finally I come across a short article about my maternal grandparents that someone uploaded from the local paper onto an archive about Gowran’s history. My mother rarely spoke of her parents, people I was told were long dead. I never questioned this; I suppose I wasn’t interested in people I’d never met. My grandfather was Tobias, my grandmother Florence. The information about them is scant: the article includes only brief references to their sheep farm and the prizes my grandmother used to win at the local show for her pumpkins. There’s nothing further, except for some patchy coverage about the trial in Queensland fifteen years later.
Through these pieces I learn more about the Braybrook homestead and its transition to The Retreat. My mother was engaged in daily animal sacrifices and violent ‘exorcisms’, and she was allegedly submitted to ritualistic abuse at the hands of senior members. These middle-aged men, rejected from senior roles in business or the Church, had regained their power within this new belief system, its rules giving them back what they felt they were owed.
Despite making several attempts, my mother’s parents claimed they had no contact with her until the trial—and, even then, she refused to acknowledge their relationship. She also rejected the claim she had murdered Quinn Parker, the priest found poisoned in his Brisbane home years after The Retreat had disbanded. Parker, the only senior cult member to escape charges and rebuild his life, had hosted an extravagant gathering in his home on the night of his murder. My mother was one of many guests. While she admitted to not being invited, it seems many attendees had a motive to murder Parker, so her presence alone wasn’t deemed to be damning. In the end the case against her was dismissed because of flimsy circumstantial evidence involving unreliable witness statements and Parker’s history of consuming dangerous substances. After the finding, she reasserted her innocence but said she was glad Parker was dead after being subjected to years of his abuse at The Retreat.
One article mentions that my mother was rumoured to have given birth during her time with the cult, but there are no further details.
I enlarge the only two pictures of my mother that my search has turned up and stare at the grainy pixels, wishing that seeing her young face might help me understand. After the trial, she disappeared from the internet until she turned up in the Smithson paper in my birth announcement with a new name. Sitting back against the chair, I try to think. Was my sister the product of rape? Was my mother forced to give her up or did she do so willingly? Whatever the case, there must be paperwork, a trail.
I’m listing other names mentioned in the articles so I can start a new search, when I register the electronic beep. Shit, someone’s scanning into the office. I have a fleeting impulse to turn off the lights and hide, but I force myself to stay seated and calm. I’m not doing anything wrong—not strictly, anyway.
Muted voices, male. The side door clicks open, and their conversation rolls into the main room. ‘That’s because you’re so important!’ A man with dark blond hair and a round face enters the room. ‘Show me your office and your fancy detective things.’ His tone is teasing, his broad shoulders straining against his fitted white T-shirt.
Everett walks in after him, smiling and rolling his eyes. ‘I don’t have an office. This isn’t like when I worked in—Gemma.’ He stops dead in his tracks.
I stand, and the two of them look at me, none of us speaking. The shock of seeing him unexpectedly dilutes the anger I’ve felt toward him all day.
‘I’m just doing some research,’ I say finally. ‘It’s quiet here.’
Everett clears his throat. ‘I’ve just come to grab a few things.’ He walks purposefully to his desk.
‘Cool, great.’ Relieved he isn’t berating me, I turn to the other man. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock. I work with Julian.’
‘Gemma!’ he says knowingly. ‘I’m Jarrod.’ He lunges at me with enthusiasm and reaches out to shake my hand. ‘Great to meet you, too.’ Then his eyes dart to Everett, who is flipping frantically through a notebook.
They are a couple, I realise, all my assumptions about Everett evaporating.
We make eye contact, and I nod slightly, understanding why he’s kept this part of his life a secret. Smithson has come a long way over the past few years, but it’s still a country town where tradition is favoured over any desire to join the twenty-first century—except when it comes to the introduction of Asian cuisine and faster internet. While diversity has improved slightly at the police station when it comes to female representation, it’s no secret that most of the old boys tolerate rather than celebrate challenges to the status quo.
I sit down at my old desk and wait to see what Everett will do next.
Jarrod hovers near the door. ‘This place could use some greenery, babe,’ he comments, ‘and a throw rug.’
Over by his computer, Everett glares at Jarrod as he uses his mouse to click on a file, dragging something to save on a thumb drive.
Jarrod winks at me and makes a face.
‘Anything I can help with?’ I ask Everett, smothering a smile.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ He clears his throat, making way for the standard bravado to return. ‘In fact, explain to me again why you’re here. As far as I’m aware, you shouldn’t be working on anything right now.’
‘Someone needs to investigate my sister’s death. It may as well be me.’
Jarrod’s eyebrows shoot skyward, and he lifts his hands in the air. ‘I’ll wait out front and leave you two to talk.’
Neither of us acknowledges him as he backs out of the room.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,’ I say.
Everett merely grunts.
‘Jarrod seems nice.’
He scowls. ‘Leave it, Woodstock.’
I laugh cruelly. ‘I see. My private life is for everyone to trawl through, while yours is sacred.’
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘For what it’s worth, I said we should tell you straight away.’
‘I highly doubt that.’
‘Well, it’s true. And I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have wanted something like that to be kept from me, even if it was with good intentions. It was shitty.’
To my horror, tears well in my eyes and spill over.
‘Gemma.’ He takes half a step toward me.
‘No, don’t.’ I hold up my hands, openly crying and unable to stop.
Clearly unsure what to do, Everett asks, ‘Do you want me to get you a glass of water?’
‘Isn’t it tea you’re supposed to offer me? The universal cop comfort drink.’
‘Yeah, but I happen to know the office is out of milk,’ he says, ‘and tea bags.’
I laugh through my tears and wipe them from my face.
‘Breathe,’ he orders.
I do as he says, and he sits opposite me.
‘I really am sorry,’ he says seriously. ‘The situation snowballed quickly and I’m still getting my head around the politics. There was a lot Jonesy wanted to manage himself, then things got messy when we found out Mac was already working the cold case and you had such a strong link to it all. Even though you and I haven’t exactly been working in lock step, it still felt off, keeping information from you. I told Jonesy it made me uncomfortable.’
‘I had no idea about any of it.’ I feel like an idiot but also want him to know how utterly blindsided I’ve been. ‘I didn’t even know about my mother and The Retreat.’
He nods. ‘It’s a lot, especially on top of the attack.’ Then he pauses. ‘Do you want me to call someone? Mac? That journo?’
I appreciate him trying to make me feel better. Suddenly I feel a primal urge to share the load with him. To present all of the theories flailing around in my head and get him to help me sort through them. I’m so tired of trying to deal with it all on my own and feeling like I can’t fully trust anyone. ‘No, I’m okay. But while we’re making confessions, I should tell you … There are some things I’ve been keeping from you as well, about the case.’
It’s his turn to take a deep breath. ‘Jesus, Gemma.’
The office lights tint his tan skin a sickly grey, and thick stubble peppers his chin and jawline. He needs a haircut. We both do.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But I can take you through them now.’
‘Not here.’ An energy enters his eyes. He returns to his computer, ejects the thumb drive and logs out of the system. After pulling another notebook from his desk drawer, he slams it shut and locks it. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He cocks his head toward the exit.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, grabbing my laptop.
‘It’s a Monday night in a backwater town. I guess we’re going to my place.’