Elise stands in the entranceway, watching through the window as the mud-spattered LandCruiser grumbles up the hill. It parks behind Kiara’s car, and Rick Basking gets out. There are deep, exhausted wrinkles around his mouth, and he has the pallor that Elise associates with long shifts at the hospital. Maybe being a parent is a bit like being a nurse.
Seb kicks the dirt sulkily as Basking approaches. The boy avoids his father’s gaze but still looks ready for a fight, fists bunched in his pockets.
Kiara has been waiting in front of the house. She steps into Basking’s path and raises her hands in a calming gesture. She says something—Elise can’t make out the words, just the tone: gentle but serious, statements rather than questions. Basking dodges around her and storms towards his son.
Seb opens his mouth, yelling some excuse or insult; teeth bared, nostrils flared.
Kiara grabs at Basking’s arm, and misses. Basking closes the distance. Seb wrenches his fists out of his pockets and pulls one back to throw a punch.
His father reaches him first and wraps him in a fierce hug.
Seb’s fist hovers in the air, his face buried in his dad’s shoulder. Soon his arm falls, landing awkwardly around Basking’s neck. His spine contorts with what might be a sob. The rest of his body goes slack, too. It looks as though Basking is the only thing holding the boy up, but he also seems to be leaning on Seb, like they’re two halves of a bridge, each able to stand only if they meet in the middle. Elise can’t see Seb’s face, but she can see Basking’s, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
She wonders what it’s like to have a father who loves you despite your mistakes. She wonders what it’s like to lose the woman you love, yet still see her every day in your child’s face.
A minute later, Kiara comes in.
‘We need to know where he was at 10 p.m. on Sunday,’ Elise says. ‘When the second victim died.’
‘Pack your things,’ Kiara says. ‘We’re leaving.’
Elise frowns. ‘Why?’
‘Because this place is bringing out the worst in you.’
Elise recoils, stung. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘What do you mean, what do I mean?! You interfered with a witness. You—’
‘I got him to talk!’
‘Nothing he said will hold up in court. It wasn’t recorded. You’re not police. And what did we learn?’ Kiara’s voice is ice-cold. ‘Dominic Pritchard survived a couple of extra minutes after he got hit with the bottle—that’s all. Unless the kid is lying, in which case we learned nothing. After that stunt, there’s no way his dad will give me the chance to interview him properly.’
Elise flounders. ‘Dominic was attacked in the bedroom, not on the deck. That’s worth knowing.’
‘Just go pack.’
‘How am I supposed to help you if—?’
‘I never needed your help!’ Kiara growls. ‘I brought you up here to keep you safe from whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.’
This time. Elise is speechless. She doesn’t know which implication infuriates her the most: that she can’t handle her own problems, or that she’s to blame for her own abduction last year.
For a moment, the only sound is the whirring extractor fan in the kitchen.
‘Fine,’ Elise says. ‘I’ll pack.’
She walks away, eyes burning. In their bedroom, she stuffs her clothes into the suitcase. She goes into the bathroom and grabs her toothbrush, razor and moisturiser, then chucks them in the case and slams the lid. She leaves Kiara’s outfits and toiletries where they are. Kiara can pack her own shit.
The words echo around her head: whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time. What else did Elise expect? She’s not a cop. She’s just a plus-one. How could she have deluded herself into thinking she was useful?
She drags her suitcase towards the door. As she glances around for anything she might have forgotten, she notices the stack of documents Kiara left on the bedside table. Atop the pile is a copy of a letter, paperclipped to a photo of the envelope, along with a note from Jennings confirming that the fingerprints on the corners are a mixture of Oscar’s and Isla’s. No mention of prints on the letter itself.
Elise has read it several times. But something has finally clicked.
Dear Isla,
I’m leaving—don’t pretend to be surprised. I’ll be seeking full custody of Noah. Please don’t fight me for him. You know full well that any magistrate would side with me if they found out the truth.
—Oscar
Kiara and her colleagues haven’t worked out what truth he was referring to. A drug addiction? Abuse of the child? The letter seems to give Isla a motive to kill Oscar. But it was Dom, not Oscar, who got clobbered with a champagne bottle on that first night. No one can make sense of it.
Before Elise heard Seb’s story, she hadn’t realised how chaotic that evening must have been: the darkness, the unfamiliar house, the moans and thumps from three bedrooms. Dom had opened a door, stumbled across the deck and climbed into the hot tub without anyone noticing. What else might have happened in the confusion?
Was it possible that Isla swung the bottle at Dom, thinking he was her husband?