Frankie. Alive. Standing in his kitchen, looking the same as always. Tall and angular, wearing a black T-shirt and scuffed Doc Martens, her hair purple-tipped and wild.
Like waking from a nightmare into bright sunlight.
His vision blurred as he stepped towards her. ‘Frankie. God.’
And then he remembered: Kat, the blood, the pain.
He drew in a tight breath. ‘Get out.’
‘Minutes five,’ she signed. ‘First –’
‘Get. Out.’
She placed a handful of photos on the kitchen bench beside him and signed, ‘Look photos first. If still want me to go, I go.’
Far more fluent than her usual attempts at Auslan. She’d obviously practised that sentence, spent a bit of time looking up the signs, trying to work out the syntax. He glanced at the photos despite himself.
No. That wasn’t possible.
He snatched them from the bench. It was the warehouse – his blurred shape in the foreground, Tedesco beside him, Kat and her captors facing the camera. It didn’t make sense. There’d been no eyewitness that night, just victims and attackers, some survivors. But there was the darkened room from his nightmares, the high ceiling and stacks of boxes. A good lens. A very good lens. A clear shot of Kat’s broken fingers and twisted mouth, the stark fear in her eyes. On to the next image, the photographs fluttering in his hands. A glimpse of the knife gleaming in the darkness. The next photo: the blade against Kat’s wrist. Kat struggling, him standing helpless.
The photos dropped from his hands. Something was trapped inside him, its panicked wings beating against his ribs. He walked out of the kitchen to the front door, down the stairs, bumping into walls and balustrades. Dying. Had to be dying, couldn’t breathe. And outside, dragging in a single ragged breath. Walk. One foot, and then the other. Don’t stop.
He returned to the apartment block after dark, a dull exhaustion blanketing his thoughts. If someone had been lurking in the warehouse that night, why hadn’t they helped Kat? Because they’d been incapable of it, like him? Or because they’d been in on the whole thing? Some unidentified member of the gang still walking around, unpunished?
He reached the landing and stopped. A crack of light beneath his door. Frankie was waiting for him, just as he’d expected. He composed his expression and went in.
She was sitting on the couch, the photos tucked away. Fear flashed across her face when she saw him. A strange response – she had the upper hand, as usual.
‘Who the fuck took those photos?’
‘Help me,’ she said. ‘And I’ll tell you.’
He sat opposite her, fighting the temptation to pace. Seven months of being on the run had put a dull pallor to her skin and new lines around her eyes; she was looking every one of her fifty-seven years. No, fifty-eight – she’d had a birthday. She was leaning back into the couch, a portrait of a woman in control, only the tightness of her mouth betraying her tension. But there was no scent of alcohol, no tremor to her hands. Probably on a nice, steady dose of smack, courtesy of whoever she was working for these days.
‘Love what you’ve done to the place,’ she said. ‘That one shitty coat of paint really sets off the cobwebs.’
Back to speaking, confident that he’d put in the effort to understand her. He hated that she was right.
‘I thought the Baymar brothers had you.’
She blinked in surprise. ‘Just a misunderstanding. All sorted now.’
Misunderstandings with the Baymars were usually fatal. How the hell had she talked her way out of that one?
‘Tell me about the photos,’ he said. ‘Who took them?’
‘I need something first.’ She lifted her hand, a casual gesture, almost perfectly executed. ‘Nothing major, just my stuff from the office.’
‘The cops took everything.’
‘I don’t mean my computer – just bits and pieces, crap from my desk. Nothing the cops would have bothered with.’
Bits and pieces. There was no way that Frankie had broken into his flat, ended seven months of silence, for a few Post-it notes and a couple of leaking pens.
‘Your coffee loyalty card?’ he said. ‘Your favourite mousepad?’
She dropped the nonchalant act. ‘OK, fine, it’s not crap, it’s important. But it’s important to me, not to you. So give me my stuff and I’ll piss off. You’ll never have to see me again.’
‘What is it?’
‘You don’t want to know, trust me.’
‘Trust you? After you got Gary killed? After you nearly got Kat killed?’
She rubbed her hands on her thighs. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with Gary’s death. I know you think I did, but I didn’t.’
‘And Kat? That wasn’t your fault either? You gave her up to a fucking killer.’
‘I was trying to protect you! And I killed a man to save you both, so maybe you should start fucking remembering that.’
‘He broke her fingers. He just, he snapped them. And then he cut–’ Caleb stopped. Losing it in front of Frankie, what the hell was he doing? ‘There’s nothing left,’ he said. ‘I threw your stuff out when I closed the office.’
Frankie clenched her hands to stop herself from fidgeting but didn’t quite manage to still her jiggling foot. ‘What about –?’
‘Nothing. Now tell me about the photos. Who took them?’
She hesitated. ‘No one. They’re stills from the CCTV. I figured they’d get me a few minutes of your time.’
‘Well done, go to the top of the class.’ He stood, but Frankie stayed seated. God, she’d sit there all night if she needed to say something. ‘Just say it and go,’ he told her.
‘Don’t tell anyone we spoke. You don’t want people thinking you’re involved with me.’
‘Not much fucking fear of that.’
‘I mean it, Cal.’ She leaned forward, speaking slowly. ‘It’s not over, none of it’s over.’
‘What do you mean?’ He held up a hand to stop himself. ‘No, forget it, I don’t want to know. Just tell me one thing before you go, did you send Portia Hirst to me?’
‘No.’
‘So you know who I’m talking about?’
‘Sure, I’ve been following you.’
Well that was honest, at least.
Frankie sat back, crossing her legs. ‘You’ve got yourself a weird one there. Poor little rich girl driving around planting trees and getting shot at. I’d be checking that crash site again, if I were you. There’s definitely something odd about her being out on that road. Have you thought about –?’
He went to the door.
Frankie followed him but stopped when she reached his side. ‘I know I fucked up, Cal, but I tried, I really did.’ She switched to sign. ‘My heart big sorry. Forgive please.’
She looked too pale, too thin. For years, she’d been the perfect counterbalance to his skills and weaknesses. She’d understood his jokes and put up with his moods, seen him through all the times – good, bad and horrendous – with Kat.
He opened the door, looked away until she’d gone.