by Perry, Kyle
‘Butch?’ said Eliza. ‘What are you . . .? How did you get inside?’
‘I nee’ your help.’ He teetered on the sill, then grabbed the doorframe.
‘Butch . . .’ Eliza felt panicky. ‘Murphy saw . . . He knows you’re Jasmine’s biological father.’
‘I know. Heard through his bedroom door – Madison gave him videos . . . Can you still help me? You said you would help me.’
Eliza stepped closer. ‘What do you need, Butch?’
CHAPTER 44
MURPHY
Gabriella pulled up outside Butch’s house. There was still no sign of his Hilux.
Murphy pushed through the front door, Gabriella close behind.
‘Butch!’ called Murphy.
Gabriella wandered down the hall, looking around, and a moment later, she shouted, ‘Murphy!’
He sprinted down the hall and found her in Jasmine’s room.
Hanging by baling twine from Jasmine’s light globe was a wooden statue, bone fragments hammered into its eyes.
He felt sick.
‘When was the last time you were in this room?’ said Gabriella.
‘A couple days ago? I don’t know.’
‘We need to check the rest of the house,’ she said, running out of the room.
Murphy didn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue.
‘Murphy!’ shouted Gabriella. ‘In here.’
He followed her voice, into Butch’s room.
On Butch’s bed were clothes – jeans and tights and crop tops and bras – torn apart and covered in blood. Sitting in the middle of it all was another wooden sculpture with a noose and bones in its eyes.
Written on the wall in blood were the words:
3 down
1 to go
‘I have to call Con,’ said Gabriella, voice shaking.
Murphy backed against the wall, looking between the clothes and the writing.
He’d been angry, so angry, but he still couldn’t . . . it couldn’t be Butch . . .
Part of him had wanted it to be Butch, part of him hadn’t. It couldn’t be . . .
‘Commander Normandy? Why do you have Con’s phone? What’s happened to him?’ said Gabriella. She stepped out of the room.
Murphy’s own phone buzzed. It was Eliza calling.
‘Murphy, are you alone?’ she said.
‘Eliza —’ began Murphy.
‘I need you to promise me something,’ she interrupted. ‘Meet me at my house. Tell no one.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Butch is here . . . Can you talk to him and —’
‘Eliza, listen to me.’ He looked up at the words on the wall. ‘Butch is not safe. You need to get out of the house, get away from him.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘You need to leave right now.’
‘Should I call the cops? What’s going on?’
‘No,’ he said. He touched the gun in his belt. ‘Don’t tell a soul.’
‘Alright. I’ll just . . . go over to Monica’s?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to Butch.’
He walked out to the kitchen. Gabriella was pacing the hallway, talking to the commander, demanding she send someone over.
Her car keys were on the bench. Murphy took them and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 45
CON
Con stood in his hotel room shower, eyes shut, letting the water roll over his back.
Breathe in . . . and out.
Madison was the one who had started all this, and she knew Bree was hanging there, somehow. The Hanging Tree . . .
He opened his eyes.
Marcus Wilkins, Bree’s father, had said that he’d seen mourners at the Hanging Tree. Had they missed Bree’s body, standing that close? It seemed unlikely.
He left the shower, drying himself. He wanted to call Marcus Wilkins, then remembered the commander had his phone.
He checked the drawer beneath the hotel room’s phone and found a phone directory. MN & IC WILKINS, ‘OAKDALE’.
He called them. A young voice answered.
‘Hi, this is Detective Badenhorst. I need to speak with Marcus.’
‘Give me a sec . . .’
A moment later, Marcus was on the other end. ‘Detective? Is everything okay?’
‘You said you saw mourners by the Hanging Tree,’ said Con without preamble. ‘Did you see who they were?’
‘Well, there was only one person, and I didn’t want to pry while they were paying their respects.’
‘But who was it?’
‘Well, I can’t be sure, I only saw the back of her head, but I think it was Eliza Ellis?’
CHAPTER 46
MURPHY
Murphy screeched to a halt outside Eliza’s house. He left Gabriella’s car running and ran towards the front door.
He could hear Eliza’s screams for help from deep in the house.
He threw the door open. ‘Eliza! Where are you?’
He followed her screams and burst into a bedroom, taking in everything at once.
Butch lay naked on the bed, handcuffed to the headboard and his ankles tied to the end with baling twine. He was gagged by a sock in his mouth and a tea towel tied around his face, his chest and face bruised in mottled angry purple, blood pouring from a smashed nose and a cut above his eye.
When Butch saw Murphy he strained against the cuffs, trying to lift himself off the bed.
Eliza didn’t look much better: her clothes were ripped, exposing her underwear, her face was bruised, her head scarf gone and the wound on her forehead revealed. She held high a cricket bat and almost collected Murphy with it as she turned. ‘Murphy!’ She dropped the bat and she threw herself into his arms. ‘He tried to handcuff me to the bed, but I knocked him out —’
Butch pulled against the cuffs, his shouting muffled by the gag.
‘He confessed everything!’ said Eliza. ‘He took the girls – he’s killed Cierra and Jasmine! He confessed!’
Heat flooded Murphy.
He pulled the gun from his belt.
‘Kill him, Murphy,’ screamed Eliza, pulling on his arm.
Murphy looked into his brother’s eyes. His vision blurred at the edges. He felt Eliza’s hands on his, dragging his arms up, aiming the gun at Butch’s chest.
Butch looked deep into his brother’s eyes, full of tears and terror, deep piercing blue eyes . . . the same shade of cut-glass that Jasmine had inherited.
Jasmine had Butch’s eyes, not Murphy’s. Because Butch was her father.
Memories, emotions, images of Butch with Jasmine. Hugging her, caring for her, supporting her through her grief, supporting Murphy in his fatherhood.
Butch loved Jasmine. He’d never kill her.
Eliza’s fingers closed over the trigger.
‘No,’ shouted Murphy, trying to wrench his hands out of hers. With a loud blam, the gun kicked in his hands.
The sound of the shot in the small room was explosive, and Murphy staggered. He saw a hole had appeared in the wall. Then something hard whacked into the side of his head.
Pain and rainbows – the world spun. He fell to his knees.
Eliza stood over him, cricket bat in her hands. She swung it again but this time Murphy saw it coming, catching the blow on his meaty forearms. He was still holding the gun. He fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Another explosive sound. ‘Eliza! What are you doing?’
Eliza screamed and ran from the room. ‘Help! Help!’
Murphy pulled himself to his feet, feeling the side of his head where she’d hit him. It was swollen and bloody. A surge of nausea rolled through him.
Butch screamed into his gag and Murphy took it from his mouth.
‘She’s a maniac, bro. She attacked me —’ Butch shouted. ‘I didn’t do anything to her, mate, I swear.’
‘Where’s Jasmine?’
‘What? I have no idea! I would have told you if I did!’
‘Then why the hell
are you here?’ he shouted, pointing the gun at him.
‘Easy, lad!’
‘Answer me!’ It took physical energy not to let the anger pull the trigger – his forehead was wet with sweat.
‘Because Eliza knew!’
‘Knew what?’ demanded Murphy.
‘About me and Sara, what we . . . did together. She knew that . . . she knew that Jasmine is my kid!’
‘What you did together? You raped her!’
‘I didn’t! Mate, I swear to you. Sara was the one who came to me! And Jasmine knew —’
Murphy pressed the gun against Butch’s head.
‘Alright. Easy, mate, easy.’ Butch pushed himself upright as best he could, as far away from the gun as possible. ‘Listen to me. Will you just fucking listen?’
Murphy didn’t reply. His chest heaved.
Butch spoke quickly. ‘Last year, Jasmine went to Eliza. She told her what Sara had told her before she died: that I was her real dad, okay, but I didn’t rape her, alright? Sara wanted it. She wanted it.’ He talked faster as Murphy’s arm twitched. ‘And if you kill me, you’ll never know the truth, alright, so will you put that fucking thing down?’
‘Why would Jasmine go to Eliza?’
‘Because she wanted to get me charged, Murph! Because she trusts Eliza and wanted her help to throw me in jail! Eliza called me after, because she knows me better than that, she didn’t just take Jasmine’s word for it. I showed Eliza the letter . . .’ Butch’s eyes lit up. ‘There’s a letter! At home, an honest-to-God letter from Sara, admitting what she and I did. A letter to you! I wanted to give it to you, I really did —’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘Easy, lad, easy . . . Jasmine didn’t want me to. After I showed it to her, she begged me not to. I thought you deserved to know, but Jasmine said it would destroy you, that it would ruin your memory of Sara. Jasmine wanted me to say I’d forced myself onto Sara. She really wants Sara’s memory to be perfect. I don’t think you know how important that is to her.’
‘Sara was perfect,’ growled Murphy.
‘You know me, mate. You know I wouldn’t do that, bro’ said Butch. ‘Surely you know that. Even Eliza said she’d vouch for me, if Jasmine went to the cops or anyone. I’ve got the letter! Take me home and I’ll show you the bloody letter . . . I wish I could tell you we were drunk, or stoned, but . . . I don’t even remember where you were . . . it just . . . happened. In that moment, Sara wanted it to happen . . . and so did I!’
Murphy couldn’t grasp what he was hearing, it both touched him and missed him. He felt so alone. He realised, distantly, that this feeling was what Jasmine wanted to protect him from . . .
‘After that . . . Nothing ever happened again, I promise you,’ said Butch. ‘Sara told Jasmine the truth, but she didn’t want to believe it. Jasmine’s convinced I raped Sara. I suppose it’s easier for her to . . . I showed her the letter, but she . . .’
Murphy began yelling, at first just noise, pure anger and anguish and pain. Then he heard his own words: ‘Don’t you say her name!’ His gun was pointed at Butch’s head.
‘You know me, brother. You know me!’
‘Drop the gun, Murphy.’ Con stood at the door, his pistol trained on Murphy. ‘Easy.’
Murphy turned to Con, his gun still raised, still shouting. ‘Don’t say her name!’
Con took a step forward. ‘I won’t ask you again, Murphy. Put the gun down.’
‘Just do it!’
Con held his eyes.
Murphy’s gun began to wobble. ‘Just shoot me!’
Slowly, Con lowered his gun. ‘No, mate.’ His hands raised in surrender, he came within reach of Murphy.
Murphy held onto the Glock as tightly as he could but his whole arm was trembling now, he could barely see through the tears. ‘Don’t you come near me, mate. Don’t you dare come fucking near me!’
Con gently took the gun from Murphy’s hands. ‘It’s okay, mate.’
‘It’s not okay! It’s not okay!’
Murphy slumped forward and Con wrapped him in a big bear hug. ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Con, sadness in his voice. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Then why did she leave?’
Murphy didn’t know which one he meant: Sara or Jasmine.
They stood there for a while, Murphy gradually calming, pulling himself out of Con’s arms, ashamed.
‘Could you un-cuff me, do you think, detective?’ said Butch in a small voice. ‘I think my ribs are broken . . .’
‘What happened here?’ said Con. He still had a careful, concerned eye on Murphy.
‘Eliza attacked me,’ said Butch.
‘Where is she now?’ Con said. ‘Those look like police cuffs.’ He rummaged in his belt for the keys and tossed them to Murphy. ‘Eliza can’t get away.’
Murphy looked at the keys, then at Butch.
‘Don’t you leave me here,’ whimpered Butch. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Murphy unlocked the cuffs, then put the keys in his pocket. He picked up the Glock from the floor and stuck it in his belt.
He walked out and didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 47
ELIZA
Eliza pulled up in front of Monica’s house, the tall poplar trees outside casting barely a shadow in the noonday sun. She’d thrown off her torn clothes as she left the cottage and grabbed a floral dress from the laundry – the one with the deep pouch pocket. There she had the second pair of handcuffs she’d stolen from Gabriella’s room that morning.
A yellow post-it note was stuck under the sun visor:
I give Eliza Ellis permission to do whatever it takes.
She pulled it off and scrunched it up in her hand, then walked up the side of Monica’s house to the back door. She took the spare key from under a peace lily pot plant and crept inside.
The sound of the news coverage came from the TV in the lounge, abuzz and ablaze with commentary on Madison’s latest video and the discovery of Bree Wilkins’ body.
Monica would be the one watching it, for any news of Tom, but she wouldn’t have let her daughter watch it with her. So Eliza slowly walked up the stairs, to Wren’s room.
It was the perfect little girl’s room: princess wallpaper and a four-poster bed. Wren lay on glittery pink carpet in a little red dress, playing on her iPad.
Her face brightened when she saw Eliza. ‘Aunt Leesy!’ She threw herself into Eliza’s arms.
Eliza’s resolve wavered. She tightened her grip on the permission slip. I can do whatever it takes.
She began to cry: real tears, not fake ones, for the first time in a long time.
‘Aunt Leesy? It’s okay.’ Wren put her hand on Eliza’s cheek.
Eliza shoved the permission slip into her pocket and took hold of Wren’s little forearm with both hands.
Eliza felt sick. She was shaking.
But she had to do this.
Eliza smiled through her tears and snapped Wren’s little forearm – both radius and ulna.
Instant agony. Wren screamed, and screamed and screamed.
Pounding footsteps up the stairs and Monica appeared at the door, cheeks puffy, terror in her red face. ‘Wren!’ she shrieked.
Sarge raced up behind her, the big dog adding his booming barks to the mix.
‘I’m sorry, I snuck in to see her, and she wanted to show me a trick on her bed – she’s broken her arm!’ shouted Eliza.
‘Wren!’
‘Quick, Monica – take my car, get to the hospital, call an ambulance to meet you on the way. Now! Hurry!’
Eliza knew how to respond to children feeling strong emotion – short instructions, direct tone of voice – and Monica, already exhausted from Tom’s arrest, was in shock, fearing for her child, in pain. She did exactly as Eliza said without question.
Eliza helped Monica carry Wren, intentionally jostling the little girl’s arm. She fainted, overwhelmed by the pain.
She helped Monica strap Wren’s limp body into the back sea
t, then Monica was driving away and Eliza was alone, save for Sarge barking at her.
She dragged the dog through the house by the collar and locked him outside. His booming barks and whimpers could be heard all through the house.
Shaking, remembering the feeling of Wren’s little arm snapping in her hands – I’m so sorry, Wren – she used the kitchen scissors to cut her hair in the bathroom mirror to roughly the same length as Monica’s, sweeping up the hair and dumping it in the bin. She took the cheese grater and raked some lines down her cheek and forehead. She winced at the sharp pain, the hot blood trickling down her face, but she’d successfully disguised the forehead wound she’d sustained up in the mountain.
Now she slipped her glasses off and put them in the pocket of her dress.
She looked more like Monica than herself, now. Or at least, enough to fool anyone who came to the house. The sight of blood would go a long way to keeping them from thinking rationally, and they’d hopefully jump to the conclusion Eliza wanted them to.
She took a tea towel and tied it around her mouth, then used a zip tie from under the sink to bind her wrists together, using her teeth to pull it tight with some difficulty around the loose gag.
She walked to the front door, her vision blurry without her glasses. She pushed over the entrance stand, including the glass vase of purple tulips on top, and laid herself down in the puddle of water and petals.
Before long she heard a car pull up outside.
CHAPTER 48
CON
Con searched the little crooked cottage, but Eliza was nowhere. Her car wasn’t outside either.
Murphy appeared next to him, the side of his head bleeding down into his beard. ‘She’s gone.’
‘We need to talk to Monica,’ said Con, leading the way to his car. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who would know what’s going on with Eliza.’
‘Why did you come here?’ said Murphy, as Con started the car and pulled out.
‘Bree’s dad thought he saw Eliza at the Hanging Tree days ago – on the morning we now believe Bree died.’