by Sarah Bailey
‘How much?’
‘Around seventy thousand dollars, I think. His mother died a few years ago, and I’m not across all of the assets. It may be more.’
Oli’s eyes bulge at the amount. ‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he just tell you?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Diana, her jaw shaking. ‘Guilt, I suppose. Fear that I’ll leave, maybe?’ She glances at Oli before looking back at the children, who are now picnicking with their mother. ‘There’s more. He took a phone call on Thursday. After he answered it, he went to the study and shut the door to continue the conversation. It was very out of character.’
‘Did he say who it was?’
Diana purses her lips. ‘He said it was someone from the university, but then on Friday he withdrew twelve thousand dollars from his savings account. That’s his limit. He doesn’t know I have his password.’ Diana looks up, her blue eyes sparking with rage and something else: determination. ‘Later that day I followed him. He said he was going in to work, but I knew he was lying. He went to a house in Carlton. I couldn’t see very well, but I think a woman answered the door.’ Diana tenses. ‘I think she’s there. I think Nicole is there with my baby.’
AUGUST 2004
Fuck, Alex thinks. Fuck. This is bad, really bad. She stares at the wooden panelling, allows her vision to fall out of focus.
Nicole looks pretty when she cries, not red and blotchy like most people. ‘It was only the one time,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘I had to babysit, that’s how we pay rent, it’s what we all do for work. And then I got sick last week and just ran out of time.’ She glances at Alex and Evelyn. ‘We’re all really struggling to get by. Our parents aren’t wealthy, and my dad is paying for some expensive medical treatment so they’ve stopped paying for my textbooks.’ Nicole breathes through a sob. ‘This whole thing is totally my fault—it was my idea, and I guess I just didn’t think it was going to do any real harm. We’re housemates, we study together all the time. It’s not like we’re bad students. Alex was just doing me a favour.’
Alex looks at her friend, wondering if any of this is true. Nicole has never mentioned that her dad is unwell, but you can never be sure with her. She is the human equivalent of an onion, revealing new layers when you least expect it.
The professor folds his arms and reclines back in his chair. He has evenly tanned skin and good teeth, but he needs a haircut. Despite his neat clothes he often conveys a slightly flustered vibe, walking a little more quickly than is required. One of Alex’s foster mothers told her that you should never hurry in public, that it makes you look stupid. Alex can’t even remember the name of that foster mother. She runs through a few options, but nothing seems right. Danielle? Emily?
Unfortunately, the professor doesn’t seem flustered now. He seems completely in control.
The three of them never talked about what would happen if they got caught. Don’t jinx it, she remembers Nicole saying when Evelyn voiced her doubts. If we keep it simple, it will be fine.
Nicole is good at calming people down. She usually isn’t scared of anything, and her conviction is contagious. But right now, even she looks rattled.
It made sense: they all agreed with that. There just wasn’t time for them to do everything. Evelyn’s auditions would pop up out of nowhere, clashing with her classes, and they needed to make time for babysitting and waitressing or they’d have no money. Study was always pushed to the bottom of the list. Alex had studied several of Nicole’s subjects the previous year, Evelyn the others, and vice versa. It was easy to rework old essays and assignments.
It’s smart, Nicole had insisted when it first came up. We’re using our initiative. This way we all play to our strengths. And there has to be a benefit to us all looking so similar—we’re like sisters. She’d grinned at Alex, holding her hand up. And Evelyn’s a weapon when it comes to essays. We all win.
Alex had high-fived her back, but her stomach had rolled. And when she’d showed Nicole’s ID at the exam entrance, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, she’d thought she might pass out.
It wasn’t supposed to be all the time. They still went to tutorials, the occasional lecture. But it took the pressure off, and Nicole was right, it was smart. For the past twelve months they’d all averaged distinctions. They’d worked more and finally earned some decent cash. And it was never as bad as that first time. It got easier.
There was tension, though. The loose rules they had all agreed to slipped a little. Evelyn started complaining that she was doing more than her fair share. They got sloppy. The essay that Alex and Nicole handed in for their psychology class was too similar, with short sections copied and pasted. They’d argued about it, but there hadn’t been time to change it.
Alex wrinkles her nose. The professor’s office smells of body odour, damp boots and old coffee. Someone should open a window.
A few weeks ago, Alex was in her bedroom, and Nicole was in the backyard smoking a cigarette while talking on her phone. Alex overheard her mention a deadline and that she could pay two hundred dollars. She’d gone outside the group, and now they’re here, probably about to get expelled. Blacklisted from every university in the country. Everything Alex has ever worked for is about to go up in smoke.
‘Nice try,’ the professor says eventually. ‘But I’m well aware this isn’t the first time, Ms Horrowitz. I have proof.’
Nicole’s eyes narrow momentarily before widening in protest. She opens her mouth, but he holds up his hand.
‘I understand how challenging it is when you come into financial hardship.’ He takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. ‘How it can lead to poor decisions.’ Returns the glasses to the bridge of his nose. ‘Decisions that have long-term implications.’
Nicole nods slightly. Alex holds her breath as the energy shifts in the stuffy room.
‘But perhaps you are willing to make this all go away. And earn the money you need to build a wonderful future.’ His hands make the shape of a triangle, neat fingernails meeting at the top. He looks at Alex, then at Evelyn. ‘I must say, the alternative is not good, not good at all.’
Alex closes her eyes, fear gripping her heart. She doesn’t want to touch him, doesn’t want to let him touch her. She thinks back to some of her foster brothers, the things they made her do.
‘Yes, of course.’ Nicole wipes her eyes. ‘Of course we are.’
The professor puts his elbows on the desk. ‘I’m glad to hear that. It’s really very simple. And it’s important to remember that no one gets hurt, that’s the beauty of it.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
OLI LEAVES DIANA ON THE PARK BENCH, HER PETITE FRAME HUNCHED over as she pets Hugo. She’s finally free of her secret, but Oli’s not sure it will bring her any peace. She heads back toward Nicholson Street, turning the whole thing over in her head. It makes sense that Julian went to the house that night if he thought he had a chance of sleeping with Nicole, but why did he invite Diana to come with him? He couldn’t have predicted she would get sick. It must not have been planned at all; maybe Diana has it wrong and Julian is giving money to Nicole for some other reason—or giving money to someone else altogether.
Oli peels off her coat, flushed from walking. She crosses at the lights and heads along Hoddle Street. A man holding a toolkit passes by and whistles under his breath. ‘Hey, blondie.’
She ignores him, keeps walking. Even if Diana is right about her husband, none of it explains why Evelyn was murdered. McCrae might be guilty of infidelity, but everyone agrees he left the house by ten. He’s not a killer, but maybe he set off a chain of events that led to her death. Perhaps Evelyn found out about Nicole and Julian, and threatened to tell Diana. Or Alex found out, and somehow Evelyn got caught in the fray, trying to break up the argument? But that doesn’t seem to fit either. Surely Alex wouldn’t be that upset about Nicole sleeping with one of her professors, at least not enough to grab a kitchen knife and stab Evelyn four times. Unless she was in love with him? The housemates
taunt Oli, their faces trading places in her mind. She desperately wants to speak to Cooper, even TJ, but neither is an option. Her feet sweat in her boots.
She’ll have to go to the house in Carlton where Diana followed her husband on Friday. But before that, Oli’s going to prison. It’s time to talk to Theo Bouris.
Oli has been in close proximity to murderers during her time as a crime reporter—mostly in court, once at a crime scene, and twice when she conducted interviews in prison. Only one, Jackson Roy, completely unnerved her, eagerly recounting his gruesome crimes in explicit detail, and repeatedly commenting on how much Oli reminded him of his third victim, a budding poet called Sienna Forrest with whom Oli shared more than a passing resemblance. Roy got under her skin, which crawled for days, but she knows evil exists on a scale just like everything else. Thankfully Roy is a rare breed of human. Most murderers made a terrible mistake, a poor decision. Drinking too much, driving too fast. Like most things in life, murder isn’t as black and white as people would like it to be.
Oli isn’t sure what kind of murderer Theo Bouris is. He’s from a crime dynasty of sorts: generations of people intent on colouring outside the lines, offspring resolutely groomed for the family business. Hardwired to feel hard done by, men like Bouris don’t tend to embrace self-reflection, but perhaps some of his hubris has faded now that he’s in his forties and facing up to another twenty years in prison. Regardless, he was the person who killed Isabelle. He cut her life short and ultimately changed the trajectory of Oli’s. The thought of being in his presence is both horrifying and magnetic.
Oli pulls her newly rented Toyota into the visitor car park and enters the prison. She presents ID, goes through security. She tugs at the hem of her shirt and tries to get some air against her skin as she waits. After thirty excruciating minutes, a guard who looks well past retirement age leads her to a closed door at the end of a short corridor. He stops and turns to her, his fingers on the doorhandle. ‘Any problems, you just yell out, but you should be fine. He’s restrained and generally pretty even-tempered. He can be a funny prick, to tell you the truth. Anyway, I’ll be right outside.’
Oli nods. Swallows and wipes her palms on her jeans. Steps inside the windowless room. There are three tables, and Theo Bouris sits at the one furthest from the door. Five chairs are arranged in a messy circle to his left as if the occupants exited the room in haste. Scuff marks from the rubber tips of the chair legs cover the grey lino.
The door closes behind her. Bouris looks at her expectantly, smiling. He has dimples. She takes a step backwards. What the hell is she doing here?
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Today is clearly my lucky day. Please sit down.’ As he reaches out his hand, the chains around his wrists clink together. ‘Already regret coming to visit me?’ He shrugs good-naturedly. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Sorry.’ Immediately cursing herself for apologising, she sits in the chair opposite Isabelle’s killer. She has seen footage and photos of him—the truth is, she devoured everything she could find about him online when he was arrested—but in person he looks younger than she expected. He’s attractive, his features symmetrical except for his nose, which bends roguishly to the left. A small bruise blossoms on his temple, but other than that his tawny skin is clear.
She has a strange urge to ask how he is, but he gets in first. ‘How are you, Miss Journalist?’ He looks amused. ‘No, don’t tell me. You’re trying to get inside the mind of a killer? Grappling with good old nature and nurture?’ He laughs, revealing straight beige teeth. ‘Am I on the right track?’
‘No.’ Her hair swings forward as she rests her elbows on the table. ‘I want to know how you knew where Isabelle Yardley was going to be the morning you killed her.’
Bouris cocks his head. ‘Righto, we’re playing that game, are we? Right, right.’ He strokes his stubble, his gaze piercing. ‘We had a special bond, Yardley and me. I could sense she was going to be there.’
Fury bursts like a dam inside Oli. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Okay, fine.’ He traces his finger across the table. ‘I followed her. You haven’t done your homework, you naughty girl.’
‘I know what you said in court—I just don’t believe you. I think she would have noticed if an amateur like you was following her, especially that early in the morning.’
He throws his weight back against his chair, his face sullen.
They sit in silence for a few moments. Tingles run up and down Oli’s limbs. ‘I think someone told you Isabelle was going to be there.’ She almost chokes on the words. ‘And I want to know who it was.’
He eyes her with renewed curiosity. ‘She was a friend of yours?’
‘Just tell me,’ Oli says through gritted teeth. ‘What have you got to lose now?’
‘I’m a man of my word.’ He crosses his arms.
She stands, pushing back her chair, her legs shaky. She can’t tell if he’s messing with her or not.
‘Your perfect detective friend wasn’t so perfect, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugs. ‘Just that. Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you think you did.’
Oli has an urge to laugh before her hands start to shudder uncontrollably. ‘If you’re not going to tell me, there’s no point me being here.’ She takes a few steps backwards, wanting to keep her eyes on him.
‘I might have got a call.’ His voice snakes through the air between them.
She stops. ‘A call.’
‘Yeah.’ He holds out his thumb and little finger then puts them against his head, miming a phone, and grins. ‘You know, a call.’
‘From who?’ Her jaw feels like it’s going to come off its hinges, it aches so badly. She can’t bear for him to say the words, but she has to know even if it breaks her heart.
Bouris clicks his tongue. ‘I can’t say. That would be completely unprofessional.’
To Oli’s horror, a tear slides down her cheek. Her mind glitches. She is Isabelle, standing in front of the man who mowed her down. Fine-boned, with long black hair, her ice-blue eyes pleading to know who wanted her dead.
Oli chokes on a dry sob, threads of saliva caught between her lips. ‘Please.’
Bouris makes a sad face. ‘Oh, honey, I want to, but I can’t. I made a deal with the devil himself. All I can say is that someone hated that smug bitch even more than I did.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE GUARD UNBOLTS THE DOOR. IT SCRAPES HORRIBLY AS HE PUSHES it open. Oli rushes down the corridor, avoiding eye contact with the other guards before bursting through the double doors and into the late afternoon sun. A horn blares, and she stumbles backwards, narrowly avoiding being hit by a spluttering Mitsubishi. It burps a cloud of smoke from its exhaust, and Oli stands frozen on the kerb, her stomach clenching.
She thinks of Dean’s huge empty house and wonders if she should call Lily, ask if she can stay with her and Shaun. But it feels too dramatic, like a kid running home to its mother.
The last of the adrenaline leaves her system, and her teeth start to chatter. She rubs her arms through her jacket sleeves and gets back into the rental car. Cranks the heater. She stares straight ahead, her brain numb. A woman in a bright-yellow jumper with a long braid down her back bursts from the prison entrance, her face streaked with tears. She runs off down the street, her handbag slapping against her leg.
Shuddering through a deep breath, Oli calls Rusty.
‘Oli?’ His voice almost has her in pieces.
‘Rusty.’
‘Ol. Are you okay?’
‘Is there any news on Cooper’s attack?’ she chokes out.
‘No, I’m sorry. We’ve got nothing yet.’
‘Right.’ She feels a crushing hopelessness.
‘We’re still going through everything, though—CCTV and phone records. We went to your office this morning and took his computer and some other items. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.’
‘He also works—’ Oli cuts herself off.
The cops don’t know about the studio, and all of a sudden she wants to keep it that way. He mistakes her hesitation for emotion. ‘Ol, I promise to let you know the moment we find anything, okay?’
She sniffs.
‘Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘Rusty, I think something’s going on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ She begins to cry. ‘I think it’s all linked.’
‘Hey. Oli, talk to me. What’s linked?’
She bites one of her fingers. It hurts. ‘I’ve just been with Theo Bouris.’
There are a few beats of silence. Rusty’s breathing intensifies. ‘What? Why would you do that?’
The words come out in a rush. ‘I think someone tipped Bouris off about Isabelle that morning. He wasn’t acting alone.’
‘Oli.’ Rusty sounds wary.
‘I’m serious!’
He breathes out in a whoosh. ‘Where are you now?’
‘At the prison.’
‘You’re driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’m at home. Come past, we’ll go and get some food. Talk. I don’t think you should be alone right now.’
She bites her lip. Decides. ‘Okay. I’ll be there soon.’
The sky darkens as Oli drives back toward the city. She pulls up at a set of lights, keeping her gaze fixed forward. Feels the person in the next car staring at her. She shifts lower in her seat. Exhales as the traffic gives way and starts to flow.
Twenty minutes later, she arrives at Rusty’s townhouse in Kensington. Flashes the headlights into the front window a few times. His front door swings open, and he steps out and saunters down the path. He gets into the Toyota and looks at her doubtfully. ‘Oli,’ he says simply.
Her shock has given away to a grim determination. She throws the car into drive. ‘I don’t care if this all sounds crazy. I think there’s more to Isabelle’s murder than everyone thought.’