by Kylie Kaden
Hannah nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll do it.’
* * *
The faded sign hanging from Trevor Adler’s front door had a hand carved, floppy-eared puppy holding a board saying, Welcome. It reminded Hannah that the middle-aged manual-arts teacher-turned-principal was always a softie at heart, taking an interest in vulnerable students from disadvantaged homes. Hannah likened him to a mature, slightly offbeat George Clooney, and had thought of him every time she’d binged on her ER box set, bought specifically for lonely weekends in between boyfriends. That was years ago, though. She hadn’t seen him since, and found it difficult to believe he was dead.
To the left of the sign, Hannah noticed a shiny patch on the burgundy weatherboards – drips of dried goo, like snail trails, trickling down from a distinct splat. Eggshells were scattered in the garden beneath. Little early in the year for trick or treating.
The screen door was open, but Hannah knocked anyway, then entered the living room to piped laughter. Connie Adler sat in front of the blaring TV watching Family Feud.
‘Evening, Connie.’
If the old woman heard her, she made no sign of it. Her gnarled hands, her translucent skin, her frail limbs – Hannah barely recognised her, and reminded herself to start buying good face cream. ‘I’m Hannah. We met some years ago. Mabel sent me with your meal today.’
She didn’t expect Connie to place her but she caught a glimpse of recognition in her half-hooded eyes as the woman turned. Her wrinkles deepened as her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Molly?’
‘I’m Molly’s sister – we look a bit alike. I’m so sorry to hear about Trevor. What a loss. I hope the police can find the culprit.’
‘Mmmm.’ Her jaw made circular motions, like she was chewing her cud. Hannah set up her meal on a lap tray and the woman started pouring salt on the braised chicken.
‘I used to work with Trev, years ago. Well, we were friends, too, you might remember. He was a great teacher – always went the extra mile with kids. Had a real way with them, you know? That’s something you can’t learn from books.’
Mild disgust played on Connie’s face. ‘Too much salt?’ asked Hannah. ‘Did you want me to get you a drink?’ Connie shook her head.
Hannah felt sorry for her. For the small life she led. This game show was probably the highlight of her evening.
‘Name something people lie about,’ the host asked a contestant.
‘Weight,’ Hannah said.
‘Age,’ Connie added.
Hannah smiled. This woman is sharp as a tack. Both things were fairly obvious anyway and she wondered why people bothered hiding from who they were. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘My pills. I have them with food otherwise I get the runs.’ As she adjusted her weight in the chair, she grimaced in pain and let out a fart. Poor woman.
‘Of course. Arthritis? My dad suffers from gout. Awful.’ She went to the pill box on the kitchen table and found a headache of yellow bottles in neat lines. Uncertain which one she needed, Hannah brought the whole box over.
Connie’s eyes brightened, tried to open it with arthritic fingers, clearly in pain.
‘Let me help, Connie.’ Hannah twisted the cap off, and sat on the worn burgundy couch. A photo of a much younger Connie and a handsome soldier perched on the table. Connie saw her looking and her lips pressed flat.
‘I didn’t know Mr Adler was a soldier – tall, dark and handsome, like your sons,’ Hannah said.
‘Huh.’ She laughed with no warmth. ‘You got kids?’
Hannah’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘I hope to … but not yet.’
‘Lucky.’ The woman cleared her throat. ‘You never know what you’ll get.’
Chapter 24
38 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL
Will’s side of the bed was cold and empty as the weak morning sun cast across their bedsheets, and Abbi’s heart sank. All the lies she told herself the night before – he’d be back in the morning, he just needed to clear his head, had proven false.
Well practiced at putting on a smile, she kept to the usual routine despite her newfound low, dropping Eadie at school (late), before heading into town.
Her car hugged the curves of the road as she meandered down the valley until the quaint row of cottage-industry shopfronts signalled she was in central Lago. Her melancholy made her sentimental. When Abbi had grown up here, riding her bike around as a barefoot tomboy, the township was nothing more than a greasy takeaway shop, a smoke-filled pub and an overpriced grocer whose bestseller was cigarettes. By the time she’d left high school, the turtle-hatching tourism had taken off and the council funded a well-needed facelift.
Cobbled pathways now separated springy lawns, fragrant hedges packed with cupped rosebuds and bright canvas awnings gave the main street an English country feel. It was quaint, but in her mind, out of place for a seaside suburb swarming with seagulls and sunbathers (even in June). With a line of trees budded with fairy lights at dusk, the ocean glimmering in the distance, the street looked positively picturesque in tourist brochures but little could undo the damage the suspected-murder media coverage had inflicted.
Angle-parking among cottage gardens, Abbi saw Blake’s squad car near the bakery and pulled in next to it. Sure enough, Blake was leaning on the counter, chatting to Molly over a custard tart. The tension in her shoulders relaxed at the sight of him, but she wanted to vent without the whole town eavesdropping. Blake saw Abbi pull up, waved a finger, but kept talking to Molly. He’d looked out for Molly when Hannah left. It was his way of keeping tabs on her older sister, like he was surviving on a diet of Molly’s bakery treats, with crumbs of info about her sister’s new, big-city life. But he had actual Hannah now. There was no need for crumbs.
Abbi was patient for a few minutes until the heat of the car, mixed with the pain in her heart, was too much. As she walked towards the bakery, the pair stopped talking.
‘Morning,’ Abbi said.
‘Hey, Abs. How are you?’ Molly asked with a weak smile.
Will has left and I’m dying inside. ‘Good thanks, Mol,’ Abbi lied and ordered bread.
Blake looked annoyed by her arrival. An aproned Molly started slicing a sourdough for her, absentmindedly.
‘Everything okay?’ Abbi asked.
Blake looked over at Molly, as if he wasn’t sure if he should answer. ‘Malcolm Hawley has a parole hearing today.’
A clunk was heard from the bread machine and Abbi hoped it wasn’t a finger. She looked back at Blake. Abbi hadn’t heard that name for years – the driver of the car who’d killed Hannah and Molly’s mother. ‘Was that expected? I mean, manslaughter is fifteen, right?’ Abbi had looked it up for another reason.
‘Four, on average. He got more than I’d expected, but not as much as he deserved. I don’t think he’ll come back here though.’ He looked sideways at Abbi. ‘Too many vigilantes in this town.’
Abbi ignored him, and was quietly pleased about the town having a new scandal to deflect the heat off All Things Trevor Adler. She remembered Malcolm as the cheeky silver-fox who’d wave to her around town in his dentist smock and board shorts. He had removed her wisdom teeth – it was hard to picture him as an inmate. What did Australian prisoners even wear? A vision of Will, Blake and herself wearing forlorn faces and orange overalls flashed in her mind and she hoped it wasn’t a premonition.
As Abbi waited for Molly to slice her sourdough, the feature image on the top page of a stack of papers sang to her: Pott’s Beach, Trevor’s 4WD, seaweed stuck on the side mirrors, water pouring from the chassis as it dangled from a crane. Flashes of his body, cold and still in the sawdust stabbed at her.
Her throat tightened, her muscles tensed, the air pressure changed. Her fingers dented the crust as Molly handed Abbi her bread. Abbi was never sure dumping the car was necessary – too big a risk for little gain. Molly passed her the change but it slipped from her fingers, pinged on the pavers. Abbi watched the coins scatter like life was in slow motio
n. Like she’d have plenty of time to catch up.
She finally crouched, fumbled to find her change and her cool. As she stood, she coughed to hide the squeak on her voice. ‘They’ve found his car?’
‘Yeah,’ Blake said. He was matter-of-fact. Abbi thought he should be apologetic: it kinda was his fault. ‘A camper reckons he heard it go on the night of the moon fest, but thought nothing of it until now, so they’ve pinpointed that as the time of death.’
He was cold and serious and not Blake at all and it only made Abbi panic more. ‘Right.’ Fuck. Abbi’s stomach knotted tighter than the braided breads on display.
‘The car was on its side – forensics are thinking the victim may have driven it over. Body may have floated out with the tide. More evidence for suicide.’
‘God. That’s awful.’ Awfully good. Perhaps Blake’s strategy wasn’t so crazy – staging a disappearance seemed to have worked for them. Her ears stopped ringing.
She didn’t expect this. That was the problem. The locals had originally swarmed around the story, hypothesised on how he died, inventing all manner of events. But it was old news now. The risk of getting caught had faded like the tide, until now.
Ethan the ambo was in line behind them and ordered coffees. ‘Newell. How’s it hanging?’ He leaned on the breadcrumb-scattered bench with his hairy forearms.
‘Good, mate.’
‘Bit of a shock, ain’t it – now they’ve got a witness saying his car went over the same night we got that call out to Trevor’s place and found you there. Got me thinking … you aren’t a part-time axe murderer by chance?’ He laughed, but his eyes were fixed on Blake.
Abbi wanted Ethan to pull his head in, stop the fear mongering and finger pointing before it took over the town. Her town. The very community she’d spent her life being a part of. The very family she’d done all this to protect.
Blake frowned, then nodded as if it all made sense now. ‘Yeah, mate, that was around that time, wasn’t it? We’re still chasing that lead – witness was pissed, from what I heard so you never know with these call-ups. People like to feel involved in something bigger than themselves and make up all sorts of stories.’
Ethan looked at Blake cautiously, then smiled. ‘Glad it’s you, not me sorting that out.’ He patted him on the back, but without much warmth.
‘Keep up the good work, old mate!’ Blake sighed and turned to leave.
Abbi gave Molly a quick wave and shuffled after him. She thought she had this under wraps, but now Will had left and Blake had obviously cut her out of the loop, the point of all of this cover-up seemed blurry. ‘Blake?’ Abbi blurted out, anxiety flapping behind her breastbone like a bird.
He stopped, exhaled but didn’t face her, just turned his head and whispered, ‘It’s under control,’ and kept walking.
Control. Now that it had slipped through her fingers, she had a new respect for it. Why had he not told her about finding Trevor’s vehicle? Abbi unlocked her car, cradled the sourdough in her arms, and waited for the deafening hum in her ears to fade.
She clutched her stomach and gazed at the ocean. When she inadvertently started playing this game, her resolve was strong, like a thick layer of arctic ice, protection from the storms that raged above. Their lives could still thrive below its shield. But now Abbi saw the cracks and felt the chill drawing near.
* * *
After faking her way through a day at work, Abbi drove home via the Lago Point Police – a station that had always seemed unnecessary in such a sleepy town until events of late. There was Trevor’s boxy old Patrol, impounded behind iron gates, the doors sealed with crime-scene tape. Was that 4WD about to be their undoing? Now that they’d pinpointed the day Trevor died, they must be closing in fast. And the paramedic who could place Blake at Trevor’s house the same night didn’t help.
Arriving home to a dark, empty house, Abbi plonked on the couch. It seemed giant without Will hogging it. Eadie had soccer early the next morning and was sleeping over at her best friend’s house, which only made Abbi feel more untethered from her old life.
The silence egged on her fears. Strange sounds pinged in her ears: a dripping tap, the expanding joins of the timber beams. Sounds she’d never heard, as her home was usually overrun with the echoes of human extremes; laughter, screaming, tantrums, tears.
Now, the small, soulless sounds were deafening.
She wanted company. She wanted more information about the case developments. She wanted Blake to tell her it was all going to be okay. Blake didn’t even know Will was MIA, and it just didn’t feel right for him to not know. But he still thought she was a killer, and Abbi wasn’t sure she had the strength to stay in character.
Abbi knew Blake was off at six, and decided to risk it. Regaining control meant having information – finding out what else he wasn’t telling her.
She wandered over to Blake’s, but not without a sense of guilt. When she found he wasn’t home yet, she reached for her key to his place but thought better of it. She’d crossed so many boundaries lately. Abbi waited on the porch, doubting her decision to come. She had no faith in her instincts anymore.
Newman walked over to her when she arrived, circled her the way he did and plonked by her side, licking her hand as if he understood. The dopey mixed-breed was a stray that Blake never had the heart to chase away, decided to feed and then it just kept turning up. ‘A bit like me at your place,’ Blake used to joke.
* * *
Blake’s tyres crunched on the gravel as he arrived home. He was proud of his place – the deck, the bay windows – it was a work in progress but it had focused his life when nothing else could. He got out, walked up the front steps onto the deck, and found Abbi madly wiping tears from her face, as if it would hide the disaster she was. The vulnerable look in her eyes told him everything he’d feared. ‘Is it Will? He took off?’
Her jaw dropped. He’d stolen her thunder. ‘When did he tell you? Did he come to the station?’
‘No. He didn’t. Why would he? I’m not his favourite person right now, remember? The whole bullshitting-to-him-for-weeks, dumping-bodies thing?’ Blake frowned, sidled down next to her against his new door, the fretwork digging into his back. He’d sensed at the pub the other evening that Will was in meltdown, and he knew their kind processed things alone.
Blake scraped greying whiskers and threw the frisbee for Newman who darted off through the garden in pursuit, but in the wrong direction. High emotion from Abbi Adams equalled high risk. ‘Jesus,’ he said. This was bad. There was no telling what Will might do now. ‘Where?’
‘He didn’t say for sure. He said he might visit his parents, but I got desperate and called there – no answer. Mobile’s out of range.’ Blake instinctively lifted his arm and she tucked under like he was a favourite chair. ‘Can you blame him? I’ve hurt him. Disappointed him. Lost his trust.”
‘Abs, he’s just trying to reconcile it. In his head. Just give him time.’
He took Abbi inside. She scanned his living room, looking horrified. ‘You’ve moved the couch. You’ve got scatter cushions. No more bar fridge or festering laundry. What’s happened?’
‘Hannah. And she’s out tonight, by the way. Some work dinner.’ They flopped on the couch in unison, Blake and Newman flanking their visitor, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Candles adorned the coffee table that usually sported nothing but motorbike magazines, beer-ring stains and gaming console controllers.
Abbi held up a cushion with a modern design. ‘Pineapples?’
‘Geometric fruit is in, apparently.’
He looked at her sad-sack face, and lifted his arm again. ‘Come here.’ He felt rushed, like he had to patch her up and send her home before Hannah came home.
She wriggled in, started offloading all the details. How Will didn’t even have to say it, she just knew by the slump in his shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. It was both inspirational, and pathetic.
Blake felt heartsick too. If Will and Abbi actually split,
what hope was there for him and Hannah? For any couple? Sure, they were dealing with major shit, but he thought they were immune to relationship breakdown. He had never heard either of them speak a bad word about the other.
‘Abs, I know this has been hard. But have you seen it from his point of view? What you kept from him. What …’ He struggled to encompass the gravity of the situation. ‘What sort of shitstorm you’ve left him in? He’s always been big on trust. And you kept something huge from him.’
‘You told me not to tell him!’
Blake figured it had never occurred to her, the damage her lies had inflicted. ‘You knock someone off and somehow this is my fault?’ Hearing it out loud sounded so ludicrous he felt a laugh shudder in his throat.
He was right, but so was she.
* * *
Abbi couldn’t stand Blake thinking she was a violent person, a killer who intentionally put him in this position. She was simply a wife and mother protecting her family. She knew she was the puppeteer in this pantomime. Faced with the fear of her husband going to jail, lying seemed like the logical solution. But now that Will knew, and could turn himself in without implicating all of them as well, the rationale to keep lying to Blake was thin. If she told him Trevor was snuffed out as a result of Will’s assault, would he really expose them, after everything?
Admitting the truth would feel good, and Abbi yearned for the life she’d had, the life in which she could let her guard down and be herself.
She swallowed. It was just there for the taking – all that was required was taking a confession. ‘Blake?’ Abbi couldn’t resist. She would just tell him, end all the foolish games.
‘What?’ He passed her a bag of Clinkers, still doting, still clinging to the shred of trust that was left between them like a fool.
Tears pooled in her eyes. Her throat tightened. But wasn’t it the truth that made Will disappear? She couldn’t risk losing Blake too.
Blake’s eyes narrowed. ‘Abs?’
Her gaze fell. ‘Nothing.’ Coward.