by Sharon Haste
Contents
Dedication
Note from Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Other Books
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my parents, Iris Blake and Ken Forster, thank you for giving me a life where my beliefs know no limits
Note from Author
The Last Time is my first novel; and the first book in my Time Series for young adult readers. I had a lot of fun writing this book and I hope you enjoy reading it. If you do enjoy it and would like a FREE copy of my novella Enough Time - the prequel to The Last Time; and my book of short stories, The Carousel and Other Short Stories, you can download them from my website by joining my mailing list. www.sharonhaste.com
Prologue
The trees sway with a breeze not felt on the ground. The December air is oppressive; sweat trickles between her breasts. Her thin face burns, and her hair is damp and sticks to her head. She stares at the grass under the tree; a fresh carpet of green turf surrounds the gaping hole and the polished wooden box. The crowd is dressed in drab winter colours, contrasting with the bright, sunny day. Heads are cast down, and eyes are to the ground. Salt licks the odd cheek. What a sombre ritual. Who celebrates a life by putting the body into the earth? She scratches her ear and adjusts her bra strap; her mind dances from thought to thought as it often does, eventually settling on a familiar pattern of memories. A thin, motherless kid springs to mind. She dresses in hand-me-down clothes; her skin is too dark to be beautiful. She is judged, taunted, used, and discarded at whim. The memories are so vivid that she tightens her fists, clenching her teeth hard. Motherless. She had a mother once. She inhales a jagged breath and sniffs as her eyes moisten. The priest's gentle monotone brings her back. Crickets sing, gulls caw above, and leaves rustle in a fitful breeze. It dries her sweat. She realises her eyes are closed and opens them to see the old man make the sign of the cross.
She feels the crowd shifting, the heat urging them to disperse, and feels her own feet itching to move. Fascination compels her to stay. The old man drones on, hands swat at flies, and a sliver of sea air zigzags through the humans, touching people at random.
And then the coffin is moving, descending into the earth. The crowd tenses, sensing the end is near. Her eyes follow the polished box until it disappears into the hole. A slender lady in an elegant black dress sobs as she tosses a clump of dirt into the darkness. He hovers beside her, dressed in a dark suit with his public mask on. He bends and also throws dirt into the hole. The woman's fist curls around a bunch of white roses, and then the fingers relax, letting the flowers chase the dirt for purchase on the box. Mourners form a steady line, dropping dirt and flowers into the grave. She waits, positioning herself into the breeze and relishing the drying sweat under her neck and arms. A man hangs back under a shady tree with a cigarette stub balanced on his bottom lip. A shovel leans on the trunk. He looks to the sea, waiting his turn.
There's a commotion at the back of the crowd. She turns to look. A small group circles around something.
'Give her air.'
The crowd takes a step back. She cranes her neck, heart tapping. A blue uniform catches her eye, and she jolts. Cops. Her feet are moving, and her eyes are to the ground as an automatic response. She gives the uniforms a wide berth, glancing at the circle of people as she walks past. A familiar dark head bobs up. What's he doing here? She stops to stare, wanting to get his attention, but he's busy with someone on the ground. She moves on. Her lowered eyes light on a single red rose, and she stoops to pick it up, bringing it to her nose and inhaling the most exquisite perfume. Glancing left and right, she keeps walking with the rose gripped between her fingers.
She fumbles in her jeans pocket for her smokes, lighting one up and taking a hungry drag with her fingers shaking. Funny, if someone asked her a year ago, even a month ago, whom she wanted to be, the answer would have been easy: Charli Richter. Not because she's rich, smart, or pretty, but she had her reasons for choosing Charli. She lifts the rose to her nose and sniffs again. Strange how things turn out.
Chapter One
The December of her sixteenth year marks the biggest change in Charli Richter's life. She wakes chest-deep in water and shrouded in darkness. The water fills her jeans and shirt, lapping her chin and making her cough. She's pinned back; she can't move her chest, and her heart is slamming. Her fist connects with something hard: the steering wheel. She's in the car. Her fingers scramble to set her free, and she pushes against the current through the open window. Her legs propel her up.
Her chest is on fire as she gulps for air; her head ready to explode. Then she thinks of Ash. Oh my God, is he still down there? Taking a deep breath, she dives, a dull light guiding her to the car. She squirms through the window, searching for his car seat, and then fumbles with the clasp until he falls towards her. She grabs him hard, yanking him through the car and up. When they break the surface, she's gasping for air, but Ash is still and limp in her arms. He doesn't even try. One arm hugs his body close while the other strokes for the shore. She stumbles as she drags him up, mud and grass filling her nails.
She lays him, head lolling and eyes closed, on the bank. Panting, she rolls him over and squeezes his chest, water dribbling from his nose and mouth. His lips are blue, and his tiny body is pale and still. Her hands shake so much that it's hard to get him on his back. Come on, Ash, breathe. She blows in his mouth in short, panicked bursts and shoves her fists on his chest, jerking her hands up and down. His head, plastered with blond hair, dances with each pump. She presses her lips to his, forcing breath in. Trembling palms find their mark and pump again, pressing up and down until her arms ache and there's nothing left. Come on, Ash, please breathe. She sobs into his mouth with salt on her lips; hiccoughs force her to stop.
Her ear finds his chest; her knees press the soft grass; her arms splay over him. She convulses, eyes swelling because of the river of tears, while Ash turns to ice.
Chapter Two
The blue flashing light adds drama to the scene, and Sam wishes they'd turn it off; it's too much at this hour of the night. She's bone-tired as she unclips her seatbelt, grabbing her bag. It's been a long and shitty day, and she'd just closed her eyes when the call came in. Mal could have handled it, but his yearning to teach her all he knows before he hangs up the badge means she's tagged into everything. He's been a cop since he left school and a detective for fifty years. He probably can't even remember life before the force.
Her tired eyes comb the banks of the lake for his lanky frame among the uniforms. He's never hard to spot, standing an easy head or two above the rest, even though he's pushing seventy. He is built like a greyhound and is always old school with his shirt ironed and his shoes polished. It makes her faded
jeans and t-shirt seem inadequate, but she doesn't care. She hates ironing. Mal hovers over two body bags on the grass; a heavier, bearded man zips them up with a gloved hand. She swallows; adrenaline bringing her to life when she sees the size of the bag. Shit, it's a kid. The flash of a camera distracts her, and then Mal inclines his head at her before heading up the grassy embankment. She squints in the dark at the hulking shadow of an ambulance atop the hill. A paramedic hovers over a figure on the ground. She jogs to keep up with dread in the pit of her stomach and sweat collecting in her armpits.
'Morning,' says Mal, sounding way too chipper for the hour. 'Her name's Charli Richter, and she was in a car that went into the water. She managed to get out, but her mother and brother weren't so lucky. Not sure if she knows yet.'
Her heart sinks. Shit. That means we have to tell her. Well, I have to tell her. She presses her lips together and steels herself. She hates this part of her job. The huddled figure is a girl in her mid-teens. She pulls the blanket on her shoulders tighter as they approach, cowering like a dog waiting for the kick. Sam runs a hand over her ponytail, twisting her strands of blonde hair with nervous fingers. She wishes it weren't so damn hot and wonders why she lives in the tropics.
The paramedic lifts Charli's arm and checks her blood pressure, whispering to her. It seems an eternity before he steps away. The girl's face is pale, and her dark hair is slung into a single plait, still damp from the lake. Although Charli's eyes are on the ground, Sam smiles, trying to connect. Mal hangs back, letting her do the talking.
'Charli Richter?'
Green eyes spear through her, making her throat tighten. They're red-rimmed and puffy.
'I'm Detective Constable Harris, and this is Detective Sergeant Slocum from the Delany police. We need to talk to you for a minute.'
Charli's head drops, tears streaming. She hiccoughs softly. Sam crouches beside her, placing a light hand on her shoulder.
'I know you're not feeling the best, but I have some news for you that'll be pretty hard to take.'
Those green eyes are on her again.
'He's gone, isn't he? They couldn't get him back, could they?' she asks, her voice a croak.
'I'm sorry. The paramedics tried very hard to save him, but he didn't make it. I'm very sorry.'
Audible sobs escape her bowed head. Sam gives her a moment before going on.
'There was someone else in the car.'
Charli looks up, eyes widening in fear.
'Was it mum?'
'One of our officers believe it's your mother, but we need someone to officially identify her. Your dad's on his way to the hospital now. I'm really sorry.'
Sam squeezes her shoulder; the paramedic is hovering on Charli's other side.
'Your dad's waiting for you at the hospital.'
She drops her head, clenches her fists, and shudders. Sam watches her shutdown; she has seen it happen a thousand times. Her face retreats behind the blanket, and loud sobs fill the air.
'I'm so sorry, Charli,' Sam says. 'Is there anyone else we can call for you?'
Charli ignores the request. The paramedic places an arm around her shoulders. Sam nods at him, hesitating for a minute, before pushing herself to her feet; her legs tingle as the blood returns. She walks the short distance to Mal.
'No point in talking to her tonight,' she whispers, glancing at her watch. 'Let's swing by the hospital in a few hours and get her statement.' The dark of night would soon turn into dawn, and she wanted some sleep before sunrise.
He nods and meanders back to the bank. Sam checks the hospital details with the paramedic and asks him to make an inventory of her personal belongings with a uniformed police officer. She looks down on the sobbing girl, itching to comfort her, but her professional boundaries keep the space between them.
'I'm really sorry for your loss,' she says, leaning down towards her, before she straightens and walks away. Experience tells her the girl is in a dark, desolate place, and she's heavy with the realisation that her words have changed a young life that will never be the same.
Chapter Three
Charli wakes in the dark with her heart thumping and bathed in sweat. She bolts upright, gagging on the smell of disinfectant, and balls starched sheets in her fists. A dull light beneath the drawn curtain shows a metal bed rail and a small table with a plastic cup of water.
She peers into the dark, confused. She searches for something familiar. Memories flood in: the car, Ash, and her mum. Her eyes scan the dark, and her hands clutch the rail. Her body is ready to run. She rattles the rail to test its strength, and a nurse with a penlight peers around the curtain.
'You all right, love?' she whispers, gliding to her side.
Charli stares at her, unable to speak.
'I expect you need the loo,' she says, lowering the rail and pointing to a door. 'Just through there. I'll be here if you need anything.'
Before Charli makes it back to bed, a familiar voice brings tears to her eyes.
'I'm looking for Charli Richter.'
Dad. She turns as he enters and is engulfed by strong arms. Her head finds his shoulder, and she breathes in his familiar scent.
'Charli, thank God.'
He holds her at arm's length, checking her over before finding her eyes.
'Are you all right? Are you hurt?'
She shakes her head, bereft of words; her throat is thick.
'I'm so glad you're here. I can't believe it.' He chokes up, and Charli clings tighter.
'I'm sorry,' she mumbles against his shoulder.
'It's not your fault. I don't know what your mother was thinking taking you guys to the lake at that time of night. What was going on?'
'I don't know; I can't remember.'
He swipes a hand over her brow and kisses it.
'Don't worry, sweetie. It'll come back to you, just give it time. For now, you should rest.' Solemn dark eyes meet hers, and she nods as he swings her back into bed and tucks her in. He pulls a plastic chair to her bedside; his tall frame folds as he lowers himself to her level. His hand dwarfs hers with a grip so tight that she loses circulation. She smells the faint sting of scotch on his breath. His face is haunted with dark circles beneath the eyes; he is pale despite his olive skin.
'Is there anything you need?' he asks, anxiously peering into her face.
Pain hangs between them, making them tentative and unsure. She shakes her head, and he releases his grip and pats her hand, now filling with pins and needles as the blood returns.
'Rest, sweet girl,' he says in a husky voice. 'Just rest.' He kisses her shoulder. 'I love you so much. More than I can say.'
She squeezes his hand.
'I love you, too.'
She closes her eyes and drifts off, cocooned in the safety of his presence. The next time she opens them, she sees a room flooded with morning light. Two sets of unfamiliar eyes are on her as she fights to wake up. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she pushes herself up with a deep frown creasing her brow. She wets her lips with a moist tongue and stares at the woman. Recognition is slow to come.
'Where's Dad?' she asks, swiping the hair from her face.
'Went home for a bit; he shouldn't be long,' a rotund nurse says, hovering at the end of the bed. Her accent is straight from the moors of Scotland.
A young blonde nods from the seat beside her. She's vaguely familiar. Charli searches for the memory.
'Morning, Charli! Remember me from last night? I'm Detective Constable Harris, and this is Sergeant Slocum. We just want a quick chat. Nurse Kelly will stay to chaperone.'
Charli nods as Sam fingers a dog-eared notepad and recorder on her lap and grabs a pen from her ponytail. The woman's gold eyes unnerve Charli. Sam asks for her full name, date of birth, and residence. Charli responds automatically until Sam asks about last night. Charli struggles to assemble her thoughts. They dance in her head, flashes of memory darting back and forth. The flashbacks wound her, making her rise up in fright.
It was the night of th
e Christmas party. She remembers standing in the lounge, gazing at the Christmas tree in awe and waiting for the first guests. Her mother's hand was on her shoulder, and then she smoothed her hair and smiled at her in that strange way she did sometimes; she had that distant look that Charli could never quite work out. Her smile touched her eyes, and there was a sparkle of mischief that gave a glimpse of another life—one before marriage, children, and responsibility. Clare crushed her in an unexpected hug, tight against her chest, and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Then her mother touched the wet spot with her fingers before turning to greet the Johnsons, who announced their arrival with an enthusiastic 'Yoo-hoo.'
'It was like she knew something was going to happen,' she whispers aloud, feeling the imprint of her mother's lips.
'Charli?' Sam is waiting, expectant.
The party was in full swing as the sun set and darkness fell. Everyone in Delany enjoyed it as much as her family, and most showed up early and stayed late. Half of Charli's class was there, with or without their parents. The atmosphere was festive; air conditioning created the illusion of winter in an otherwise typical wet season night that brought heat, humidity, and pendulous clouds. Large stand-up fans cooled the tables in the backyard, and many younger guests, who weren't indoors, were in the pool floating on coloured rings or playing volleyball in the shallows. The air was charged, drinks flowed, and waiters in black pants and white shirts circled with trays of delectable morsels. Charli recognised one of the girls in her hockey team with a silver tray in her hands. She smiled, but the girl looked away, a flush staining her cheeks. Charli blinked, sensing the girl's shame at serving her. There was a moment of guilt that lasted as long as it took Ella to drag her to the pool and watch Jake and his friends somersault in, one after the other.
'It's Mum's big thing, ' she says to the detectives. 'It's always on the second Saturday in December. The doors are open from six to midnight, and they invite everyone we know.' Her voice sounds mechanical and forced.