‘I wasn’t going to expose you,’ Quinn said. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘I know.’ But Hannah didn’t quite believe her. Not entirely.
‘Anyway, let’s reconvene again soon,’ Quinn said with a yawn. ‘I’m too tired to think about it tonight.’
She looked so drained that Hannah patted her on the knee. ‘Have you spoken to your parents yet? They must be so worried.’
Quinn shook her head. ‘They’ve been calling me three times a day. I don’t know how to face them.’
‘They love you,’ Hannah said gently. ‘Let people in, Quinn. It makes everything a little bit easier.’
‘God, are you and Patrick swapping notes or something?’ Quinn stared into her can of beer for a moment. ‘Sometimes I’m afraid that if I let go, I’m going to float away. It feels easier to tie it all up inside and shove it down. But that’s not the answer, is it?’
Hannah squeezed her knee. ‘Go and visit them. Let them help you. And when you’ve done that, maybe you could try to patch things up with Patrick?’
‘Oh man.’ Quinn rested her head against the back of the couch. ‘He’s better off without me. Besides, I doubt he’ll want to speak to me again now.’
‘You’ll never know if you don’t try.’ Hannah stood up. ‘Sorry, but I need to get home and deal with my own relationship issues. Call me, OK?’
Quinn saw her to the door. ‘You really think I should call Patrick?’
Hannah shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. All I know is that guys who drive back and forth from Normanville three times just to be there for you without sex are few and far between. Don’t sacrifice a chance at happiness because you’re scared to let someone care about you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO
QUINN
Hannah’s housemate, Rami, let Quinn in and gestured wordlessly towards Hannah’s bedroom. Quinn thanked him and walked down the dingy hallway, the scratched pine floorboards creaking with every step. It’d been a week since the accident, and Hannah had barely left her bed. The news of Harris’s death had rocked the entire university, hushed whispers in every corridor as Quinn went to her classes. She wondered how the other women she and Hannah had tracked down felt about the whole thing. Were they relieved, or were they feeling ripped off that they’d missed a chance to bring him to justice? Or were they just as shocked and saddened as everyone else?
As for Quinn, she was pissed off. She wasn’t sorry he was dead – and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it – but they’d been a day away from exposing him. And now poor Hannah was a mess. Quinn had never seen her so shaken, so small and lost. Hannah was a tiger, and it made Quinn furious that because of that bastard’s actions her fierce friend had been reduced to this quivering kitten.
She pushed open the bedroom door and peered in. ‘Can I come in?’
Hannah nodded, her face a pale oval on the pillow, shockingly white against her chocolate hair. Quinn sat down on the edge of the bed and gestured to the six-pack under her arm.
‘You want a beer?’
‘No, thanks,’ Hannah said.
‘How are you doing?’
Hannah shrugged and her eyes filled with tears. ‘The same.’
Quinn fought the urge to take her shoulders and shake her. ‘You don’t need to keep feeling guilty about this, you know. He caused the accident, not you.’
‘But if I hadn’t provoked him …’ Hannah’s eyes were pleading, as if she was begging to be blamed. ‘And I should have called the police, not dragged you into it.’
‘That wouldn’t change the fact that he’s dead. They would have made the story about you, and then you’d be the one on the evening news.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Hannah struggled to sit up, ‘the news will be on in a few minutes.’
Quinn suppressed a sigh. ‘You need to stop watching it. It’s not doing you any good.’
But she could only watch helplessly as her friend shoved her feet into fluffy blue slippers, pulled on a robe and left the room. Quinn followed her out to the lounge room, where Hannah sat down on the sagging, wine-stained couch and pointed the remote at the television. The front door slammed as Janet and Rami left the house, something they had taken to doing every night while Hannah went through this morbid ritual. As far as they knew, Hannah was grieving for a teacher who had been her mentor. Only Quinn knew what had really happened. But this would blow over soon enough. Sure, Harris had been a respected part of Adelaide academia, but there was only so long the media could draw this out. And then the old Hannah would come back, carefree and full of life, and their lives would go back to normal.
‘Oh,’ Hannah said suddenly, and Quinn turned her attention to the TV. The police commissioner was fronting the camera, another officer standing beside him. And behind him, her face drawn and brave, was the woman Quinn now recognised as Harris’s wife.
‘There’ve been some new developments,’ the commissioner was saying. ‘We’ve discovered some inconsistencies in our initial accident report. After analysing the skid marks at the scene of the accident and matching them with the wear on the car’s tyres, it now appears as if the emergency brake was applied. But when emergency services arrived on the scene of the accident, the brake was off.
‘Forensic experts also found traces of blood on the outside of the car, which have now been identified as the victim’s blood. However, the blood was found on the passenger side door, and the autopsy revealed that the victim most likely died on impact. We now have reason to believe that someone else may have been in the car with Mr Harris at the time of the accident.’
‘Oh god oh god oh god,’ Hannah moaned.
Harris’s wife was speaking now, the strain of the situation stretched across her face. ‘I just want to know what happened to my husband,’ she appealed. ‘If anyone saw anything, if anyone has any information, please come forward. Please.’
The scene was cut and the newsreader moved on to other news. Hannah turned to Quinn and clutched her arm. ‘What am I going to do? Should I tell them? Should I go to the police and tell them it was me in the car?’
‘No!’ Quinn took Hannah’s forearms and held them tight. ‘You’re not doing anything. There’s no evidence that points to you.’
‘But—’
‘You keep your fucking mouth shut, Hannah!’
Quinn released her arms, and Hannah sat back. ‘OK. OK.’
‘I’m not going to let you ruin your life over this. Confessing won’t bring him back to life, it’ll just complicate yours. Anyway, you’ve got nothing to confess to.’ She watched Hannah’s face closely. ‘Have you?’
For a split second, Hannah looked panicked. Trapped. Then, ‘I just want this to be over.’
Quinn sat back against the lumpy couch cushions and stared at the TV. But in her mind she saw the anxiety on Hannah’s face before Quinn had started cleaning up after her. Saw her body tilted in through the window of Harris’s car. Heard the distinctive creak from within.
And she tucked this information away in her mind. Hid it away so deep that no one would ever be able to draw it out of her. Not unless she needed it one day.
She turned a reassuring smile on Hannah. ‘Everything’s going to be OK, you’ll see.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
QUINN
After Hannah left, Quinn thought about what she’d said about Patrick. She hadn’t let herself imagine that he might forgive her, but now the seed of hope bloomed within her. Long after she’d gone to bed, she was still restless and unable to sleep. Then, finally, in the early hours of the morning she screwed up all her courage and sent him a message:
I’m sorry about all the horrible things I said to you. I understand if you don’t want anything more to do with me, but I miss you and I’d like to see you again. Quinn.
He wouldn’t see it until the morning, but now she’d sent it, she couldn’t take it back. She clenched the bedsheets in her fists. Then her phone started ringing.
‘
Hi,’ she said.
‘How are you?’ His voice, croaky from sleep, was as warm as it had always been. Quinn could have cried.
‘Contrite.’
‘So are you back at work tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Nope. I got fired.’
He sighed. ‘Shit, mate. Sorry to hear that.’
‘I don’t think I could’ve gone back anyway.’
‘Still, I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I kicked you out, and I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean all that stuff. I get mean when I’m scared. You should probably know that about me.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Not that I’m assuming you want to see me again, of course,’ she added. ‘Not like I deserve it.’
His silence stretched out, and Quinn started to panic. She’d put too much of herself out there; she should’ve held back but now she’d humiliated herself even further. As if she hadn’t already made enough of a fool of herself since she’d met him.
‘God, sorry. My brain is all messed up. This morning I was literally planning to murder Simon, and now I’m messaging you in the middle of the night. I’m sorry for storming into your life and fucking everything up—’
‘If you’re not going to work tomorrow, why don’t you take a bit of a holiday?’ he interrupted. ‘I hear Normanville is beautiful this time of year.’
Warmth washed through Quinn, and she closed her eyes. ‘You want me to stay with you?’
‘Only if you want to. I mean, I need to go to work, but you’re welcome here for as long as you want.’
She held her breath. Did she have the courage to do this? If she went to his house, stayed with him, that would be an acknowledgement of a relationship, and she still wasn’t even sure if that was what she wanted. Especially now.
‘When do you want me there?’
‘It should take you a bit over an hour to get here. Maybe less at this time of the night.’
‘Wait, you want me to leave tonight?’
‘Well, are you going to be able to get back to sleep now?’
Quinn grinned. ‘What’s your address?’
Silvery moonlight splashed over Patrick’s porch as she went up the steps. She was filled with a mixture of trepidation and elation. She’d taken the leap, but she had no idea whether she was going to land on her feet or crash and burn. This was by far the scariest thing she’d done in her life.
She was lifting her hand to knock on the door when it swung open and there was Patrick, illuminated from behind by the light in the hallway. The moonlight highlighted his crooked smile, his laugh lines, his stubbled cheeks. He looked tired and happy and delicious.
‘Come in.’ He stepped back and let her inside.
His house was a nineteen-twenties cottage, with thick double-brick walls and polished pine floorboards. She followed him up the hallway to the kitchen.
‘Want a cuppa?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Were you really planning to kill that bastard?’
‘For like half a day. Hannah talked me out of it.’
‘Hannah’s a smart woman.’
Quinn tried to smile, but now she was here, a wave of exhaustion swept over her. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Patrick, but I really need to sleep.’
‘Of course. Sorry. Do you want to sleep in the spare room?’
‘No, doofus, I want to sleep with you.’
He gave her a shy smile. ‘This way.’
His room was spacious and clean, with no furniture other than one bedside table and a big, comfortable-looking bed with a striped blue and white bedspread. She hadn’t changed out of her pyjamas before driving down here, so she simply kicked off her thongs and slipped under the quilt. The sheets held the faint smell of sunshine and detergent.
‘Did you change the sheets before I got here?’ she asked.
He looked sheepish. ‘I wanted it to be fresh for you. Not that I was presuming you were gonna want to sleep in here … but just in case.’
‘Come here.’ She beckoned to him.
He pulled off his T-shirt and got into the bed beside her. She shuffled over and he opened his arm for her to lay her head on, then closed it around her shoulders. She splayed a hand over his chest and his warmth seeped into her body, made it languid, heavy. He was saying something to her, but she couldn’t make her brain focus on the words, and she slid effortlessly into sleep.
Patrick had left for work by the time Quinn woke. She couldn’t remember where she’d left her phone, but the clock on the bedside table told her it was ten o’clock. She stretched luxuriously between the sheets. Though she’d only had five hours of sleep, her body felt soft, renewed, at peace. Patrick’s scent clung to the sheets and that swooning, tingling feeling swept over her again. She rolled over a few times, tried to go back to sleep, then gave up and got out of the bed.
He’d left her a note on the kitchen bench: Pancakes in the fridge if you want them. Make yourself at home. She got the pancakes out of the fridge and ate them cold with nothing on them. There was a tiny capsule coffee machine at the end of the bench, so she made herself a coffee, picked up the last pancake, then set about snooping.
She started in the lounge room, inspecting his CD and DVD collections.
‘Way to embrace the twenty-first century, Patrick,’ she murmured.
His music collection comprised mostly indie Australian music from the late nineties, but there was some Nirvana and Pearl Jam in there too, and a few AC/DC albums thrown in for good measure. There were a few action movies, a lot of Star Wars and even a few arthouse films; a balanced collection. She tentatively approved, though spared a slight concern about whether he had internet, and hence access to streaming services. What else was she going to do while he was at work?
As she left the room, his words hummed away in the back of her mind:
The only thing I’ve got left of him now is his old gun.
Quinn shook her head furiously and moved on to his bedroom, which, as she’d discovered when she arrived early this morning, didn’t have a whole lot of stuff in it. There was an old wooden wardrobe in one corner. She opened it and sifted through his clothes, mostly workwear with a few smart-casual options. The drawer beside the bed contained a tumble of underwear, mostly in good condition, and a packet of condoms. Quinn raised her eyebrows. The man was prepared. That boded well.
The bathroom was next. The shower cubicle was small (no good for sex, Quinn thought), but it was clean, containing a toilet (seat down) and an old powder-blue pedestal basin. There was a cabinet with a tiny scratched mirror on the wall above the basin. Quinn peed, then washed her hands and looked in the cabinet. Shaving products, toothpaste, toothbrush, a bottle of cologne that looked like it’d been there for years. Quinn sprayed a bit on her wrist and sniffed. Spicy. Maybe a bit stale, but it probably smelled better on him.
The spare bedroom was empty other than a bed and another bedside table with nothing in it. The whispering voice in her head got louder, and she opened the laundry door and went outside. The backyard was larger than she expected from the small size of the house, and, surprisingly for a property owned by a landscape gardener, consisted only of a large patch of singed-looking lawn with a narrow garden bed running around the perimeter. A washing line was affixed to the side of the house, a load of washing flapping in the light breeze. Quinn thought about taking it off, then figured that might be a bit weird. Her heart gave a thump as she saw the little green garden shed in the corner against the fence.
The grass crunched beneath her bare feet and the iron door rattled as she opened it. She squinted in the gloom, filled with a curious mixture of hope and dread. Lawn mower, tools, a rake, a shovel. She was about to walk out when she noticed the little steel box sitting on the top shelf, just within her reach. Anticipation buzzed through her. It was locked, of course. She ran her fingers along the shelf, but they came away covered in dust. She looked on the floor. In the corners. Behind
the door. Bingo. There was a set of keys hanging on a nail. She hesitated for a second. This was wrong. The box was locked for a reason. She should go back into the house, find something else to occupy her. But she couldn’t deny that from the moment she’d started looking around Patrick’s house, she’d known this was what she’d been looking for. She took the keys down, slotted one into the lock on the box and opened it.
Inside was a small bundle, wrapped in an oily cloth. Holding her breath, she took it out gingerly and opened the cloth. She’d been expecting it, but still she gasped, her heart thudding when she saw the revolver. It was small and black and surprisingly heavy. As she took it out and turned it over in her hands, something primal jolted through her whole body.
I want you to help me kill him.
Shaken, she wrapped it up and placed it back into the box, her heart still hammering. She had no idea whether it was loaded, but there were a few little boxes of ammunition in there as well. Keen now to get away from the weapon, she closed the box, locked it and replaced the keys on the nail.
Back in the house, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d never seen a gun before. When she’d asked Hannah to help her kill Simon, the gun had only been theoretical, something she’d kept tucked away in a far corner of her mind. And by that time she’d already forced Patrick out of her life. But now she’d held it, she couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to point it at Simon, to see the fear in his eyes. She’d told both Hannah and Patrick that she’d abandoned her foolish plan, and she’d meant it, but for the rest of the day, her mind kept returning to the smooth steel of the gun, and the heady feeling of holding death in her hands.
Patrick got home at four. His hair curled out from beneath his navy Yates Landscaping cap, and his cheerful grin made her belly flip over in a very embarrassing fashion.
‘Honey, I’m home.’
‘Don’t do that,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
The Favour Page 26