by Sarah Bailey
‘I’m sorry, Cooper, but I’m more of a solo worker. Why don’t you just send them to me to look over?’
‘Deal.’ He sticks out his hand; she looks at it, then shakes it. ‘Thanks, Oli, this was great. A real memory-bank day. I’d better get filing!’ He scampers off, clutching the camera, the tails of several cords hanging out the top of his half-open backpack.
CHAPTER TEN
THE AUTOMATIC GATES CLOSE SILENTLY, BLOCKING OFF THE TREE-LINED street. A few beats later, the garage door starts its descent, sealing Oli safely inside. Home. Dean’s Land Rover is already here, and she sits in the dark for a few moments, trying to decompress before she heads inside.
After she dropped Cooper off at the office, she drove to her favourite pub in Richmond for a beer and a bowl of chips, which she devoured in between mapping out the framework of her feature, all the while checking for updates from the cops. They still haven’t confirmed the identity of the body, even though the majority of news outlets are running with Nicole’s name while dredging up photos of the housemates and images from Alex Riboni’s trial. The police must be struggling to get on to Nicole’s family, and no doubt the fire has made processing the scene more challenging. Oli tried a few searches to determine if the Horrowitzes still live in Melbourne but couldn’t find any personal details. A missing daughter turning up dead is bad enough, but the fact she was alive for so long then died by suicide will surely carry extra pain. And if it turns out they have a granddaughter, they’ll have to come to terms with that as well.
Sitting in the garage, Oli texts Rusty’s personal phone to ask if he’s okay, hoping he might offer more intel. She’s tempted to message Cooper and double-check if he’s heard from Alex, but she doesn’t want to encourage dialogue. Plus, she thinks wryly, Cooper will call, email and text if he has even the slightest update. She closes her eyes briefly. Babysitting him was exhausting—though admittedly he turned out to be a good photographer, and taking the shot of Nicole showed some unexpected spunk. It helped that Oli enjoyed being out of the office and working a big story.
She thinks back over some of their conversations. Alistair Joosten’s apparent involvement in the podcast surprises her. She’ll talk to TJ about it; they’re in the same boat, after all, battle-weary soldiers in an increasingly crowded and high-tech field.
She knows she should head upstairs, but she’s enjoying the quiet of the garage. The dry air gives it a cosy feel. Cans of paint line the shelves on the left wall, and an impressive array of tools hang on the back. Who knew you could own so many things? When she moved out of her rented apartment, there was nothing to pack from the single-car garage except an old tent and a tatty broom.
Dean knows his way around the corporate ladder, but he’s rather fond of the other kind as well. He collects skills like a Cub Scout, always embarking on some kind of learning adventure and encouraging the girls to do the same. Last year his mother told Oli that he’s always been like that. Desperate to compete with his brothers, was her theory. Dean has two older brothers born a year apart, but there’s an eight-year age gap between Patrick and Dean. Patrick and John are doctors, athletic and amiable, so it stands to reason that Dean would feel the need to prove himself. He’s constantly mastering something: pruning the fruit trees, building a bird feeder, learning a language. Conversely, he’s forever wanting Oli to outsource tasks, to slow down and do less.
Most people would kill for a life like this, to have someone like Dean. Ten years ago, she would have killed for it. And maybe that’s the problem. It feels too good to be true, like it might be taken away as quickly as it arrived. Her thoughts splinter, shards of glass hovering in space. She tosses her head, and the pieces retreat to the edges of her mind.
She can’t sit in the garage all night.
The snappy scent of garlic fills her nostrils as she steps into the stairwell. Kate is playing the piano, a haunting classical melody that weaves through the house. Oli stops short on the landing. A tinkle of female laughter. It must be Toni; she remembers Dean saying he would ask her to pick up the kids. Toni lives next door in a stunning light-filled house with a lap pool and a rooftop balcony. Her husband is a financial expert who spends a lot of his time in Dubai and New York. Toni and Isabelle used to go on holidays together with the children when their husbands were stuck at work. A few months ago Toni invited Dean and Oli for dinner, and in the kitchen she noticed a photo of Isabelle and Toni on a pin board, drinking cocktails. Isabelle looked happy and relaxed, nothing like the serious detective Oli had observed at crime scenes and press conferences.
Kate finishes her piano piece and starts a new one.
Oli wants nothing more than to go straight upstairs and have a shower, crawl into bed and fall into a long dreamless sleep. For a minute she craves her pokey old apartment with its double bed and worn flannel sheets.
Laughter flares again, followed by Dean’s low-pitched chuckle. Oli has a strange sense of being an intruder in her own house. She makes her way quietly down the corridor, her fingers tracing the photo frames on the wall. Dean and the girls; the girls on their own. Dean and Oli, taken on the night Dean proposed. On a side table is a small frame with a photo of Isabelle holding Kate when she was a baby.
Oli stops in front of the picture. Isabelle’s fingers curl around Kate’s plump legs. Her eyes exactly match the sky-blue of her shirt. She was petite, but Oli saw first-hand her quiet power. It’s hard to believe that in the end she was wiped out so cruelly. Oli has never said anything to Dean about the photo, or commented on the one in the lounge room—it would be a petty thing to raise—but all of a sudden she wonders how he would react if photos of her ex were on display in their house. But this is different, of course: the tragedy of Isabelle’s death means the normal rules don’t apply. Grief trumps insecurity.
Underneath the tinkling piano, Oli detects a male voice that doesn’t belong to Dean. Who is that? She corrects her posture and fluffs out her hair. As she enters the kitchen, she arranges her face into a pleasant expression. Nathan Farrow, Dean’s main university client, is seated next to Toni at the island bench, and Dean stands opposite them both. Amy is at the kitchen table, sitting bolt upright while she types away on her laptop.
Toni spots her first, her expression dipping a little before resetting. ‘Olive! Hi.’
‘Hi, Toni.’ Oli waves awkwardly, depositing her satchel on the spotless bench. ‘Hi, Nathan.’
Oli’s only met him once before, at a fancy lunch Dean’s business hosted a few months ago. He’s in his fifties, tall and trim, and seems to be experimenting, unsuccessfully, with facial hair. From their brief conversation Oli remembers thinking he seemed surprised to find himself in such a senior position. He has relied on Dean like a prosthetic limb ever since the uni was embroiled in a sex scandal three months ago. A male student claims he was assaulted by a male teacher on campus after hours; the teacher denies it. The student has mental health issues. For the sake of her relationship with Dean, Oli was happy to see the story go to TJ.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Oli,’ Nathan says. ‘I’m sorry I’m always monopolising your husband.’
The word ‘husband’ hangs in the air, but no one corrects him.
‘Hey, babe.’ Dean puts down his beer and ambles over, kisses Oli on the lips. ‘Nath tagged along with me. We’ve got some more work to do tonight, unfortunately. Want a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
Toni throws back the remaining contents of her glass and rakes a hand through her curly black hair. ‘I was just telling Dean that there have been some break-ins in the neighbourhood, over in Grant Street and one on Nolan.’
‘That’s no good,’ Oli says.
‘Yeah. Jewellery and electronics. Some cash.’ Toni ticks the items off on her fingers. ‘Definitely worth being extra careful.’
‘Absolutely.’ Oli has found that despite their expensive security systems and overblown insurance policies, people in this area are much more worried about being burgled than those
in her old suburb.
Toni slides off the chair and straightens her fitted T-shirt. ‘I should be off. I’m sure the boys haven’t done a scrap of homework, and god knows what state the house is in.’
‘Thanks for helping out, Tones,’ Dean says. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’
‘Oh, no problem! Any time. It’s always nice to hang out with the girls. Such a pleasant change to my stinky boys, god love them.’ Toni gives Amy a tight hug. ‘Good to see you, hon. Let me know how you go with your project, okay?’
Amy nods, smiling up at her.
‘It was nice to meet you, Nathan.’ Toni shakes his hand.
‘Absolutely.’ He nods and grips her hand. ‘Very nice.’
Oli exchanges a smile with Dean. Clearly Nathan is taken with Toni.
‘I’ll just duck in and say bye to Kate.’ Toni waves at Oli and kisses Dean on the cheek. ‘You guys have a great week! Might catch you on the weekend.’ She exits the kitchen, an attractive ball of energy.
‘Want some dinner, Oli?’ Dean clears his throat, plucking Toni’s empty glass from the bench before rinsing it out. His face is flushed; he’s clearly had more than one drink, which is unusual.
Despite the chips she ate earlier, Oli is still starving. ‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Salmon. Toni whipped it up.’
‘It’s very good,’ Nathan says.
Oli wrinkles her nose. She’d kill for a steak or maybe some pasta.
Dean arranges the food on a large white plate. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then seems to change his mind. He pours himself a glass of water.
‘Thanks.’ Oli sits on the chair Toni vacated. It’s still warm. ‘How are you, Nathan?’
He presses his lips together, nods. ‘Oh, you know, not bad. Dean is keeping me on my toes. No doubt I’d be in a hopeless mess without him.’
‘Nathan did a great job today.’ Dean sips his water as he watches Oli shake soy sauce onto her meal. ‘Go easy on that, Ol, it’s full of salt.’
She puts the bottle down and avoids eye contact with him. Dean puts it back in the cupboard.
‘Hey, Ames, time to get ready for bed, please.’ Dean’s tone doesn’t invite argument. ‘Tell your sister.’
Amy closes the laptop abruptly. ‘Goodnight,’ she says.
‘Night, Amy,’ chime Oli and Nathan.
She leaves the room. A minute later, the piano stops.
‘Night, Kate!’ Dean calls out.
Her little voice reaches the kitchen. ‘Goodnight.’
‘How’s the world of journalism going, Oli?’ Nathan asks.
‘Good, thanks. Busy.’
Dean tips his head sideways and looks at her with affection. ‘Media is going through the same transformation as education. People want their news in snack format. That’s why the PR game has become such a nightmare—it’s just headlines, no one reads the bloody detail anymore.’
Oli feels defensive. ‘Our numbers are still pretty good.’
Yawning, he circles his shoulders in their sockets. ‘Journalism is no safer from automation than any other industry.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ says Oli, thinking back to her conversation with Cooper.
‘I saw O’Brien got off today,’ Nathan says tentatively, looking between the two of them.
Oli nods. ‘Yeah. Good lawyers, I guess. And lots of practice dodging the truth.’
‘His career is still ruined, though,’ Dean says.
‘I’m sure a generous board position will come his way in the not-too-distant future,’ Oli says.
Nathan nods and takes an awkward sip of beer. ‘That does seem to be the way the cookie crumbles.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Dean says. ‘The court of public conviction is gaining strength, as you know all too well, Nath.’ Dean is in a strange mood, Oli thinks. He makes a half-hearted attempt to clean the spotless bench, then fusses with the dishes drying in the rack before he brings his hands together in a silent clap. ‘Nath, we should knuckle down. We’ve got a fair bit to cover.’
‘Yes, absolutely yes,’ Nathan says, and points to the lounge. ‘Should we set up in there?’
‘Yes, mate, you go ahead. Feel free to commandeer the dining table. Read through the prop I sent you, and I’ll be in shortly.’
Nathan picks up his bag. ‘No worries. Well, goodnight, Oli. Thanks for putting up with this.’
‘Not a problem.’
Now that Kate isn’t playing the piano, the kitchen feels hollow. Oli tunes in to the steady tick of the grandfather clock.
Dean comes around the bench to massage her shoulders. ‘You okay?’
She nods. ‘It was just a long day.’
‘I hope it’s okay that Nath’s here. I meant to text you.’
‘It’s totally fine.’
Dean’s fingers probe her tense muscles, and she starts to relax. ‘Has that Horrowitz girl really been holed up in the sticks the entire time?’
‘We don’t know.’ Oli’s thoughts return to the events of the day. ‘Someone else was definitely living there until a few years ago so I doubt it. But at this point I suppose anything is possible.’
‘It all seems very bizarre.’
‘I know. And we think she was living there with her daughter.’
He looks puzzled. ‘She had a kid?’
‘We’re pretty sure.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘I got buddied up with this kid from the digital department and had to play babysitter all day. He’s a total pain in the arse, actually.’
‘I bet.’ Dean’s gaze drops to the floor.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Dean?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just Isabelle worked on that case, you know.’
Oli tilts her head, trying to read his body language. ‘Yes, I covered the story. Don’t you remember?’
He ignores her question. ‘It really broke her.’
Oli goes to the sink and pours a glass of water. Gulps it down thirstily before saying, ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘She was under a lot of pressure. I was really worried about her.’ He reaches for Oli’s hand. ‘I worry about you too.’ Little sparks of electricity run through her as he strokes her palm, traces his finger up her wrist. There’s something oddly pleasurable about being compared to Isabelle, having Dean pair them in this way.
‘I’m not a cop, Dean,’ she says gently. ‘It’s totally different. Plus, I don’t even know if the case will be officially reopened. It might be a dead end.’
He dips his head and gives a small nod, then nudges her legs open, standing between them. Her limbs give way, and he presses his pelvis into hers. ‘I know, I know. It’s just … Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes this feels like a second chance. I can be a better husband than I was back then.’ He stares into her eyes. ‘A better person. You know what I mean.’
Oli casts her mind back to their secret dates, their secret emails and texts. The primal intensity of it all. She was obsessed with him. She hung on to any suggestion that his marriage wouldn’t last. She spent half her waking life waiting for him to call. Every text triggered a mild panic attack. Even though she’d expected it, the emotional gut-punch when he told her he couldn’t see her anymore was brutal. She barely ate, barely slept, and walked around in a haze for months, unable to purge herself of him. Disoriented and broken, she wondered if she might not survive.
And now, impossibly, she has unfettered access to him. She’s living her own fantasy.
His voice cracks. ‘I’d be lost without you, Oli, and so would the girls. You’re so important to me.’ His fingers massage the back of her scalp as he kisses her gently.
She closes her eyes and tries to let herself melt into him, conscious of Nathan in the other room.
Dean’s lips nuzzle at her ear. ‘Now you’re finally mine,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t lose you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she says, staring at her reflection ove
r his shoulder in the mirrored splashback.
Oli slips past the twins’ closed doors and down the hallway, clutching her old laptop to her chest, a shoebox under her arm. Her skin is clammy and flushed from sex, her limbs loosened by endorphins, but she’s more alert than she has been all day. Nathan didn’t leave until almost eleven, and she was asleep when Dean came upstairs. He was gentle but determined; he is always so physical, so intense. Afterwards, he fell asleep immediately, his arm resting across her abdomen. But she lay there, the image of Nicole’s dead body playing on her mind.
Oli opens the door at the end of the passage and flicks on the light. Isabelle’s room. The built-in wardrobe runs the length of the wall opposite and goes all the way to the ceiling. On the cream sofa bed are several folded blankets, alongside a trio of case-less pillows. A piano keyboard stands in the corner, some sheet music propped on its ledge. The curtains are partly open, and the window behind the uncluttered oak desk looks down onto Survey Drive.
She eases the door shut and gazes out from behind the glass. After a few moments, a red car slowly sails past. There’s a flurry of movement near the front fence—a possum darting up a tree, or perhaps an adventurous cat. Pulling away, she sets her laptop on the small side table that faces the door, and plugs her charger into the wall. Her old machine whirs to life, making faint electronic noises.
She places the shoebox on the oak desk. Smooths her hand across the glossy grain.
Isabelle used to love this room. Dean said she fed the twins in here when they were babies. Later, it became her study.
Another car screeches into the street, and its headlights sweep across the front gate, lighting up the driveway. Its motor is revved obnoxiously as it passes the house, then the night settles into silence again. Oli sits, her feet tucked under her legs in the leather office chair, and tugs off the cardboard lid. Six notebooks and dozens of memory sticks. All have labels: little white pieces of paper sealed with sticky tape to protect the names she wrote on them. When she left The Daily, she spent an entire weekend saving all of her old pieces, research notes and contact lists, wondering if it would prove to be a complete waste of time. Clearly not.
