by Sarah Bailey
Their meals arrive. ‘Enjoy!’ declares the waiter, looking delighted.
‘I just don’t get why Alex Riboni would suicide now—it doesn’t make sense,’ Oli says after a few mouthfuls. ‘I keep going over it. She was about to do an exclusive with our paper, come clean about the past. Then what, she just decides to top herself?’ Oli shakes her head. ‘It’s weird.’
Dean shrugs, cutting his fish into tiny pieces. ‘She clearly had issues.’
‘I spoke to Evelyn Stanley’s father yesterday, and he told me his daughter lent him a large amount of money a few months before she died.’ Oli puts her fork down and drinks the rest of her champagne. ‘I think the girls were involved in something serious.’
Dean laughs. ‘Mitchell Stanley? Come on, Oli, he’s a total hack. He copped too many knocks to the head. He was a mess ten years ago, and I’ve heard he’s been in and out of rehab for the past couple of years. He probably barely remembers half of what was going on back then.’
‘I still think he’s right that something strange was going on in that house,’ says Oli, as she skewers a piece of steak with her fork. ‘I want to push it as far as I can. If cash was coming into that house, chances are it was from drugs, prostitution or both, and I’m convinced it’s linked to Alex killing Evelyn.’
Dean casually gestures for the waiter and orders a bottle of red. Oli is surprised—he rarely drinks this much, and neither does she. He has seemed stressed lately; maybe it’s getting on top of him.
‘This is a big deal for me,’ she says quietly.
‘Hey, I know.’ He takes her hand and kisses it. ‘No matter what, you’ll write a great piece, you always do. And I’ll get to brag about my clever fiancée.’
‘There’s a thing coming out tomorrow,’ she blurts. She needs to go easy on the wine, she’s already feeling light-headed. ‘A podcast about cold cases, starting with the Housemate case. We’re doing a bunch of interviews with people who knew the girls, and I’m in the first episode. It’s totally different from print, but I think it sounds okay.’
‘Huh.’ His eyes glitter in the candlelight. ‘I don’t know how I feel about the world listening to your sexy voice. It’s supposed to be just for me.’
She waves his comment away. ‘I’m really not sure that many people will listen to it anyway.’
‘I’m sure it will be very popular.’
‘TJ reckons the sale of the paper is imminent,’ she finds herself saying. ‘He tried to talk to me about leaving and doing something else, a start-up, but I don’t really understand what he was getting at. He said the paper will sell out and turn into a tabloid.’
Dean dabs at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I’ve heard the rumours about a sale, but it’s not confirmed. I think most companies can smell a bad investment.’
Oli looks at him. Doesn’t know what to say.
‘TJ doesn’t have a family,’ Dean continues. ‘It’s easier for him. He’s got lots of options—TV, or he can go overseas. But there’s no way you want to get involved in a start-up. Take it from someone who knows, it’s a shit ton of work. Way too stressful.’
‘I guess so.’ Heat creeps up her neck, spreading along the side of her face.
Dean puts the last of his fish in his mouth, oblivious to her frustration. ‘God, this is good.’
Oli speaks before she can change her mind. The wine has weakened her usual filter. ‘Did Isabelle have any theories about the Housemate case that she told you about?’
Dean frowns mid-chew. ‘No. She didn’t talk about it. We always kept work pretty separate.’
‘Surely you talked about the big cases she worked on?’ Oli pushes.
‘We really didn’t.’ He clasps his hands, seems to consider whether to say something or not.
‘What?’
He looks pained. ‘Isabelle … She was going to quit. Just before the accident she told me she planned to quit the force and focus on the girls—work until that Christmas, then pull the pin.’
‘Really?’
‘She wasn’t enjoying the strain it put us all under. I think she’d become disillusioned.’
Oli feels uneasy. This revelation doesn’t fit with her impression of Isabelle Yardley, who always seemed so ambitious and in control. ‘And how did you feel about it?’
‘I was supportive of her taking a step back. I thought she worked too hard, and it was affecting her mental health. She was acting oddly at times. The cases were getting to her. I’m actually not sure she was doing a great job, and things were falling over at home too.’
Oli’s jaw clenches. ‘Maybe you should have helped more,’ she says stiffly. ‘It can’t have been easy with the twins.’
His mouth twitches. ‘I did help.’
The adjacent table erupts with laughter again. Oli and Dean sip their wine in silence.
Isabelle was going to quit? Trade being a detective for being a housewife? Oli feels inexplicably annoyed at the dead woman.
‘Anyway, it’s all in the past,’ Dean says. ‘But it is a reminder to keep things in perspective. Work wise. She never got the chance to enjoy the downtime she was craving.’
‘I guess,’ Oli says, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
The waiter returns, deftly clearing their plates. ‘Dessert?’
‘Absolutely,’ Dean says firmly. He takes the menu and scans the back page. ‘Do you want to share some chocolate cake?’
‘You’ll have some?’
‘Sure, why not.’ He laughs.
‘Are you still taking the girls to Lakes Entrance tomorrow?’
‘Yep, I can’t wait to get out of town for a bit.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘The weather is actually looking pretty good too.’
‘I’m sure they will love it,’ Oli says.
‘Are you sure you can’t come?’
‘I really don’t think I can. I need to get this feature written, and we need to lock down the next few podcast episodes.’
‘You and Cooper?’
Oli doesn’t rise to the bait. ‘Plus, I’ve got interviews scheduled. Bowman’s agreed to talk to me about the case.’
Dean’s eyes widen, then narrow. ‘Greg Bowman’s a prick,’ he snaps.
‘Okay. Care to elaborate?’
‘I just don’t trust the guy. Don’t be fooled by his ridding-the-streets-of-evil bullshit, he’s all politics and game playing.’ Dean smirks meanly. ‘His head’s so far up his own arse, he probably believes it.’ ‘I’ll take that on board, but I really just want him to spill the beans on the Housemate case. It’s weird how he seems to want it swept under—’
‘Oli, listen to me.’ Dean grabs her wrist, his fingers pressing into her skin. ‘I love you, okay? You are my priority. You know that, right?’
She’s startled. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘I realise we agreed no children, that the twins were enough, but if it’s what you really want then let’s try, let’s do it. I just want you to be happy.’
Energy charges between them. The other patrons smile and talk, cutlery scraping against plates. After a moment Dean loosens his grip and sits back against his chair, eyes not leaving hers, even when shrieks of laughter erupt from the adjacent table as the maître d’ approaches with a birthday cake and a playful smile.
‘I am happy,’ she says, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘It’s just a lot to get used to at once.’
‘But this is what you always wanted, right?’ he insists. ‘To be with me?’
Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘It is.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2015
OLI IS TALKING TO ISABELLE. IT’S SUNNY, HOT. OLI IS VAGUELY aware they’re at a picnic. She’s drinking something lemony. Gin and tonic? She can’t see the others. Not that she remembers exactly who else is there. Maybe they are alone? Yes, that’s it, Isabelle wants to tell her something. Oli needs to concentrate. Listen. They stand next to a bright-green hedge, so close their shoulders almost touch. Then
there’s a confusing moment when Oli’s vision tilts like a knocked video recorder, and Isabelle’s light honeyed voice darts in and out of her ears—angry? urgent?—before a dark whip of hair hits Oli’s cheek and she’s gone.
Oli lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. She smells her own body odour mixed with last night’s perfume. Another night of sleep that has left her more tired than rested. She blinks several times, her fingers settling into the soft dip of her wrist as they feel for the pulsing blood. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
The dream fog fades, and she hears the shower running in the ensuite. She reaches her arm across the bed. The sheets are still warm. How strange to lie next to Dean, dreaming about his former wife.
She glances at the clock. More sleep than she’s had in ages, but more alcohol too.
Pulling herself up, she sits on the side of the bed and stretches her hands to the ceiling. She can still feel Isabelle’s hair hitting her face. What Dean said about Isabelle wanting to quit her job aches like an old bruise. It’s lodged in Oli’s head, but it jars, a square peg that refuses to be jammed into a round hole.
Faint music penetrates the closed bedroom door. The shower has stopped. It’s not her imagination this time: Kate is playing the piano.
Oli quickly checks her phone. There’s a text from Lily. Come on, Oli. Call Mum. Today. She gets to her feet. She should call her mother, and about five of her old friends too. Mim’s baby must not be far off now, and Oli hasn’t seen Shonnie for months. Between work and Dean and the twins, there’s never any time.
Dean steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, sees her and grins. He kneels on the floor next to the bed and kisses her, running his hands up and down her chest and torso. Oli’s body sings without her permission, the strange intensity of last night and her bizarre dream giving into a flirty lightness. He pulls away, throwing her a regretful look as he starts to get dressed.
She puts on her robe and settles back on the bed, watching him. He bends forward to rub the towel through his wet hair. He’s in a good mood, and standing there in suit pants, shirtless, he is perfect.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asks. ‘You were dead to the world before.’
She nods. Near Dean’s feet is her satchel, Isabelle’s diaries tucked safely inside. Once again, panic rises at the thought of him discovering she has them. What would she say? At the pool he surely wasn’t close enough to see anything but a standard diary, and it isn’t unusual for her to be hunched over a notebook. He probably doesn’t even know that they were in the cupboard. She imagines him in a fog of grief, blindly stashing Isabelle’s things away after she died.
‘So you’re out tonight, right?’
‘What?’
He’s bounding around, fetching socks and underwear then putting them in his gym bag. ‘Girls!’ he calls suddenly. ‘I hope you’re all packed and ready to go.’
Affirmative replies come from downstairs.
‘I asked Nina to sort out breakfast.’ He sniffs the air and looks doubtful. ‘Maybe she made cereal.’
Oli’s thoughts are drifting. Everyone said the housemates were close, but something had shifted in the months leading up to that night.
Dean frees a suit jacket from a coathanger, slips it on. ‘We’ll probably leave straight after school finishes. I’m keen to get up to Phil’s before dark.’
‘Makes sense,’ Oli says, nodding. ‘I’ll miss you guys.’ Her voice sounds flat, distracted. ‘I wish that …’ She pauses, her thoughts oily. For some reason, she feels like she might say the wrong thing.
‘It’s probably good we’re getting out of your way. Seeing as you’re so busy.’ He stands back, looking around as if he’s forgotten something. ‘Towels, we need beach towels.’
‘In the laundry.’
He nods. Swings the bag onto his shoulder. ‘Alright, we’ll head off then. I’ve got a new business meeting this morning, and a few last-minute things to sort out with Nath and his comms team.’
‘Okay.’ Oli gets to her feet and stands in front of him. ‘I’ll come down and say goodbye to the girls.’
He pulls her close, his arms wrapped around her tightly as he kisses her forehead. ‘Just make sure you check in,’ he says lightly. ‘I like knowing what you’re up to.’
The first podcast episode drops just as the sky opens. The already dull day turns a blurry, hopeless grey, and Oli lifts her foot off the accelerator to avoid running up the back of an oversize truck that has slowed on the highway. The windscreen-wipers efficiently push the rain away, only to have the windows instantly turn to liquid again.
Oli reloads the home page at the lights. Introducing our true crime podcast series, The Housemate. Download episode one now. The graphics look good, the girls’ faces superimposed on a black strip, floating in the darkness.
The driver behind beeps their horn, and Oli switches her foot from brake to accelerator. Feels jittery even though she’s only had one coffee. She listens to the news then flicks the radio off. The traffic thickens, and the rain comes down harder. She hates driving in the rain. Her mother hated it too. Oli recalls watching Sally from the back seat, her small hands clutching the steering wheel as she scolded her daughters, shoulders hunched as she peered through the sweeping arms of the windscreen-wipers, looking like an old lady rather than a young woman in her late thirties. Oli’s father always drove when they went on family trips. He used to take his hands off the wheel and drive with his knees. Pretend to swerve into oncoming cars. Oli’s fingers would go to her wrist, count the beats, while her mother closed her eyes and whimpered.
Oli edges along Nicholson Street, trying to stay calm. Ren Neroli might not even be home; this whole trip might be a massive waste of time. Her thoughts drift to the diaries. She’s barely going to get a chance to keep reading them today. It’s clear that Isabelle thought the girls were involved in something—she was investigating their lives, not trying to hunt down a random stranger. Frustration courses through Oli. If only she could ask Isabelle.
A spark of memory ignites, flickering like a weak signal. Isabelle walking away. Oli calling out her name. Dark hair flaring in the wind as she spun around, lips plump in a soft pout. A slight crease between her eyebrows as she crossed her arms and looked Oli up and down. ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was wary and perhaps a touch amused. She was so fearless. So goddamn assured.
‘I think you can.’ Straight away, Oli knew the words had come out wrong, less cocky and more awkward. Emphasised in the wrong places.
Old humiliation creeps back now, a tightness in her ribs. This woman was the reason she didn’t have what she wanted. She could sense Dean slipping away; their impulsiveness had become more planned, their kisses slightly less hungry. She could only assume that for Dean, the pull of obligation, temporarily forgotten these past few months, was strengthening. And so Oli had orchestrated this moment, sought Isabelle out, because … why? Because she wanted to see for herself what Dean found so impossible to leave? To see if Isabelle really was so much better than her? It was all and none of these reasons. It was a mistake; Oli had known that before she opened her mouth, but she couldn’t just turn around and run despite the desire to do so charging through her limbs.
Standing in front of Isabelle was confusing. Like gazing in a mirror even though they looked nothing alike.
‘Yes?’ said Isabelle, clearly growing impatient.
‘How do you feel? About Alex’s conviction.’
She looked annoyed. ‘We’ve already made comments to the press.’
‘There’s been a lot of criticism about the way your investigation was managed. Do you have a comment?’
A soft tic started to pulse below Isabelle’s left eye. ‘I’m sorry, what is this about?’
‘Nothing,’ Oli muttered, fast losing confidence.
In that moment Oli got the sense that Isabelle knew about her relationship with Dean, and she also knew Dean would never leave her, and her knowing this made her powerful.
&nbs
p; ‘I think it’s time for you to go,’ said Isabelle, her beautiful voice as clear as a bell. ‘Do you understand?’
The final look Isabelle gave her was the strangest mix of pity and triumph, and Oli retreated like a wounded dog, one that had barrelled into a fight before realising its opponent was a bull terrier.
A text from Pia appears on her phone, followed by a steady flow of calls and messages. The public have listened to the podcast and have opinions. Oli senses the tweets and comments loading. A swirling mass of feedback.
She wishes Cooper was with her. Rain lashes the windows. She breathes in, then out, forcing her mind to count the beats. Grips the steering wheel. Drives.
Ren’s house looks like it’s about to be demolished. A faded yellow building permit is strung across the front fence, which is missing several pickets. Weeds have grown through the gaps, twisting around the rotted beam at the base and embedding themselves in the cracked concrete. The house rises up from the scant lawn like a toilet block made of bright-orange bricks. Dark blinds hang in every window.
Oli twists the key out of the ignition, grabs her bag. Walks through the drizzle and unlatches the gate, pushes it open. It groans in response. Shoes, bags, sports equipment and cans of food line the porch, as if the insides of the house are on the outside. Oli’s considering whether to text a photo to Cooper, but the front door swings open before she has a chance.
‘Hello!’ A man with greasy shoulder-length hair bounces on the spot and holds out his hand. ‘Welcome, and good morning!’
She reaches out her hand to shake his. ‘Ren?’
‘Yes!’ He beams. He’s tall and he wears a faded blue T-shirt and baggy grey tracksuit pants that have split at the seams so the cuffs flap over his bare feet. ‘Mum said she would give you my address. Olivia, right?’
‘Oli.’
‘Cool, yep, cool. Wow, it’s freezing out here, hey?’ Ren looks at the sky, confused. ‘Come in, come in.’ Old cigarette smoke stirs as she enters the house. He pulls the door shut. ‘This way,’ he calls cheerfully, bounding down the hallway like a golden retriever.
