Blood Secret

by Jaye Ford

  ‘Katrina . . .’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I know who I am. I just hoped Haven Bay might’ve changed me. Call on this number when you find out where he is.’

  Rennie stood tense and still as something old and hardened and programmed for survival opened a door inside her and stepped through. Before any kind of independent thought kicked in, she’d checked the yard, locked the studio and was moving quickly to the house.

  The father scenario made sense. Max’s unfinished text message, the blood in the car park, the thud on the fence, the search of the glove box, the man with the camera. Was that what he looked like now – old and wiry – or had he hooked someone into it with him? She wondered about the blood, about how it had got there. Maybe Anthony had seen her with Max earlier and wanted him out of the picture, or maybe he’d spoken to him when he went back to the car park and it had gone badly. Then what? Had he bundled him in another vehicle and dumped him? Where? Where would he take him?

  By the time she reached the back door, guilt was pulsing in her throat and images of Max were flashing in her head. What state was he in? Battered? Cut? Dead? Oh God, was he dead?

  The thought threw her momentum off course and she paced the length of the windows and back again, filled with frantic, shameful remonstrations.

  She’d thought her past wouldn’t find her here.

  She was going to be gone by the time he was out.

  She’d hoped Anthony Hendelsen would die before that happened.

  When the hell did she ever get what she wanted?

  She clenched her fists, raked them through her hair, stalked and turned and stalked some more. She shouldn’t have stayed past the first year. She’d left too big a footprint. She’d endangered the only man she’d ever loved. Max hadn’t deceived her; she’d set him up.

  A knock at the door killed the angst like a switch. Her head snapped up and a pulse of fear shot through her. Think, Rennie. It was a light rat-a-tat-tat not an angry thump. And not her father’s style to knock on a door. She ran quietly to the bay window anyway, keep­ing out of sight as she looked onto the porch. She saw Naomi first, her pregnant belly straining against the fabric of a long shirt, James beside her watching the street as though he might see Max coming. She wished they weren’t here but felt more glad than she should to see them.

  She glanced briefly at the houses along the road. Would she know if her father was watching? Covert had once been his middle name. All the years Rennie had been on the run, she’d seen him only four times and never in broad daylight. Monday morning on a front doorstep was as safe as anywhere.

  She swung open the entry and saw Naomi’s good morn­ing smile turn to alarm. ‘Rennie, what’s wrong? Have you heard something about Max?’

  What could she tell them? That he might be dead and it was her fault? ‘No. I . . . Come in.’ She didn’t say more, just ushered them in and locked the door.

  Naomi was hovering in the living room waiting for her. ‘Is it the police? Did you speak to them again?’

  For a moment, Rennie thought she meant Evan. ‘No. Yes. I saw Detective Duncan this morning.’

  ‘Was it bad news?’

  Her conversation with Detective Duncan felt like a lifetime ago and right now all she could think about was calling Joanne, but the apprehension on Naomi’s face made her circle her thoughts back to the early morning conversation. ‘No news. He found the kid from the four-wheel drive but he was at a party all night. Detective Duncan doesn’t think he had anything to do with Max going missing.’

  ‘I thought it was unlikely.’ James was propped against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest as though he’d been proved right.

  Rennie remembered the missing funds and shuffled through the possible scenarios again. The kid-gone-crazy version was gone. There were still the father-out-of-prison and Max-taking-the-money options. Neither fitted perfectly, she reminded herself. There was a chance he’d left her, that she hadn’t killed him. Shitty options.

  ‘It’s something, though,’ Naomi said, reaching for Rennie’s hands.

  ‘I’m . . . tired. And worried. I . . .’ Her eyes dropped to Naomi’s fingers on hers, stilled by the friendship in them. It was something new for her in a moment of alarm. She gave them a quick, thankful squeeze. ‘Why are you here? Have you got news?’

  ‘No. We wanted to keep you company, see if there’s anything more we can do to help. Didn’t we, James?’

  ‘I thought I might have another go at Max’s computer before I take the financial details into the police.’ He cocked his head, a concession. ‘Maybe I can find something that will sort it out.’

  He didn’t look convinced but at least he was trying.

  ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ Naomi asked.

  Rennie could drink a bucket of it, was more than grateful to have someone ask, but the callous survivor in her remembered there were reasons she didn’t have friends in the old days. It was harder to leave when she cared. When they cared. ‘Maybe later. I need to make a call.’

  She shut herself in the bedroom and found her sister’s number in the mobile. She hadn’t spoken to Joanne in almost a year. The last time was on Rennie’s birthday and the conversation ended with the same pissed-off question she’d been asking Rennie since they parted company five years ago.

  Why are you still there?

  They’d kept up the regular email check-in, the couple of lines to let each other know they were still breathing but neither had called. Rennie guessed Jo felt the same as she did – no desire to go over it again.

  A male voice answered. ‘Simone Carter’s phone.’

  There were sounds in the background: people talking, somewhere busy and noisy. A cafe was her guess. ‘Can I speak to Simone?’

  The man raised his voice without covering the mouthpiece. ‘Hey, Simone, can you take a call?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  There was no mistaking the irritated edge to Jo’s voice. ‘It’s her sister,’ Rennie said without waiting for the question.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ the voice called.

  There was no answer, just the sound of the phone being carried about, footsteps, a quieter place. ‘Katrina?’

  Rennie kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the living room. ‘Yeah, Jo, it’s me.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Hey, how are you,’ would have been nice after so long but Rennie wondered whether she’d do it any differently if Jo called out of the blue. ‘He’s out.’

  Three seconds of silence then Jo got straight to the point. ‘When?’

  ‘Five months ago. Evan’s trying to find him.’

  ‘You called Delaney?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Rennie told her about Max, the blood, the man with the camera and the car being searched, all the time hearing her voice slip into the blunt rhythm she heard in her sister’s, feeling a familiar toughness creeping around the edges of her thoughts.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Haven Bay.’

  ‘Why the fuck are you still there?’

  And there it was. ‘I can’t leave.’

  ‘Of course you can. You pick up your pack and walk out the door.’

  ‘I can’t. Not yet. There’s more to it. It might not be Anthony.’

  ‘Do you want to wait to find out?’

  Did she want to see her father? Under no circumstances – ever. ‘Max might’ve left. Or maybe Anthony only hurt him. Either way, I need to find out.’

  ‘No, Kat. You need to stay alive.’

  Her sister’s rapid-fire responses were making it hard to think. She stalked across the room, stood to one side of the window and looked into the street. ‘This is my fault. I need to fix it.’

  ‘No, this is not your fault. It’s Anthony Hend
elsen’s fault. It’s always been his fault. He’s got a bottomless pit of shit to answer for. It’s not yours to fix. Your job is to survive him.’

  It’d been their mother’s mantra. She’d brought them up on it, made it a war cry. Rennie and Jo had recited it to each other when she’d gone and told themselves it was their right, their revenge, to live.

  Except it wasn’t just her and Jo anymore and Max deserved to survive him, too. ‘I have to find Max. Even if it’s too late. Even if he’s . . .’ She squeezed her eyes. ‘And Max’s son is here.’

  ‘He’ll be safer if you’re not there.’

  ‘I can’t leave him on his own.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Christ, he’s old enough to look after himself. Think what we were doing at fourteen.’

  ‘I wouldn’t wish that on him.’

  ‘He’s not your kid, Kat.’

  The volume of her voice slid up as she spoke. ‘I’ve got a life here, Jo. It’s more than just somewhere to live. I can’t pick up and leave.’

  ‘Then you made a mistake staying.’

  Had she? Was it a mistake to find Max? ‘It’s different now. I’m different. I’m not her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Katrina. I’m not Katrina Hendelsen. I’m Renée Carter and I can’t leave.’

  ‘Jesus, Kat. You think whatever name you use is going to make a difference to him?’

  She was right, Rennie knew it. And she knew it didn’t matter. ‘It makes a difference to me. As soon as I walk out that door, I’m her again. A hand-to-mouth callous bitch whose only goddamn role in life is to survive. I don’t want to be her. I want to be the person I am here and if I leave, I can’t come back. I can’t waltz into town when it’s all blown over and say, “Gee, sorry I couldn’t hang around to find Max.” I love Max and I need to find him.’

  Rennie heard hard breathy sounds through the phone and the beat of muffled footsteps. She guessed her sister was pacing angrily.

  ‘Rennie?’ It was Naomi calling quietly from the other side of the door.

  How much had she heard? Rennie put a hand over the phone before she answered. ‘Yes?’

  Naomi talked as she eased her way in. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I made the coffee.’ She was carrying a large plate with a mug and two thick slices of toast. ‘Trish sent a fruit loaf from the cafe for you this morning. She said it was the closest she could come to French toast, whatever that means. Anyway, I spread it with butter, I hope that’s okay.’

  Yes, Rennie thought, it was perfect. And no, it wasn’t a mistake to be here. ‘It’s great. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you okay in here?’ Naomi asked. ‘I wasn’t listening – I just thought you sounded upset.’

  Upset, pissed off, terrified, thankful.

  ‘Is it the police?’ Naomi asked.

  Rennie answered without thinking. ‘No. It’s my sister.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister. It’s nice she’s keeping in touch while Max is . . . well, while we’re looking for him. Is she close enough to come and stay? It might be a comfort to have some of your own family with you. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to her. Oh, and by the way, Hayden’s awake.’ She touched Rennie’s arm as she passed, smiled back at her from the door.

  Rennie wanted to laugh at the disparity of the moment – tough-arsed Joanne in her ear, Naomi at the door worried about her food intake. When she’d gone, Rennie closed her eyes, trying to find a middle ground.

  ‘Katrina? Who was there?’ Jo asked.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She brought me coffee and toast and asked if I was okay.’

  There was silence from Jo for a long moment. Rennie hoped she was getting the message – that what she had here was worth holding onto.

  ‘What did you mean, Max might’ve left?’ Joanne even­tually asked.

  The explanation wasn’t pretty but she wanted Jo to know she wasn’t being completely reckless by staying, so she explained how Max had disappeared before, the password protection on his computer files, the money missing from MineLease, James’s and the detective’s version of what had happened.

  ‘Jesus, Katrina. Are you sure you want to find this guy? Not exactly what you were looking for in happy Haven Bay, is it?’

  She clenched her jaw. ‘I need to make sure.’

  ‘Have you still got the Glock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Keep it with you. And don’t let some sucker in a fairy­tale make decisions for you.’

  26

  ‘How’d you get the scar?’ Max wasn’t sure if he was conscious or out again, whether he’d said the words aloud or just remembered them. He was sprawled in the dirt again, dreaming about lying in a puddle and soaking up water through his pores like a human sponge. But he’d turned the corner in the tunnel and it felt like progress.

  ‘It’s a demarcation line,’ Rennie answered him. It was in his mind, he knew it was, but the moment played like a movie across the darkness in front of his eyes.

  It was the second time she’d been in his bed. Two days after the first, the afternoon sun streaming through the curtains, both of them naked and a little breathless. She was on her side, a hand resting at her hip, the bent arm framing the fine, pink curve of scar that resembled an upside-down smile on her rib cage.

  ‘What does it demarcate?’ he asked.

  ‘The end of one chapter and the beginning of another.’

  ‘Was it a good new chapter?’

  ‘The one after it is better. So far.’

  Him? Here? This was a better chapter? ‘What kind of book is it?’

  A cynical half-smile. ‘A horror story.’

  Grit scratched at the pads of his fingers as they shifted across the fabric of his shirt, imitating the way he’d caressed the slight bump of her healed tissue, feeling the ladder of her ribs underneath.

  ‘Was it surgery?’ Maybe she’d been sick and the chapter before his was rehab.

  ‘No.’

  He made another pass over it, enjoying the warmth of her flesh, the soft swell of her breast, trying to imagine how someone got sliced there. ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘No.’ She lifted his hand away.

  In the darkness of the tunnel, his fingers fell slack. Like he had then, he wanted to know what happened but sensed a full-on assault might make her pick up her clothes and leave. ‘It must’ve hurt,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.’

  ‘How many stitches?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  He raised his eyebrows, impressed – one stitched-up survivor to another.

  She gave a brief, grim smile of agreement, reached down and pulled the sheet to her breast.

  It was a big hint but he couldn’t resist. ‘What happened?’

  He saw her again, rolling onto her back, watching the ceiling as she spoke. ‘Please don’t ask. I don’t like to think about it.’ She’d turned her head on the pillow and her face was so close he could feel the breath from her lips as she talked. He wished he could feel it again.

  ‘We’re the same, Max,’ she told him. ‘We both survived, we both want to find something better. Telling our ugly stories won’t change them; it’ll only bring them into the present with us. If you want to talk about yours, I’ll listen but you need to know I won’t tell you mine. I don’t want you thinking about it when you see me naked. I don’t want to see it in your eyes when I’m in your bed. All you need to know is that if the scar wasn’t there, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve made different choices, been a different person. That’s what I want you to think about when you run your hand over it.’

  It didn’t explain anything, only added more question marks to the ones already floating around her like an aura.
But it had let him off the hook. She knew about the mine accident and that his wife and son had left him. He hadn’t told her he’d been an arsehole, that he was reckless and thoughtless, that he hurt people and damaged himself.

  He tugged at the sheet, pressed his lips to the pink ridge on her ribs then rested his cheek on her breast. ‘I’m glad you came here.’

  ‘I want a different life, Max, a chance to live better stories. Can we just tell each other those?’ She pushed fingers into his hair, pulled a little, making him lift his face. ‘Is that enough for you? I need to know if it isn’t.’

  Enough? She was already more than he’d hoped for. ‘Yes.’

  Her pupils moved back and forth between his for a moment, her bullshit detector switched to high. She must have found what she was looking for because the corners of her mouth turned up just a smidge – approval, relief, empathy.

  ‘What would you do if it wasn’t okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave.’

  At least he knew she wasn’t going to beat around the bush. ‘Now?’

  ‘I told you when I took the flat I wouldn’t stay. I never stay. There’d be no reason to stay if it wasn’t enough for you.’

  ‘But now? Immediately? With me naked and kissing you?’

  Amusement joined the mix in her smile. ‘You think that’d be enough to make me stay a few minutes more?’

  ‘I was thinking it’d take more than a few minutes.’ A lot more. Months. Years.

  ‘Again? Already?’

  ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  They were talking about different things but it didn’t matter. He remembered now that she’d eventually stayed all night, moved in some­time after that. Win-win for Max.

  And the intriguing mystery of her had never dulled. The more he knew of her, the more she seemed like a different species of person, someone who’d grown up in another culture – or planet. She was obsessively tidy, she never cried, she didn’t yell when she was mad. She’d never grown a plant or dug in a garden, sleeping in was a concept she didn’t understand, she made decisions like there was only one option and she didn’t like owning stuff. When she moved into the house, she brought all her belongings in one small bag.