The Lucky One

by Caroline Overington

  ‘Hey, there.’

  He turned.

  It was Eden, walking down the gravel path from Alden Castle. She was dressed in a feminine version of his own vineyard uniform: jeans without knees, a pink shirt tied at the waist, scuffed boots.

  ‘Hey, yourself,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to come and find me. I was just about to leave.’

  ‘I wanted to see the vineyard. Check on your progress,’ said Eden. Looking around, she added: ‘I hate to say this, but it looks dead.’

  Earl laughed. ‘It’s not dead. This is what happens before it comes to life.’ He held out his hand and Eden took it, following him as he led down one of the rows between the vines.

  ‘See this,’ Earl said, kneeling to show her the sap pouring from the canes. ‘This is the beginning. Next will come buds. Then we’ll see fruit.’

  ‘Then wine.’

  ‘If we’re lucky. And we’re due for some luck, right?’

  They stayed a while longer, watching, mesmerised and appreciative, as the sun sank behind the distant hills, staining the Californian sky a brilliant pink.

  ‘We should go,’ said Earl, finally. ‘It will be completely dark in a minute.’

  He took the wheel of the station truck and they rocked back along an old road to the pavilion, pausing to allow the passage of deer, none of them timid, none of them shy.

  ‘Can I ask what you did today?’ said Earl, as they waited for the smallest to clear their path.

  ‘I went into Paso. I had to go to the post office, to finalise some of the paperwork. I was in line, waiting to buy stamps, and there were these two old ladies who wouldn’t stop looking at me. It was like I wasn’t even there. I could hear them hissing: “Look, look, it’s her. The one from Alden Castle.”’

  ‘They’re just old gossips,’ said Earl.

  ‘I know. But they wouldn’t let up. I heard one of them say: ‘You know, she ended up with everything.’ And the other one was like: “Well, well, isn’t she the lucky one.” And I felt like saying: “Is that what you think? That I’m lucky? Because I don’t feel very lucky.’ But I do get it. People see me, they see this estate. They don’t think, look at everything she lost! They think, look at everything she gained.’

  Earl nodded. ‘I get that,’ he said, ‘but you can’t fight every battle. Ignore them. They’re idiots.’

  He drove on, reaching the pavilion just as the moon appeared in its familiar spot above the crumbling turret of the old castle at the end of the gravel drive. Earl parked the truck and Eden got out.

  ‘I made some iced tea,’ she said. ‘Kick your boots off and I’ll bring you some.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  Earl banged the mud off his boots and busied himself, straightening tools in the back of the truck, and Eden came back out with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. The white Adirondacks that had once stood on the deck, like most of the pavilion’s furniture, were gone, but Earl had made new chairs from old wine barrels he’d found in one of the sheds.

  Eden put a glass of iced tea between her feet and settled down.

  ‘Don’t you worry about what people think?’ she said.

  Earl, closing up the back of the truck, said: ‘No.’

  Then, as he stepped away from the truck and looked out over the valley and back towards the old familiar roofline of Alden Castle, he did, for the briefest moment, allow himself to reflect on how he felt when he first heard that Fraser Kelly’s body had been found in the chimney.

  Will they know it was me?

  That had been his first thought. He hadn’t been frightened, exactly, because why would anyone think that he’d had anything to do with it? Also, the boy had by then been dead for years. Nobody would be able to say how he died.

  Nobody but Earl, who remembered now how Fraser had turned up on the estate that day – by the gates, with a hopeful look on his face, and a remote-control helicopter in his hands, wanting to play. Wanting to see inside the castle.

  ‘I’ll go one better,’ Earl had said. ‘We’ll go on the roof and we’ll fly that helicopter off there and we’ll see how far we can get it to go.’

  Fraser had been thrilled at first, climbing excitedly and confidently across the tiles, but then he had gotten precious, refusing to let Earl have the first turn.

  ‘It’s my helicopter,’ he’d said. ‘It’s an expensive toy. I’m not really allowed to let other people play with it.’

  And Earl, whose mom was the housekeeper with not much money, had snatched the toy and the controls and held them away from Fraser. ‘I am going to have a go,’ he’d said.

  ‘Give it back,’ Fraser had squealed.

  But Earl had refused. He’d switched it on and set it aloft, and the helicopter had gone straight down the chimney.

  ‘Look what you did!’ cried Fraser.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It will come straight out,’ said Earl.

  But it hadn’t come straight out. The helicopter had become wedged in the chimney against a jutting brick, just beyond reach.

  ‘We can’t get it,’ Fraser had said. ‘I’m going to have to tell my dad.’

  Earl had said: ‘You’re being an idiot. You can reach in and get it. I’ve seen people go in that chimney. It’s no big deal. You reach in. I’ll hold your feet.’

  But he hadn’t been able to hold Fraser, not by the feet. They’d come out of his shoes as Fraser slipped down. Head first. Beyond reach. Fraser had called for help but his cry was muffled. Earl couldn’t hear it from even a step away.

  He’d taken Fraser’s shoes and put them on a flat rock by the Salinas River, then fled to Horny Corner, coming down again only to help with the search, wondering all the time whether someone would look in the chimney.

  Nobody did.

  He recalled his mother saying: ‘What might have happened to the poor, dear boy?’

  Earl had said nothing.

  He’d gotten a taste for going up to the roof after that, to sniff the breeze. Fraser had smelt, but over time, that had faded.

  Then one year, his mother had mentioned about Jack going onto the roof to ‘finally fix that broken chimney’.

  ‘What chimney?’ he’d said, panicked.

  ‘At Alden Castle. It’s been broken too long. It looks terrible.’

  ‘Maybe I should help,’ he’d said, and out he’d gone, striding purposefully and immediately towards the castle where he’d found Jack already on the roof.

  ‘Hey, Jack, let me help,’ he’d said. Jack had straightened and waved, and Earl had grasped the bannister at the bottom of the stairs and climbed in fury towards the window that would let him onto the roof. He cursed as he went, and emerging on the tiles, he had not hesitated. He’d placed the flat part of his boot against Jack’s bent back and shoved him forward, and Jack had tumbled into the dry moat, into the bracken and the weeds.

  They found him that same day. And still nobody looked in the chimney because, why would they?

  And his mother had asked no questions.

  He recalled Jack’s funeral and how he had watched with interest, in the weeks that followed, the arguments over selling, and then the departure of Jesalyn and Eden. And the best bit: he had helped his mother move into the pavilion.

  Then Eden had returned with her news about the estate being sold. He’d told his mother – he’d lied to Eden about that – and his mother had lied to him. She’d told him there was nothing she could do. Then, when the deal was done, she’d told him the truth: Jack was his father.

  He recalled his confusion and his fury. Why hadn’t she stopped the sale? Because the Trust did not mention Earl. There was a separate agreement – an acknowledgement of paternity – that meant that he would get his share of the money.

  ‘And now you have to leave,’ his mother had said.

  ‘Why should I leave? This is mine as much as it’s theirs!’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘What do I know? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know why, E
arl. You need to leave. Because of Eden.’

  Had his mother guessed what might be next?

  Who might be next?

  Eden.

  He’d taken the money and headed to Oregon, intending to work for Patrick the Llama, but the anger, the resentment, would not leave him, and one night he’d found himself back on the estate, creeping up to the pavilion and sliding open the window that Eden had so often left unlatched for him. He’d climbed in and tiptoed out of the room, through the living area and up the glass staircase.

  The old man was not asleep as he’d been expecting. He was propped against pillows, watching Earl curiously as he came towards him, like he knew why Earl was there.

  Earl had intended to smother the old guy in his bed and leave him there, but then he remembered the story Eden had told him about Owen trying to get down the stairs. He put the pillow over Owen’s face and held it tight. And it felt good. And he had pushed through Owen’s struggle for life, and that felt even better. And he had carried his grandfather – his own flesh and blood – down the stairs, and from the final step, he’d let him fall. Then he had slipped away, into the night, to wait again for nothing to happen.

  Owen got buried and everyone got paid.

  Maybe Earl was untouchable?

  Three months on, he had drawn on the last of his mother’s cheques from Pinkhound when Owen’s body came out of the ground. And then came the bizarre charges: his own mother, in a conspiracy to kill, with a woman she couldn’t stand. He’d contemplated what to do but his mom had said: ‘Do nothing.’

  Did she know?

  He did not ask so didn’t with any certainty know.

  At his mother’s request, he had stayed well clear of Paso for the trial, and then it was over, his mother in jail … and Eden had called.

  Again and again, she’d called, saying: ‘Earl, please pick up. I need you.’

  Pinkhound was pulling out and she would have to take the keys, but they were his keys, too.

  And so he’d replied.

  They had returned to the estate together, driving past Alden Castle straight to the pavilion, empty but for a discarded Pinkhound filing cabinet and some used coffee pods.

  They’d rooted around and taken a flashlight from beneath the kitchen bench and walked back to Alden Castle.

  Earl had pushed the door open, and they had stepped together through the tendrils of police tape.

  Empty. The whole castle was now empty.

  They’d slept in Eden’s old bedroom that night on the floor, using Earl’s bedroll as a pillow. Then, as the pink light of morning began to stain the sky, Eden had talked about her mother and the death of her father; about Owen’s funeral and the poor boy in the chimney.

  ‘I’m supposed to take over here,’ she’d said. ‘But how am I supposed to do that? It’s a scary place to me. You see a future. You have a plan. And anyway … it’s yours as much as it’s mine. You know that, right? It’s not mine. It’s ours.’

  And Earl had said: ‘I’ll stay.’

  * * *

  It was quite dark now. Earl stepped from the gravel drive onto the deck. He took off his hat and put it down by an empty milk crate. Queenie, rescued from Rex’s place in Paso, was curled nose to tail in a basket.

  Eden passed over a glass of iced tea as he took his own wine-barrel chair. The moon was shining and stars were winking. An owl hooted in a faraway tree.

  ‘You know, I never really saw the estate from this vantage point,’ said Earl looking out. ‘My view was always from down there, at Mom’s cottage, looking up here at your pavilion, glowing on the hill.’

  ‘And the last time I was here, all I could think about was you, down there,’ said Eden.

  ‘I like this view better.’

  He looked out across the dark hills made bare by Pinkhound’s bulldozer. ‘It’s going to take some time to get this place looking nice again,’ he said.

  ‘If we’ve got anything, it’s time.’ Eden smiled, but it was a sad smile.

  ‘Hey, come on,’ said Earl. ‘You’ve got me. And you won’t lose me.’

  ‘I know that. But Earl, I need you to understand how weird this feels.’

  ‘It didn’t feel weird before. And nothing’s changed,’ said Earl.

  ‘Everything’s changed. There are people who are going to think it’s gross.’

  ‘We’re not going to tell anyone. It’s going to be our secret,’ said Earl. ‘We’re from a family that’s good at keeping them, remember?’

  And with that, he rose from his barrel, took Eden’s hand to bring her to her feet, and led her into bed.

  The One Who Got Away

  The One Who Got Away

  A compulsive and startling psychological thriller for fans of Girl on a Train and Gone Girl.

  Loren Wynne-Estes appears to have it all: she’s the girl from the wrong side of the tracks who’s landed a handsome husband, a stunning home, a fleet of shiny cars and two beautiful daughters …

  Then one day a fellow parent taps Loren on the shoulder outside the grand school gate, hands her a note … and suddenly everything’s at stake.

  Loren’s Facebook-perfect marriage is spectacularly exposed – revealing an underbelly of lies and betrayal. What is uncovered will scandalise a small town, destroy lives and leave a family divided.

  But who is to be believed and who is to blame? Will the right person be brought to justice or is there one who got away?

  About the Author

  CAROLINE OVERINGTON is a bestselling Australian author and the Associate Editor of The Australian newspaper. She has been a foreign correspondent in New York and in Hollywood; she has previously worked for The Age, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Australian Women’s Weekly; and she has written eleven books, including some prize winners. Caroline lives in Sydney with her family, including twins, and an adored blue dog.

  Praise for The One Who Got Away

  ‘Welcome to 2016’s thriller du jour (hello Gone Girl) that will have you late for work’ Cosmopolitan

  ‘The One Who Got Away is the new Gone Girl and then some … The twists and turns are masterful and the way she channels the voices of her characters is a dream to read. I can’t recommend this book highly enough. Bring on the movie’ Mia Freedman

  ‘The plot is neatly worked out, with clues planted along the way’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Caroline Overington has an ability to home in on the darker, unsettling sides of life, seizing upon topics you might see headlining the news and spinning them into gripping pageturners … Guaranteed to have you reading late into the night’ Hannah Richell, Australian Women’s Weekly

  ‘Overington keeps you guessing until the last’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘WOW! This book is incredible … From the surprising opening scene, to the manic journal entries, the media interview with the husband, the court case … each critical “part” is told through a different POV which makes this a fast-paced thriller like no other (5+ Stars. Highly addictive – I read it in one sitting)’ NicShef, on Amazon

  ‘a real pageturner in the tradition of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train’ Gold Coast Bulletin

  ‘My husband was annoyed because I had the light on all night. I did not want it to finish and wow what a twist.’ KitKat, Goodreads

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2017

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Caroline Overington 2017

  The right of Caroline Overington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

 
HarperCollinsPublishers

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  ISBN: 978 0 7322 9976 7 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978 1 4607 0366 3 (ebook)

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Overington, Caroline, author.

  The lucky one / Caroline Overington.

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.

  Psychological fiction.

  Suspense fiction.

  Cover design by Darren Holt, HarperCollins Design Studio

  Cover images by shutterstock.com