by Sarah Bailey
Feeling aimless, I go to the Miller case room.
‘Hey, Ralph,’ I say, standing in the doorway.
‘Woodstock,’ he says with a nod. He watches as I look around the room. ‘We’re almost done wrapping things up here,’ he tells me. ‘Miller will be yours one hundred per cent as of tomorrow. Isaacs just assigned Billy and me to help on a new case.’ His thick fingers wrestle with the waistband of his trousers, yanking them up a few centimetres. ‘Ah well, no rest for the wicked I guess.’
I nod. ‘What’s the new case?’
‘A few women have been attacked in the city over the past few nights, and we’ve just arrested a guy. Three reports of assault so far. One women was knocked up pretty bad last night—she’s critical.’
I swallow. ‘Rape?’
‘Fortunately not,’ he says grimly. ‘Our guy just wants to scare the shit out of women.’ He has a sip of Coke. ‘Honestly, if I had a daughter I wouldn’t let her walk around in the city at night.’
I’m about to explain that’s not the way it should work but am hit with an intense wave of exhaustion. ‘Well, I hope you have enough to put him away,’ I say instead.
Shaking, I jump in one of the squad cars and inch my way through the traffic, not clear on where I’m going until I reach the top of Spring Street. Sliding the car into a vacant spot, I leave the indicator on as I call Chloe and then, reluctantly, Fleet. Neither answers. Annoyed, I call Chloe again and leave a message explaining what I think Katya has done, asking her or Fleet to call me with an update on Kit. Shoving my sunglasses on, I get out of the car and walk a short distance to sit on a park bench. Looking up and down the busy street, I remember back to that Wednesday night when it was empty in the wake of the attack. The pool of blood that Sterling left behind marring the ground.
I assume Katya attacked Ava in a twisted defence of Cartwright. Somehow over the years she has become oddly fused to him; she seems to take great pride in the way she feels she rose above his abuse and made it work in her favour. No doubt there are other women whom Cartwright abused but Ava was the only one who threatened the order of things. Katya lied the other day: being so closely entwined with Cartwright means that her reputation is on the line too, and I suspect this uncertainty pushed her over the edge. Begrudgingly I acknowledge that her strategy has worked—Ava has retreated like a turtle into her shell.
A bike bell dings a warning, forcing an ambitious pedestrian back to the curb. I spend a few minutes watching the parade of people. Taxis, cars, trams.
I’m convinced Katya had nothing to do with the attack on Sterling. At that point, from her perspective, killing or threatening him wouldn’t have made any sense. Ava was yet to formally accuse Cartwright of anything. Although Wade had confronted him, by that Wednesday the matter was essentially sorted out.
I check my phone: still nothing from either Chloe or Fleet.
I think about going home—at least I should be able to get some sleep, knowing that my job is safe—but something about the idea of being alone is incredibly unappealing. I think about how likely it is that I will never see Josh again. I add up the number of times we met and realise it’s probably less than twenty, and yet he had become a part of my life. Despite the reliance that I’d started to have on him, I have a feeling I won’t find it hard to fill in the hole he leaves. To me, our relationship was more about the potential of a certain kind of life than a true connection.
I walk a little further down the path to the corner of Flinders and Spring. Huge droplets begin to fall from the sky, their size almost comical as they splatter onto the ground. I ease myself into the car just as lightning splits the sky.
Safely sealed away from the weather, I blast the demister to clear the fog from the windows. I edge my way into the traffic, heading up Spring Street, onto Nicholson and past the museum. The traffic isn’t nearly as busy here and I speed along in my warm bubble, trying to think. Bizarrely the sun emerges, pushing through the clouds and shining through the rain.
I’m convinced that Kit Short started the house fire that killed his mother and was also involved in killing Wade, but whether Lizzie knows any of this I’m not sure. How has she not recognised her mother’s ring? If Jenny Short stopped wearing it after her husband left, I suppose it’s possible; Lizzie would only have been about five at the time. I couldn’t even remember that my mother had an engagement ring, and I was a lot older than that when I last saw her wearing it.
Considering I’m not that far from Lizzie’s apartment, I cut through some side streets to get to Brunswick Street. I try Lizzie’s phone but there’s no answer. The rain gone, people now crowd the footpaths, their eyes concealed behind variously shaped lenses as they hurry along sipping pre-wine lattes, their arms weighed down with shopping bags. The shopfront mannequins are already in their summer best: skimpy dresses and retro shorts. I approach Lizzie’s apartment complex. Scanning the streets for a park, I pull over with my indicator on.
I’m just about to call her again when a black 4WD exits the underground car park and sails past. It’s the same car that Kit Short brought to the hospital that first night. I stare through my tinted rear window as the car drives off. Without really thinking, I pull out into the street and fall in line behind the 4WD.
A message from Fleet appears on my work phone and I glance down when I’m stopped at a red light.
Still no sign of Kit anywhere. We’re going to call it a day. See you tomorrow.
Relieved that I don’t have to talk to him, I wonder if he and Chloe spoke to Lizzie as I keep following the 4WD. It turns away from the city. Where is Kit headed? Was he just with Lizzie or was he home on his own? I jam my phone into the console and hit Lizzie’s number. It rings out again.
In the thick traffic, I lose track of the car for a few moments but manage to keep it in my sights until it takes a right into a suburban street. I vaguely remember from his ID that Kit lives in Coburg and figure he must be going home. I pause at the corner, the day rapidly fading away, and watch as the 4WD turns into a driveway about halfway up the street. I park under a large tree around fifty metres away. Staring at the modest-looking weatherboard house in the dim light, I’m surprised to catch the swish of a long ponytail as Lizzie disappears inside.
I’m just about to call Fleet and tell him to get back here when I realise that parked in front of the 4WD is an unmarked squad car. My insides roll. Are Fleet and Chloe still here? Surely not—I spoke to Fleet hours ago. I reread his text and try to call him but it goes straight to voicemail.
I yank on the handbrake, slip out of the car and make my way toward the house.
Music blares from the property next door and smells of dinner waft through the air. I peer over the fence at the end of the driveway but the house is silent. Nothing moves.
I slip past the 4WD and reach the vacant squad car. A jacket I recognise as Chloe’s is on the back seat.
The curtains across the front of the house are drawn. I notice a side path that runs in between the house and the garage, into the backyard.
My eyes on the front door, I call Isaacs just as I hear raised voices coming from inside. I leave him a voicemail telling him to send backup to Kit Short’s house.
The yelling continues. A female voice and a male voice. I crouch down and make my way further down the path.
My heart thumps as I sift through a thousand scenarios. I don’t know what Kit is capable of, or if he might hurt Lizzie, but clearly he sent me the text from Fleet’s phone. Where are Chloe and Fleet? Are they here too or did they leave their car here for some reason?
Creeping under the house windows, I make it to the corner of a small deck. I glance around the yard. There are no plants or trees, just a run-down shed and a few square metres of patchy lawn.
Night is starting to muscle in. The last notes of a rock song carry over the fence.
‘You idiot,’ says a sharp voice, muffled by the glass. ‘This is bad, Kit, real bad.’
A strange animal sound curls into the
night.
‘Shut up!’ yells a voice that I think is Kit’s. There’s a loud smack.
After straightening my legs until I’m standing, I lean forward so that I can see inside. Chloe is seated on a kitchen chair, her arms pulled behind her, her swollen belly straining against her shirt, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Thick tape is wrapped around her mouth and head.
Lizzie and Kit Short are locked in an intense stand-off about a metre from her, their identical blue eyes burning.
Fleet is nowhere to be seen.
‘What the fuck are we going to do now?’ hisses Lizzie.
Kit’s eyes flit around as if looking for answers.
Lizzie makes a furious sound and kicks floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kit whines. ‘They were talking about you. I heard them saying that they knew the ring was Mum’s, that they were going to go and get you. Take you to the station. I panicked.’
‘I could have handled it,’ says Lizzie. ‘Fuck. I knew you should have kept staying with me. I can’t trust you on your own. Dropping that knife was bad enough but this is a disaster. You need to fix this, Kit.’
Madness flares in his eyes. ‘We could leave them in here, start a fire.’
‘Fuck, you’re stupid,’ snaps Lizzie. ‘How do you think that would look?’
‘What about the park out back?’ he says. ‘We could take them to the creek. No one goes there.’
Lizzie nods, her mind clearly racing. ‘Well, we can’t stay here. Let’s go. We’ll have to sort out their car later.’
My fingers barely work as I pull my phone out of my pocket. A missed call from Isaacs. I turn away from the window and start texting him when a glass door slides open.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and drop to the ground, curling myself into a ball.
All the lights in the house snap off and Fleet stumbles onto the deck followed by Kit, who is nervously pointing a gun at his head. Fleet’s hands are tied together with rope and there’s a red mark above his right eyebrow. Thick tape is wrapped around his mouth and head.
Chloe appears next, a knife glinting at the side of her face.
‘Come on,’ says Lizzie. ‘Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.’
The odd foursome make their way across the lawn to the back gate, which swings open into the creeping darkness. I run beside the side fence and cut along the back, reaching the gate just as it pulls shut behind them. I wait for a minute before carefully pushing it open. It doesn’t creak and I let out the breath I have been holding in. I can just make them ahead of me, shadowy figures already halfway down the gentle slope of the hill. Darting from tree to tree, I hope I’m not imagining the faint ring of a doorbell echoing behind me.
Saturday, 1 September
6.24 pm
The wind tosses the arms of the trees around in a wild dance. It’s freezing, all traces of warmth from the winter sun sucked back into the sky and chased away by the rising moon. Possums run across their wooden corridors high above, their staccato chatter shrieking into the night. Sticking to the grass, I make my way soundlessly toward the group as they head to the base of the hill. I grip my gun, holding it out in front of me, feeling the repeated buzz of my phone in my pocket. I assure myself that the uniforms will soon see the open gate and know to follow us down here. I just don’t know how long it will take.
Lizzie? I think, still trying to understand. I remember her on the couch at the hospital, her tidal wave of grief crashing through the room, and the way she visibly deflated with the news of Sterling’s death. Was that relief? Relief that her monstrous plan had worked? But why would she want Sterling dead? Access to his wealth wasn’t guaranteed. She’s lost her chance at a Hollywood lifestyle. It must have been his affair with Brodie. Or maybe she believed the rumours about Ava? Nothing else makes sense.
Ahead of me, at the base of the hill, the four silhouettes have stopped. I pause too and see a soft glow a little further along. Someone is holding out a phone screen to light up the ground in front of them. There’s a rustling as bodies crash forcefully into bushes and bracken. In the faint moonlight, I see two pale faces low to the ground, eyes huge above the shiny tape that covers their mouths.
Pieces of conversation drift towards me in the wind as Kit and Lizzie argue.
I creep closer, trying to avoid standing on any sticks.
‘You have to shoot them,’ Lizzie says.
‘Yeah, I know, I know,’ says Kit, turning on the spot in an odd little circle, the gun resting against the side of his head, pointed at the sky.
‘The water is deep at the moment,’ she says. ‘If we fill their clothes with stones or something, no one will find them for ages. Maybe never. We’ll get their phones and take them somewhere else so they can’t be tracked here.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Kit mutters.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ snaps Lizzie, whirling around with the knife in her hand.
‘It’s just that she’s pregnant,’ says Kit.
Lizzie’s eyes flit to Chloe and then back to Kit. ‘Yeah well, that doesn’t change the fact that she can ruin everything. This is your fault, Kit, not mine. Everything was fine before you lost your head. Everyone wants me now. I’m getting offered so many roles and interviews. It’s finally happening.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ His lip trembles and he presses the flat of the gun against his head again. ‘Idiot,’ he whispers, seemingly to himself.
Fleet has his back to the base of a tree. Chloe is a few metres to his left, propped against a large rock; her face is disturbingly white. Kit keeps his eyes on the ground and steps toward Chloe.
I hear the trickle of water. High up in the sky I see tiny flashes of a plane flying overhead. Lizzie is only metres from me, her long ponytail gleaming as it catches the moonlight. ‘Hurry up, Kit,’ she hisses. ‘We still need to get rid of their car.’
Kit lifts his arm, aiming the gun at Chloe. He appears to take a deep breath as if preparing himself.
I pounce out of the shadows, no longer able to wait for the backup that I’m sure will come. ‘Don’t do it, Kit,’ I say, pressing the tip of my gun against the side of Lizzie’s head.
He doesn’t drop his arm but he shifts his gaze to his sister. ‘No, no,’ he whimpers. ‘Don’t touch her.’
Lizzie doesn’t speak but moves her eyes across to look at me. In them I see a hollowness that I had mistaken for grief.
I look at Chloe a few metres away, bruised and terrified. I meet Fleet’s stare and see unchecked terror marred with relief.
‘Where’s Brodie?’ I ask.
Kit doesn’t move his arm, the gun still trained on Chloe, but he now looks at his sister. ‘Brodie?’
‘We don’t know where Brodie is,’ snaps Lizzie.
I nudge the gun into her hair just above her ear. ‘You’re lying.’
She looks at me and smiles. ‘I don’t care if you don’t believe us.’
I think about the shed in Kit’s backyard. Or even the creek in front of us. They could easily have gotten rid of the body.
‘Why, Lizzie?’ I ask.
She sighs. ‘Why what?’
‘Why attack Sterling?’ I say. ‘Why all of this?’
‘Because,’ she says, her voice low, ‘it’s never been about me!’
‘It’s never been about you,’ I repeat.
‘No!’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say.
‘He was going to leave me,’ she says, her voice eerily calm. ‘He was going to move overseas and treat me like a piece of dirt.’
‘I thought you were both going overseas?’
‘That’s what he said!’ screams Lizzie. ‘We were always supposed to go together, and then he said that because I got the role on The Street I should stay.’
I nod. My eyes are still on Kit, who is looking between Fleet, Chloe and Lizzie. ‘I’m sure he was just trying to support you.’
‘No,’ whispers Lizzie. ‘He got me that role because he was
trying to get away from me. He said he thought I would make a good soap actress—that it was my big break. Do you know how humiliating it was going to be when he dumped me to move to Hollywood?’
‘He never proposed to you, did he, Lizzie? That romantic dinner he organised, that was him telling you about the overseas roles.’
‘I have been so patient,’ she says, her voice like a blade through the air. ‘It was my turn.’ Her mouth pulls into a smile as she turns her head into my gun. ‘But then I figured out a way to have all the attention on me. Have you seen how since the attack, everyone wants to talk to me? I’m the grieving widow. I’ll be more famous than I ever could have been as Sterling Wade’s girlfriend.’ She smiles slightly. ‘I have been offered so many roles. I knew it would be like this. Everyone loves tragedy.’
With my gun, I push her head back to face the other way. ‘What about Walter Miller, Kit? Did you kill him too?’
‘Walter Miller?’ says Lizzie, puzzled.
‘She means the homeless man.’ Kit’s face is flushed and blotchy and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. ‘I used to see him when I walked home from night shifts. He was always alone, sleeping in that tunnel.’
‘We needed to be sure it would work,’ Lizzie says without emotion. ‘I wasn’t sure Kit could do it. Sterling couldn’t be the first one, it was too risky.’
‘So you killed a man as practice?’ I say with disbelieving horror. I imagine telling Tammy Miller that her father was treated like a disposable prop.
‘Everything had to be certain,’ stammers Kit. He’s begun to shake from head to toe.
‘Just like with the fire, right?’ I guess. ‘You lit the fire that killed your mother, didn’t you?’
He starts to shuffle on the spot, shooting desperate looks at his sister. ‘No,’ he says uncertainly.
‘Kit and I needed a fresh start,’ says Lizzie, her voice lifting in volume with her frustration. ‘Our mother was pathetic. Dad left us because of her. She almost ruined everything.’
‘She didn’t want Lizzie to be an actress,’ adds Kit.
