by Sarah Bailey
‘It suits you,’ I say, touching the cuff of Macy’s jacket.
She looks down at herself proudly, running her hands along the material. ‘Thanks. I quite like it.’ She purses her lips, catching herself. ‘How’s it going with your fancy psychologist?’
‘Good,’ I admit. ‘I don’t actually mind going.’
Macy makes a soft sound of approval. She smiles at me and gives my hand a firm squeeze.
Then she’s accosted by Lara, so I say goodbye to them and walk the few blocks to work. I’m listening to classical music, something that my psychologist has suggested. Stepping to the beat, I slot comfortably into the stream of people diving into a new week.
When I get to work I feel like a new kid on my first day at school. I swipe into the main office and self-consciously head to my desk. I took great care with my appearance this morning, painstakingly blow-drying my freshly cut hair with my good arm and applying a little bit of make-up. I’m trying to make more of an effort, to look after myself.
Isaacs’ door is shut, but the light is on in his office. The whir of the air con and the steady beat of someone typing are the only sounds I can hear. A bunch of flowers in a plastic water jug has been put on my desk; a few curling brown petals litter my keyboard. There is a nasty-looking pile of paperwork in my in-tray.
Nan leans out from her desk to peer at me. ‘Well, welcome back then,’ she says curtly, before turning back to her screen.
I keep my smile to myself. ‘Thanks, Nan.’
Calvin appears from the kitchen, carefully holding out an overfilled coffee cup. ‘Gemma,’ he exclaims warmly, ‘good to see you. You look lovely.’
‘Thanks, Calvin.’
‘Woodstock,’ says Isaacs, appearing in his office doorway.
‘Hello, sir,’ I say, standing up.
‘Welcome back. Please, come in here for a moment.’
I go into his office, inexplicably nervous. I’ve spoken to Isaacs three times since the showdown in the park behind Kit Short’s house. Immediately after the shooting we had an intense discussion at the hospital when Chloe was in surgery, and I was beside myself with guilt and worry. The next day he called and told me that I was to start a treatment plan with the squad psychologist, insisting that I take some time off. We spoke again early last Monday morning. He gave me an update on the case and we agreed that I would return to work today. He has been brisk and professional throughout all this, and I’m not quite sure where I stand now that the dust has settled.
I perch on the chair opposite him.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks kindly.
‘Good, thank you. I’m glad to be back. My arm’s feeling much better and I should be ready to hit the gym in a few weeks.’
‘Just see how you go. There’s no rush.’ He toys with a pen, putting it down and then picking it up again. ‘And you’re seeing the psychologist?’
‘I am,’ I say, my voice strong. ‘It was a good idea. It’s probably long overdue.’ I pause and clear my throat. ‘I think I found the winter here especially difficult, plus being away from my family was hard. But I have some strategies to work with now.’
Isaacs nods and then surprises me with a smile. ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ His face settles and he crosses his arms. ‘I know we’ve been over this already, but what happened to Chloe wasn’t your fault.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m just glad she’s going to be alright.’
‘Yes, thank god for that.’ He forms a pyramid with his hands. ‘Now, in terms of this week, I wanted to let you know that Fleet won’t be in. He probably won’t be in next week either. So I was thinking that you can work with Nan and Calvin while you get up to speed and finalise everything on the Wade case.’
I feel a strange combination of relief and frustration at this news. Part of me wants to tackle Fleet’s presence head on, work out how to navigate it. See if I can cope with it.
‘But Fleet told me he’d been given the all-clear to come back,’ I reply.
‘This doesn’t have anything to do with his injuries. He decided to go back home for a few days. His daughter is having some issues again. Anorexia and substance abuse this time, I believe.’
I stare stupidly at Isaacs, my mind trying to process the word ‘daughter’.
‘Fleet wants her to finish high school but she’s threatening to drop out, so he decided he needs to spend some time with her. He’s worried she’s a suicide risk. I understand his ex-wife has her own issues at the moment so can’t look after her. No doubt you know a lot of this.’
I tip my head forward in a nod, mute.
Isaacs is clearly waiting for me to respond.
‘Sir,’ I say, the nerves I’ve been keeping at bay suddenly overflowing and flooding my body, ‘there’s actually something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Yes?’ he says expectantly.
Briefly I imagine telling him everything, imagine saying the words and all that would come with them, but I’m just not ready.
‘Going forward, it isn’t a good idea that Fleet and I work as leads together,’ I say.
Isaacs’ grey gaze bores into mine.
‘Our styles are very different,’ I add, ‘and it isn’t healthy for either of us, or good for the cases.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s no issue from my perspective and it’s something we can easily accommodate.’ He taps the tips of his fingers together. Looks at them briefly before looking back at me. ‘Is there anything specific I need to know about, Woodstock?’
Blood gallops through my veins. ‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘But maybe?’
‘Yes, maybe.’
He moistens his lips and nods, hands on hips. ‘I’m here if you ever need to tell me anything, Gemma. I’m always interested to hear anything you think is important for me to be aware of. I hope you feel you can talk to me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I think I just need some time.’
‘No problem,’ he says smoothly, and I wonder whether he can somehow read my scrambled thoughts. ‘You’ve had a challenging few months, Woodstock, and I’m not just talking about work. My advice is that you look after yourself and stay focused. Keep your head down and get into a solid routine. Learn from Nan and Calvin—they’re good detectives.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you, sir.’ I stand up and inch backwards toward the door.
‘My door is always open Woodstock, even when it’s shut,’ he replies.
I bob my head in a strange little girl gesture and float to my desk. My mind is reeling and my limbs feel floppy as the adrenaline drains out of them.
Nick Fleet has a daughter? A teenage daughter? I remember all those times he was on his phone, fingers flying madly across the screen. His frequent mood swings. And the time in his car when he refused to tell me what was wrong. And then I’m back in my bed, his hand on my thigh, and the familiar shame returns. The irony of my own split world, half of it locked away from common view, isn’t lost on me but I still feel the burn of his secrecy. I think about his failure to own up to what he did to me. His inability to apologise.
I look over at his empty desk and think how nice it would be to go back to the start. But I know better than most that you can’t undo what has been done. Whatever we were to each other, he ruined it. Part of me hates him for that.
I try to picture his daughter. Does she look like him? I remember what Fleet said about knowing that Ben is my son. I feel a pulse of pride at the thought of the blueprint of our faces linking us together no matter what, no matter how far away he is from me.
I turn back to my own desk and look at the stack of paperwork. I need to push Fleet out of my mind. That conversation with Isaacs was step one, I tell myself. I will speak to him about what Fleet did, but I was being honest when I said I need more time. Last week I told the psychologist about Fleet and the random attack that night in the city, and I know I’ll want to keep talking about what happened to me.
My phone announces a text: Be
n is using Scott’s phone. When he was visiting I taught him about star signs, and he’s started sending me my daily reading from Smithson’s local news website. Candy thinks it’s hilarious, seeing as she knows the young intern who manages the astrology section with the help of his grandma and Google.
New beginnings beckon, but make sure you stay true to yourself.
I roll my eyes and put the phone down.
I watch Nan and Calvin talking to each other, their trademark awkwardness as obvious as ever. I feel alone but not lonely. I feel determined.
Through the windows the sun is elbowing past the clouds, the light swirl of morning mist disappearing like a magic trick. The office is starting to fill; individual voices thread together and form a reassuring buzz. Phones ring. Paperwork is stapled. Things are getting done. I really am glad to be back. I’m still apprehensive about the future but I’m also looking forward to it.
Rebecca called me last night, wanting to make plans for Christmas. She seems to have officially taken on the role of family matriarch. ‘You will come home, won’t you, Gemma?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Ned would love that, I know. And Ben, of course.’
‘Yes,’ I assured her, ‘maybe just for a few days, but I will come home.’ As I said it I realised the dread I’d felt about spending Christmas in Smithson has mainly faded away. Rebecca babbled on about Ben and my dad, selling her house, and I felt an unexpected wave of fondness toward her. She isn’t my mother, she isn’t even my friend, but she makes my dad happy and that’s something I can be grateful for. On one of the televisions mounted on the far wall, a photo of Lizzie and Sterling appears behind a news anchor. The screen cuts to a montage of footage from various TV shows and films, and then to old photos of Kit and Lizzie. Lizzie’s trial looms in the not-too-distant future, then Kit’s. I’ll need to give evidence. Frank Jacoby’s trial is set to begin in January.
We’ll all do the required dance. Go through the motions. Hope like hell that justice will be served.
I’m reading through a DNA report I requested over six weeks ago when I sense movement behind me. Two dark-suited men enter Isaacs’ office. Both have the bleak look of having witnessed a fresh death. Isaacs’ door closes.
I look over at Nan and Calvin. Nan raises a bushy eyebrow at me.
Not five minutes later, the door swings open and Isaacs steps out.
‘In here, please,’ he says to us, his voice low and clipped.
Hooking my hair behind my ears, I fall into step with Nan and Calvin, shoulders back and head high, blood coursing through my veins, ready for whatever is about to happen next.
Acknowledgements
Writing a book requires me to constantly deep-dive into another world, which means I’m absent from the real one for large chunks of time. Therefore, I would like to thank all the people who keep my earthly life ticking along, especially during the intense editing phases. These people include Tom, my parents Susan and Kevin, my sister Jane, my work family at Mr Smith, and an amazing bunch of people I am lucky to call friends.
I want to particularly acknowledge my beautiful and increasingly interesting sons, Oxford and Linus, who are (relatively) patient during the boring hours that Mummy spends ‘making a book.’ Oxford in particular is becoming an asset when it comes to naming characters, and the defensive passion he displays as he analyses reader reviews, particularly negative ones, is endlessly entertaining. Their unique ability to help me keep things in perspective is invaluable.
As with The Dark Lake, this book was a team effort and I have many people to thank for helping me turn the initial jumble of ideas and words into a book.
To Lyn Tranter at Australian Literary Management, thank you for always pushing me and for your thoughtful feedback. I appreciate your perspective, your high expectations and your passion for the character of Gemma. Thanks also to Sarah Minns and Kirsten Tranter for reviewing the manuscript and providing several wonderful suggestions which made their way into the finished product.
To the awesome team at Allen & Unwin, thank you for your support, guidance and professionalism. In particular, I would like to call out Tom Gilliatt, Louise Cornegé, Tami Rex, Christa Munns and Sarah Baker, who helped the book get safely off to print and successfully onto shelves. And I’d like to direct an extra loud shout out to the incredible Jane Palfreyman, my publisher: I feel very lucky to have found myself in your orbit.
To Kate Goldsworthy, editor and proofreader extraordinaire, I am in awe of your brain and appreciate your meticulous feedback, your curiosity, your funny side notes and love for my characters. It has been an absolute pleasure working with you.
To all the individuals who provided technical information and insights into the world of a homicide detective, thank you. Thanks also to the medical professionals who patiently answered my tricky questions. All errors are mine, and I am solely responsible for any moments where the suspension of belief is required.
Into the Night is predominantly set in Melbourne and I loved having the chance to bring my hometown to life through Gemma’s eyes.
Lastly, I want to thank everyone who read The Dark Lake. Books really do take on a life of their own once they are published, and receiving feedback from readers makes the solo part of the slog incredibly worthwhile.
ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN
The Dark Lake
Sarah Bailey
‘The Dark Lake is a stunning debut that gripped me from page one and never eased up. Dark, dark, dark—but infused with insight, pathos, a great sense of place, and razor-sharp writing. It’s going to be big and Sarah Bailey needs to clear a shelf for awards.’ C.J. Box, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Vicious Circle and Open Season
A beautiful young teacher has been murdered, her body found in the lake, strewn with red roses. Local policewoman Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock pushes to be assigned to the case, concealing the fact that she knew the murdered woman in high school years before.
But that’s not all Gemma’s trying to hide. As the investigation digs deeper into the victim’s past, other secrets threaten to come to light, secrets that were supposed to remain buried. The lake holds the key to solving the murder, but it also has the power to drag Gemma down into its dark depths.
The Dark Lake is an addictive crime thriller, a mesmerising account of one woman’s descent into deceit and madness, and a stunning debut that has caused a stir around the world.
ISBN 978 1 76063 297 7
