Connor Marsh jogs steadily around the east side of Sonny Lake. He throws a quick glance at his watch. He is making great time and it feels good being out of the house and running in the fresh air. The kids were crazy this morning; they’d woken at six and were still bouncing off the walls when he left the house an hour later. The place is way too small for two little kids, especially boys, he thinks. And Mia was in such a foul mood. He can’t believe that she had a go at him about the fishing trip next weekend. He hasn’t been away in ages and has been taking the boys to footy or soccer every Saturday morning for over two years now. Connor grimaces, frustrated at how unreasonable she can be.
His feet pound along the dusty track, making an even beat. One, two, one, two. Connor often finds himself counting when he is trying not to think too much about running. His legs burn more than they used to and his ankle hasn’t been the same since he fell off the ladder at work a few years back. Still, he is fitter than most guys his age. And he has a full head of hair. Lots to be grateful for.
The day starts to wake in earnest. Connor catches glimpses of the sun through the messy tips of the gums. Another scorcher is on the way. Birds trill from their lookouts and the wispy haze of sleep across the lake is starting to clear. Connor sighs. He’s taking the kids to a fifth birthday party at ten, followed by a seven-year-old’s birthday party this afternoon. Weekends sure are different these days. He would give almost anything to crack open a beer and watch the cricket in peace.
Connor steps heavily on a stick. It flicks up and scratches along his shin.
‘Shit.’ He stumbles before regaining his balance. The cut stings as it breaks into a thin red line. He slows his jogging, panting. He won’t bother doing another lap now; he needs to head back home anyway to help get the kids ready for their party marathon. Walking, he places his hands on his hips as his heartbeat calms, breathing jaggedly from his mouth.
A duck flies low across the water, wings outstretched. Rubbish dots the edges of the lake. Chip packets and Coke bottles are held hostage by the rocks and submerged branches. The heat has caused the lake to creep away from its banks. Tree roots are exposed like electric wires. Connor’s eyes scan the water. He really should come running here more often; get back into a routine. He can remember training here for athletics years ago, doing laps around the track before school, the burn in his thighs. He notices the gaping eye of the stormwater drain, pitch black against the glare as it disappears into the clay wall of the lake. A little further along, Connor notices something caught at the water’s edge; it appears to be made from some kind of fabric. He squints and realises he is looking at hair swirling out past a line of reeds. His feet lock to the ground. It looks like human hair, a woman’s blonde hair. His heartbeat picks up again. His limbs feel hollow. Two steps forward confirm it is indeed a woman face down in the lake. Bare white arms are visible every time the water ripples and long-stemmed red roses bob across the top of her watery grave.
A cluster of swans watches Connor from under the old wooden bridge. One of the birds lets out a low, haunting cry.
He drops to his knees and worries for a moment that he will be sick. His breathing slows and then quickens again. He looks back at the body and then jerks his gaze away. Barely thinking, he dials triple zero and thrusts his phone against his ear.
Chapter Two
Saturday, 12 December, 7.51 am
I stand in the shower with my head against the wall as blood oozes out of me. I had guessed I was about six weeks along but hadn’t been sure exactly. I wonder if my denial has made this happen; my complete lack of acceptance. My sheer desperation for it not to be real. The blood mixes with the water before it disappears down the drain and I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I was a little girl again, tucked up in bed, my mother’s soft pout of a kiss pressing against my forehead.
God, I miss her.
Scott left early this morning to beat the traffic. He’s secured a couple of weeks’ concreting work on a large housing development just north of Paxton, a town about thirty k’s east of Smithson. Ben is at my dad’s; he slept there last night because of our early starts. Dad will be getting jumped on about now. Ben is always so cuddly in the mornings.
I can hear my phone ringing but I don’t move. The cool tiles feel firm and reassuring against my skin as I spread my palms out on either side of my face. Trying to focus. Trying to feel normal. After a few minutes I lift my head. My vision takes a while to adjust. My guts ache, the pain settling in low and deep.
I’m exhausted. I feel separate to my body. To my mind.
I know I should probably go to the hospital but I also know that I probably won’t.
The bathroom is misty with steam. The bleeding seems to have slowed. I wash myself carefully and turn off the tap. The pipes shudder through the walls. I step out of the shower and pull a dark grey towel around me. I look at the mirror but I am just a blur in the fog. In the bedroom, I throw the covers across the bed and kick a slipper underneath it, stopping for a moment and leaning forward to catch my breath as sharp pain runs through me again. I dress quickly, lining my pants with a pad before pulling on black jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, low black boots. The temperature is climbing steadily and the leftover heat from yesterday still lingers unpleasantly in the house. I pour a glass of water and throw back a couple of Nurofen. Then, staring at the wall, I think about the day of loose ends in front of me: paperwork, a few reports to follow up, a cold case Jonesy has asked me to review. I picture my small desk in the middle of the station’s main room and wish that I had an office. My mobile rings again as I am towel-drying my hair: it’s Felix, and I look at his name on my phone and think a million things.
‘Yep, hi.’ I keep my voice light. ‘I’m on my way. I’m just about to walk out the door.’
‘Go straight to the lake, Gem,’ he says, and I love the way his accent curls around my name.
I try to understand what he’s saying. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘A body’s been found. It’s a teacher from Smithson. A Rosalind Ryan.’
The room turns upside down. I sit heavily on the bed as I clutch at my throat, forcing myself to breathe. Felix keeps talking, oblivious. ‘She used to be a student there too, apparently. Your age. You probably knew her.’