Friday, 18 December, 8.04 am
‘The memorial today should be interesting. All those kids everywhere. The Ryans. Nicholson. The other teachers. Agatha Christie would have a field day.’
Felix is in a good mood. I nod and play with the froth on my coffee and try to change the subject.
‘The Ryans are just having a small ceremony this afternoon. Only family. George Ryan told me they want to keep it very private.’
‘What do you make of him?’
I think about George’s pale eyes blurring with sadness and the hardness that emerges in his jaw when he feels threatened. ‘I really don’t know. He makes me feel uncomfortable and I don’t think his relationship with Rosalind was an easy one. But perhaps he did just struggle with raising a daughter on his own.’
‘Still think you’re on the money with your paternity theory?’
‘Of course. It’s science. I’m just not quite sure yet whether he knows or not. I suspect he might, but a lot of men raise children who aren’t theirs and lead perfectly normal lives.’
‘And some don’t.’
‘Sure. Some don’t.’ The memorial ceremony looms in my mind again and I keep talking to avoid thinking about it. ‘Assuming he does know Rosalind isn’t his, it would help if we could work out when he found out. If it’s a recent revelation, then I suppose there’s a chance it could be linked to what’s going on now. If he’s always known, then I would say it is completely irrelevant.’
Felix looks at me sceptically. ‘What, you think that he somehow suddenly found out last week and lost his mind and killed her?’
I sigh. ‘It’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it? I don’t know. But maybe there is a link somehow. Maybe one of the brothers found out?’
‘That’s going to be pretty hard to nail down. I think we’re going to have to show our cards and ask.’
‘Yeah, probably.’ I look out the window. The heat is invisible from in here but I know it’s there. A sparrow plays in the drips from the air-con, shaking out its feathers and doing little skips on the spot. ‘Or maybe it was Rosalind who found out. Maybe she was researching her family history and stumbled across something that made her confront her father.’
‘Let’s get the tech guys on to it. Maybe her school computer will show something like that if it’s recent.’
‘She might have used a public one.’
Felix shrugs. ‘Well, we’ll see what we can find.’ He glances at his watch and then looks up at me. ‘But right now we need to get our arses to the school.’
Our eyes stay locked and I reach out my foot and curl it around the bottom of his leg. He smiles and I fix my stare onto his lips.
‘I wish we could spend the day alone together instead,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I breathe, trying to put a lid on my emotions.
Reggie smiles at us from the counter. Such a carefree, breezy lady, she is always so friendly to us. She probably assumes we’re married. I look at Felix and wonder what my life would be like if he were my husband. Wonder what it would be like waking up next to him every morning, the sun spilling in on our cushiony bed, followed by orange juice and boiled eggs on toast as we lazily read the papers, him reading interesting facts aloud to me in his crisp accent. Then getting up to work on cases together. But Ben refuses to be part of this sun-dappled scene and I push away the inevitability of one day having to choose.
It’s almost 8.30 am as we drive the short distance to Smithson Secondary College. The turn-off to the freeway is already clogged with trucks; I can feel their beat pulsing through the road beneath us. I can’t tell Felix that the thought of being at the memorial is making the back of my eyes burn and my throat catch. I feel sick. Jacob’s service is still so fresh; I can feel the exact lurch that pulled through my chest, can feel the rub of the shoes I was wearing. I can still see Donna Mason’s wretched, broken face. All the girls from my class crying. Nicholson tall and awkward, wringing his hands. Rosalind, calm and serene, her eyes as cold as winter soil.
The school buzzes with quiet talking. The sun beats down and hooks sharply on a bunch of red balloons that have been tied to a gate, sending a white bolt into my eyes.
‘This way,’ says Felix, leading us past a dotted line of fluorescent bunting.
‘They must be holding it on the oval,’ I say. Just like Jacob’s. I stumble slightly and Felix grabs my arm and it takes all of my willpower not to grab on to him and bury my face in his chest.
We fall into step with the growing crowd. A parade of hats bobs along on either side of us: baseball caps, straw sunhats, kids in bucket hats covered with Peppa Pig and Thomas the Tank Engine motifs. It seems like the whole town is here. I suppose this has suddenly become the biggest pre-Christmas event in Smithson. It’s certainly going to be the main topic of conversation over the turkey this year.
John Nicholson rushes past, clutching a wad of papers. He squints into the sun and deep lines fan out from his eyes. A short woman with cropped blonde hair struggles to keep pace with him.
‘He’s hired a PR lady,’ says Felix, stooping to talk into my ear as the crowd pushes us together. ‘I recognise her. She has a little agency next door to the jewellery store shooting that I worked on in Paxton last month.’
I watch the blonde woman talking seriously to Nicholson, who seems to be struggling to pay attention.
Felix shoots me a quick smile. I smile back but all I can hear is screaming. The same sound that I always imagine Jacob made as he fell.
The oval comes into view. Patchy, green faded to yellow, it looks much like it did when I was here. Every second person is holding a red helium balloon or a rose. Most people are wearing at least one item of red clothing. I spot Kai Bracks in a bright red singlet, standing with a group of students. I half close my eyes and the scene looks awash with blood. Wet heat trickles down my sides. I quickly open my eyes wide again, blinking furiously.
‘Hey, I might go grab some water.’
‘Okay. Sure. I’ll be, ah, somewhere around here!’ Felix gestures to the writhing mass, indicating that he’ll do his best to avoid being swept away.
‘Yep, I’ll find you, don’t worry.’