‘Can’t,’ he says, ‘I’ve got to get home. We’ve got people coming over.’
Fury flares in my chest but I push it away: getting angry won’t help anything right now. A lonely piece of tinsel hanging from a lamp flutters as a fan spins slowly back and forth. The air-con started working yesterday but then packed it in again last night. Apparently Jonesy went apoplectic.
I think about Christmas next week. Felix and his wife sitting at the base of a cheerful tree, Nespressos in hand, her freshly brushed blonde hair gleaming in the dawn light, their three daughters ripping open gifts and exclaiming in delight. My head throbs harder. I close my eyes.
‘Okay, well.’ I sit lightly on the edge of his desk. ‘Back to Izzy. You think it was Rodney she saw with Rosalind, don’t you? But she’s not certain who it was. It could have been anyone.’
‘Oh, come on, Gemma. I think the kid knows something, you just don’t want to see it.’ He pushes his fingers roughly through his hair. ‘It makes sense that he’s who Izzy saw with her that night. Rosalind seemed lonely—or maybe she was just strange—but either way she was looking for validation through the play. Through male attention. Rodney was cast as Romeo, right? It all seems to fit.’
I drop my chin, trying to get him to look at me, but he is staring studiously at his screen. He is tapping his foot underneath the table; I can feel the vibrations from where I’m sitting.
‘What about Kai Bracks?’ I ask. ‘If he sent her those flowers on Valentine’s Day then that seems pretty telling, don’t you think?’
‘Sure. I’ve got no doubt he had a crush on her, but we know he was at the party straight after the play and was with other people all night. He might be a creep or just an infatuated teenager, but I don’t think he’s our guy.’
‘What about Nicholson? We’re still unclear on his relationship with Rosalind.’
He sighs. Glances at me quickly and then shifts his eyes away. ‘I think Rodney just fits, that’s all. It figures that an attractive young schoolboy would fall for his drop-dead gorgeous teacher. I thought we were the team that doesn’t fight the obvious?’
I clear my throat, which is clenching painfully as I try to speak. ‘Fine. But I don’t think Nicholson’s off the hook. It’s equally likely that an older man would be lonely and pine after a beautiful young woman. That would be validating for her too. And we still haven’t ruled out the possibility of a RYAN business associate. And there’s still Timothy Ryan.’
‘Gemma, I’m not saying this is a done deal, but it’s a pretty big lead. The biggest we’ve had so far. It would certainly explain Rosalind being cagey about her new relationship when she spoke to Lila. And we already needed to clear up the missing hour Rodney has between the play ending and his arriving at Jamie Klein’s.’
‘Alleged missing hour. He says he went straight there.’
Felix rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah. On his own, which is a bit convenient. Whatever. We need to check this out.’
‘John Nicholson could just have easily got out of bed and waited for the play to finish,’ I say. ‘You have to agree your theory on Rosalind is no more conclusive than any theory we currently have on Nicholson. Or Timothy, for that matter.’ I look at Felix but his eyes are still fixed to the screen. His body is a square, just like his computer, and I can’t read it. ‘What’s with you?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, giving me a surprised look.
‘You’re hurting me,’ I say quickly, looking at the floor. Immediately I feel guilty. We avoid laying our feelings on each other, knowing that there is enough of that heavy responsibility in our worlds already.
The room tips as he stands, his face blocking out the harsh fluorescent light. For a moment I can’t see him; he is just a dark, featureless blur.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you. This is hard, Gem. Really hard. And then there’s bloody Christmas on top of it all.’
‘I know. I’m the same.’
‘So it’s just hard. Harder than normal. My parents are coming to stay with us next week for a while. It will be even harder to see you. All the happy family time I’m going to have to do feels impossible.’ He looks up at me and then around the room, as if people are listening, even though no one is there. He puts his lips together and I think he’s going to cry. His voice is so soft I can barely hear him. ‘I get so sick of our situation sometimes, Gem.’
I talk quickly, desperate to say the right words. ‘I know it’s hard. So hard. But we both know that. We both understand, we get it. This time of year is always difficult. I’m finding it hard too. But it will be okay.’
He opens his mouth and then closes it again. ‘C’mon, let’s go and talk to young Mr Mason.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
Sunday, 20 December, 9.55 am
Jacob’s house is almost exactly as I remember it. Squat and dark, with thick ferns licking at the windows. The garage door is closed but an old Ford Falcon sporting learner plates is parked out the front. Rodney’s birthday is in January, I find myself remembering suddenly, the fact surfacing in my mind. I remember a hot blustery night in the downstairs den, the artificial smell of hotdogs and a bunch of young boys watching ghost movies on the old TV. Jacob holding my hand as we sat on the couch in the corner, supervising Rodney’s birthday sleepover, laughing at how scared they were.
A tall gum still stands to the left of the house, its branches disappearing over the roof. We’re not out of the car when Donna Mason appears on the front veranda holding a broom. She reminds me of a tightly coiled spring. She walks as if she’s being controlled like a puppet on strings, her movements jerky. Felix winds down his window.
She comes to the edge of the veranda. ‘Hello,’ she says softly to Felix. A tiny nod for me.
‘Hello, Mrs Mason. Sorry to intrude like this, but we’d like to speak to Rodney if he’s home. About Ms Ryan.’
‘He’s already been interviewed,’ she says.
‘Yes, but we have further questions,’ replies Felix.
A flash of defiance lights her eyes and then, just as quickly, she drops her shoulders and it’s gone. Another blunt little nod. ‘He’s out the back playing basketball.’
We get out of the car to a chorus of cicadas. The dull thud of a basketball forms a bass beat. Jacob played too, his long limbs perfectly suited to the ducking, weaving and shooting for goals. I loved watching him play.
‘This way.’ Donna props the broom against a wall and leads us through the dark house. The blinds are drawn and the hot air is thick with the smell of pine—a Christmas tree. We step out through the wire door and back into the soupy air, following Donna down the creaking wooden stairs.