‘Looks like a bit more than that to me. You’ve created quite the scene.’
Timothy grimaces. ‘It was just a stupid fight. No big deal.’
‘What were you fighting about?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. We were mucking around.’
‘Well, why don’t we take a little trip down to the station and unpack it all a bit?’ says one of the older cops, and I try to hide a smile as Timothy scowls.
‘Where is your father?’ I ask, following them to the police car.
‘He’s back in the hospital,’ says Bryce ominously, spitting on his hand and wiping blood from his cheek.
Chapter Fifty-six
then
I found the old fountain pen in my mother’s writing desk. I used to love watching her write, the curve of the words like a lullaby. It always seemed that no matter what letters appeared, they would be more beautiful if written with that pen. I didn’t know when I’d decided to send Jacob the note. It might have been when I saw them together at the shopping centre. It might have been after that. All I really knew for sure was that it had been twenty lonely days without Jacob and I was losing my mind. We were still speaking but our private world had split down the middle, and my side had been cast into a dark, bleak winter. I was lost without my other half. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating. I was frozen in place and unable to see in front of me. The grief was weighing me down. Jacob hadn’t mentioned Rosalind and I’d choked on the accusation every time I’d tried to ask him. And then I’d seen them together and an overwhelming urgency had taken over. Action seemed like the only option. I’d felt so drawn to her, and she had gone and taken my future away from me. It was so unfair: she had everything already. Jacob was all I had. And I had trusted him so much and now he was wrapped in her spell too.
In my room, I laid a sheet of crisp cream paper next to the piece of foolscap I’d ripped from my notebook. I wrote out the text, agonising over each word until I felt it read right. After that, I just needed to copy it onto the writing paper and sign it. My hand hovered over the page. My fingers gripped the thick pen so hard that they ached. The first few words were shaky but then I found my rhythm, recalling the necessary tilt of the nib, the right pressure. The flick of my wrist to round out a word. The letters turned into a hateful, beautiful cloud. The fountain pen transformed my prose into art, carrying light and shade. I signed Rosalind’s name with a flourish and leaned back, looking at the page. It was beautiful. The evil words I had signed her name to would be hard for Jacob to ignore.
… I’m sorry to say that you mean nothing to me. It was all a game. I just wanted to pretend I could like someone like you, just for a moment. A little bit like an experiment, a bit like a dare. I wanted to see if I could make you like me. And it worked. But now it’s gone too far. I’m embarrassed by being seen with you. I don’t want to see you anymore, don’t want you to touch me …
I felt alive for the first time in weeks. My breath came out in little puffs and my body was on edge, as if I was playing hide-and-seek and it was my turn to be found. A noise in the other room fired a nerve ending all the way from the base of my neck to the tip of my spine. Probably just Dad waking up. I dabbed at Rosalind’s signature, making sure it was dry, before I folded the letter perfectly in half. In a few hours Jacob would hold this letter and begin to doubt her. Start to feel like he couldn’t trust her. Understand that she was not what she seemed. But I didn’t want him to speak to her after he read it.
I wanted him to think that this letter was the end between them.
To realise that he had made a mistake.
To see what we had all along.
I needed to keep them apart. I didn’t want her to beg him for a second chance. Deny that she sent it.
I bit my lip, the final stage of my plan forming in my mind.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Saturday, 26 December, 4.09 pm
I call Our Lady Private Hospital to talk to George Ryan but I’m told he’s not able to speak with me at the moment. ‘Only family,’ the nurse snaps into the phone.
Felix is nowhere to be found. I recall Jonesy dressing me down and rage pulses through me again in waves. I’m exhausted and desperate to take my mind off Felix’s betrayal.
Timothy and Bryce Ryan were released without charge following the incident at the house. Neither was willing to press charges but clearly something has come between them. I wonder if it has to do with Rosalind.
It’s 1.15 pm in Shanghai when I call Lila Wilcox. I can hear the grime and colour of the exotic city pulsing down the line as she answers. It sounds a lot further than half a world away. ‘Ms Wilcox? Detective Woodstock.’
‘Oh.’ She falters. ‘You have news?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t. We’re still working through a lot of information.’
‘I see.’ Relief comes in the form of a long breath and then, as if realising that not knowing is worse, her breathing quickens again. ‘Well, how can I help?’
‘Lila, I want to ask some questions about when you were married to George Ryan.’
‘Of course.’
I arrange the photos of the Ryans on my monitor as I talk to her. ‘Was George ever violent?’
‘No. Arrogant. Dominant, perhaps, and moody sometimes, but not violent.’
‘He never hit you? Never lashed out at the boys?’
‘Not that I ever saw. He was very strict with them—too strict, I thought—but not inappropriate. He never touched me.’
‘What about Rosalind?’
She hesitates.
‘Ms Wilcox,’ I say, ‘this is important. I don’t want to have to bring you back here. It’s a long flight.’
‘No. Look, it’s nothing. He never touched her either. I wouldn’t have stood for it. But there was something off with the way he was with her.’
‘Off?’
She speaks quickly. ‘Nothing like that. Really. More like he was nervous around her. Don’t get me wrong. He spoiled her. Gave her things. Loved her. But he seemed uncomfortable with her.’
‘Maybe at that age he felt it wasn’t right to be too close?’
‘Maybe. I never understood it. It was almost like he was scared of her.’ Lila laughs. It’s a nice sound. ‘Silly, really. I tried to discuss it with him but he said I was imagining things. I don’t know. Perhaps I was. She didn’t mind. She was so self-sufficient.’
‘What about the boys? Did they ever touch her? Were they ever violent?’
‘No. Not that I saw.’
I look at my screen again. I’m deep down rabbit holes but the rabbits are everywhere except where I’m looking.
A horn blares. She’s crossing a road.
‘There was something,’ she says hesitantly.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not sure if it’s anything really. After all, they were just children.’
‘What happened?’ I say.
‘Okay, well, I could tell something was going on. This would have been around two years before I left. Rosalind was perhaps twelve.’
‘And what was going on?’
‘Well, it started with some silly inappropriate comments. Sneaking around. Normal kid stuff.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘They were taking pictures.’
‘Of what?’