Page 114 of A Murder is Going Down

‘We thought you and Adam were having an affair,’ Patrick says.

Elena actually rolls her eyes. ‘Adam’s gay.’

‘We know that now.’

‘For a skinny Melbourne hipster, Patrick, you have rubbish gaydar.’

Lilia snickers.

I’m running out of questions, which means it’s probably time to ask the big one. ‘Right,’ I say to the siblings. ‘What happens next?’

‘What do you mean?’ Elena asks.

But Patrick gets it. ‘Nobody’s going to stop you from going to the police if you want to,’ he says and his eyes cut to Michael, like maybe he’s not a hundred per cent sure. Then he does something so unexpected I let it happen: he reaches out and takes my hand. It’s not like I haven’t thought about holding Patrick’s hand, exactly, it’s just that I didn’t envisage it happening during these particular circumstances. I guess I thought maybe we’d be at the movies or sitting on the couch and he’d take my hand and I’d say …

‘Of course not,’ Elena says firmly and her eyes don’t flitto Michael at all. Also, she doesn’t take my hand (which is probably for the best).

Michael just nods, looking entirely unthreatening (although I already know he’s a good actor). ‘What happens next is really up to you, Heidi,’ he says.

Now

I stop speaking and take a big swig of water.

Then I wait.

‘So?’ Marianne says as I stand up, stretching out my limbs.

‘What?’ I say.

‘What happened next?’

‘What do you think happened next?’ I ask.

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘That’s the end of the story.’

‘Readers hate ambiguous endings,’ Marianne says swiftly, almost automatically. She’s probably said this in a hundred meetings. Maybe it’s become one of those phrases worn soft with use, along withwe can’t market that. She stands up, dusting herself down and slipping her shoes back on.

‘Ilike them.The Lady, or the Tiger?was one of my favourite stories when I was little.’

‘What happened next in real life, then?’ Marianne snaps.

Everything about today was planned – the broken lift (once we learned about Marianne’s claustrophobia), the theft of her beta-blockers (I delivered flowers this morning and managed to knock her handbag off her desk to take them). I got a look at her diary so I could be sure what time Marianne would be leaving the office.

But exactly how much of the truth to tell Marianne, I’m still not sure.

‘I agreed to keep their secret,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want to send a pregnant woman to jail. I didn’t even want to send Michael to jail. Also, my brother was a shit.’

‘You never went to the police?’

‘No.’

‘What about Lilia?’

‘She agreed not to say anything.’

Marianne is nodding slowly, sorting through the facts. ‘What about Patrick?’