Page 18

Claire

Now

“Pregnant?” I choke the word out.

“It would have been very early on,” Villanueva explains. “Only a few weeks along, really. And again, it’s far from certain, but the coroner noted a slight deviation in her pelvic bones that is generally associated with the early stages of pregnancy.”

But I barely hear her.

“Ms. Whitlock, are you still there?”

“Yes,” I answer rapidly.

“Did you have any idea that Ms. Barton was pregnant? Did she ever mention anything to you? Or, looking back, was there anything that may have indicated as much?”

The image comes back to me like a slap to the face. Phoebe’s head thrown back, her shiny dark hair collecting the light from the stars like a disco ball of rays.

“I don’t think so.” I shut my eyes tight against the memory.

“You mentioned that she was intimate with Mr. Quek. Are you aware of anyone else with whom she had sexual relations?”

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “And I’m sure she and Kyan used protection.”

“Okay, well, if you think of anything, you have my number.” I can tell she’s getting ready to end the call, but then: “Actually, there’s one more thing, Ms. Whitlock.

” My fingers tighten around the phone. “I’m sharing this information with you because, by all accounts, you were Ms. Barton’s closest friend during her time in Australia.

I would appreciate if you do not share this with the others, especially the men in your group. ”

I nod until the pause grows stale and I remember to speak. “Sure.”

She ends the call, but I don’t hang up right away, the phone still glued to my ear as the implication of her request sinks in.

***

It should make me feel better, the fact that Villanueva’s suspicion has turned away from me. But it doesn’t. The news of Phoebe’s pregnancy leaves me hollow.

What I did that night didn’t just lead to the end of Phoebe’s life. It ruined that of her unborn child too.

A knock at my door breaks through the swarm of thoughts in my head.

It’s Josh.

“We’re all out back. Kyan is grilling some of the sausages we bought at the store. You know, for old times’ sake and all that. You coming?”

I look at him blankly for a minute from inside the doorway, before processing an answer. “No, no. I’m not hungry. I’m actually not feeling too well after all that excitement earlier. I think I’m just going to call it an early night.”

I can’t handle the thought of facing all of them knowing what I know now. Knowing what I did.

“Okay,” Josh acquiesces. “But hey, are you sure you’re alright?”

He places his hand on my arm, and there it is again: that comfort. I want to sink into him, to tell him everything. And it would be easy, to have someone to share it all with.

But I stop myself.

I focus my eyes back on him, force a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me. Go have fun with the others.”

He shoots me a small smile before leaving, and I let him go, sinking back into my thoughts.

I try to force the grief away as much as possible, focusing instead on what Villanueva’s truth bomb could mean for me.

For the investigation. Only hours ago, I suspected Nick Gould was the one who killed Phoebe, but this news changes everything.

It gives the father of her unborn child a clear motive for her murder: ending the pregnancy he never wanted.

And I can’t picture Phoebe having sex with Nick. Not with the open disdain she had for him or his constant scolding of her.

A thought flashes across my brain unbidden, before imprinting itself.

Unless it wasn’t consensual.

But then there’s Kyan. He was the most likely to have gotten Phoebe pregnant. And what about the other two? Declan and Josh. As much as I’d like to, I can’t rule them out either.

And there are still so many other things that don’t line up.

So many secrets, lies. The whispers I overheard at Kyan’s the other morning between Declan and the mystery person.

And the incessant feeling I can’t shake since I returned, that everyone seems just slightly off.

Like they’re playing the part that’s expected of them.

I think of Villanueva’s request. Do not share this with the others.

It was one of those whirlwind relationships, where emotions ran high and attachments clicked in seconds.

It felt like we’d lived years together, but we were barely together thirty tumultuous days.

Not long enough to really understand each other.

To know the others’ secrets, their motivations. To know what makes them tick.

How well did any of us really know each other, after all?

***

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I hear the scream.

My eyes snap open, and I’m shocked to see early morning light filtering in through the window. Somehow I slept through the night.

The sound comes again, long and pained. And I realize it’s not a scream, but a throaty caw.

I stumble up and over to the window, pulling aside the curtain to reveal a glistening black raven, perched on a tree branch a short distance from the Inn.

Crows bring bad luck, my mother always used to warn me.

I don’t know what the protocol is for a raven, but I can only guess the same, if not worse.

I pull the curtain shut, but the bird’s call still rings in my ears. As my heart rate calms, I check the time on my phone. It’s still early, too early for the others to get up, but there’s no chance I’ll get back to sleep. And while I’m here, there’s something I need to do.

I need to go to the mine, Phoebe’s last resting place. I tell myself it’s to pay my respects, especially after what I did to help lead her there. But there’s a small voice in the back of my head telling me there’s another reason.

To make sure there isn’t evidence I left behind.

My mind flashes to the knife, its blade glinting in the starlight, my hand clenched so tightly around the shaft it left blisters.

The police would never be able to find it, I tell myself. But I can’t be entirely positive.

I swiftly pull on my clothes from yesterday and take the stairs two by two. Despite the early hour, Randy is hunched over the front desk. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can strike up a conversation, I blurt out that I’m taking a walk and dip out the lobby’s back door.

The Outback stretches before me, more uninterrupted land than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life.

I’d forgotten how beautiful it is, how untouched by human life.

The dirt is everywhere. Loose and pebbled in certain places, tight and compact in others, but it stretches as far as the eye can see, the stark light of the sun absorbed entirely in the red clay, all of it situated around Beulah, the craggy red mountain.

I swipe at the flies that seem to glue themselves to me as soon as I step outside and head in the direction of the mine, the route burned into my memory.

I don’t remember exactly where I left the knife that night, halfheartedly buried under red dirt I clawed at with my fingertips, specks of it clinging under my nails for days.

I was in such a frazzled state, and I didn’t dare mark where I’d buried it, assuming that doing so would make it easier for the police to find.

But still, I scan the ground as I go, tracing the dirt for any sign of sun glinting off metal.

The chill from the night hasn’t yet faded, and I pull down the sleeves of my sweatshirt, glad I decided to wear it even though the peak of the afternoon promises to be at least thirty degrees warmer.

My skin feels dry, as if the air is so in need of water that it will absorb moisture from anywhere that has it.

I take note of the crispy bushes, the dead twigs that crunch beneath my feet.

I realize I haven’t seen anything remotely green since we arrived yesterday.

I walk for nearly twenty minutes, until a sound in the distance roots me in place, a loud bang slicing through the quiet morning air.

I startle, my head snapping up from where my eyes have been glued to the dirt. Was that…a gunshot?

I scan the distance but see nothing.

For the first time I think of how dangerous this is. If whoever killed Phoebe really did murder Hari to keep her silent about what she knows, then what’s to stop them from doing the same to me? To stop me from sniffing around?

I consider turning back, but I stop myself. I don’t know when else I’ll get this opportunity. And I need to see the mine for myself, to confront what I did head-on.

Finally, after several more minutes of walking, I look up and see it.

Memories rush back. The “field trip” Nick Gould took us on one of our first afternoons in Jagged Rock, leading us through the unbearable heat, every one of us growing sulkier as we longed for the cool tropical breeze of the Whitsunday Islands we’d left days before, grief already clinging to us over what happened to Tomas.

Until we reached it: the bushland stopped abruptly, giving way to bare ground strewn with discarded rusted metal beams. The only structure aboveground was a tall copper-colored tower that stretched up to the sun.

But as we got closer, I saw something else. A small door, hardly noticeable astride the tower and tall enough for a person to get through only if they hunched over.

Nick explained it as the entrance to the mine, the heart of Jagged Rock, a city that had forged a living in silver, until even that dried up.

Nick stood in front of the small door that looked like something out of Alice in Wonderland and recounted the city’s history.

The hope that had surrounded the mine, the locals putting everything they had into building a city that never had a future.

“This here door leads to nearly three kilometers of winding underground mine shafts, none of which are safe to go into. Not that they were back in the late 1800s either. Nearly a hundred miners died down there, from suffocation or collapsed shafts. Some got lost, and no one found ’em til too late. After they died from lack of water.”

I don’t know if it was the dark history or the blasé way Nick recounted it, but I wasn’t able to pull my eyes from that mine door. Glancing over at Phoebe, I saw her doing the same. Her eyes wide, her face a mural of pain. As if she could somehow foresee what was coming.

Today, the mine is different. The tower still sits next to the warped metal door, which sticks up out of the ground like the head of a snake.

But it’s all wrong. Rather than the flat land from ten years ago, unassuming aside from the entrance, the entire area is cratered, like the remnants of a bomb site.

The once hidden mine shafts—at least the shallowest of them—have been dug up, exposed to the world like metallic entrails. A lethal-looking maze.

I suck in a breath at the sight of it, heavy and ominous, and pause until my eyes take in the signs of human life.

The piles of dirt stacked in random locations among the shafts, as though whatever construction company was working here abandoned their project as soon as they unearthed Phoebe’s remains; a string of discarded caution tape tied around a branch of the singular tree that seems to have escaped construction.

Seeing everything already torn up, for as far as the eye can see, I know any chance is gone of finding the knife around this area. The realization carves a hollow feeling in my gut.

But I don’t leave. Instead, I inch closer towards the mine as though I’m drawn to it. Ignoring the sign at the lip of the crater declaring the land a construction site and unsafe for entry, I scoot down until I’m seated, legs hanging, and drop the few feet, landing hard.

I wipe the dirt off on my jeans and head towards the tower, keeping the entrance to the mine in my sight.

It’s deathly quiet here, no sound other than the occasional caw of a raven from somewhere nearby.

Despite the earlier chill, the sun is rising steadily, and I feel a drop of sweat sneak down my spine as I walk.

And suddenly, I’m in front of it. The metal door rests on its hinges, until all at once it slams shut, a gust of wind sending it crashing against its frame.

That must have been the noise I heard earlier, not a gunshot after all.

I take a deep breath and yank the door open.

I’m instantly hit with the darkness of it, and the subterranean scent invades my nostrils.

My feet instinctively move backwards, but I force myself to walk. One step in, two.

I look around as I go, the metal walls caked in red dirt, the stairs hard and unyielding. The last sights Phoebe ever saw.

I picture her here, injured, screaming for someone to help her. While I was outside, free. The guilt returns then, eradicating everything else in my body like lava.

Until I feel something else. A presence a few feet in front of me.

I blink hard and squint my eyes, but the sunlight doesn’t reach this far into the mine. Everything is cloaked in darkness, so all I can make out is a form. Someone or something bigger, taller than me. And then I hear it. The soft short breaths of someone trying to be silent.

In the time it takes me to realize I’m in danger, a force slams into my abdomen, knocking me down. The air shoots from my lungs as my spine connects with the stairs. The pain is blinding.

Still, I feel the figure step over me, squeezing by in the narrow stairway.

I force my eyes open, but it’s futile. All I see is a blur. I reach my hand out to make contact, but they’re already gone.

I try to force myself up, but before I can, I hear a whoosh .

My body recognizes it before my mind does, blood pulsing in my ears.

The door to the mine shaft.

Instantly, what little light the outside world afforded is snuffed out. The darkness is smothering.

I throw myself up the few steps, but as I do, I hear a sound that stops me cold.

The door latching.

I’m trapped in here.