Page 39

Claire

Now

I excuse myself and walk outside to take Villanueva’s call.

A claustrophobic darkness hangs over Main Street, the only light from the blinking sign for the Royal Hotel.

The smell of woodsmoke lingers in the air.

I watch something move down the street, back towards the Inn—an animal maybe?

—but from here it looks sinister, almost supernatural.

“Claire,” Villanueva says as soon as I’m standing outside. “You lied to me.”

I freeze.

“I know you’re in Jagged Rock.”

Detective Allen must have chosen this as the one time to do his job. He must have contacted Villanueva after what happened to Kyan, figured he’d get in the AFP’s good graces and screw us over at the same time.

“You are not visiting friends as you told me. So would you mind sharing exactly what it is you are doing there?”

The words rush out as I try to hobble together an explanation. “We came to talk to…to someone. The leader of our program back then. Nick Gould. And then our flight was cancelled because of the wildfires, and we were stuck, and then Kyan was stabbed…”

I know I’m talking gibberish. She’s silent for a moment, and it strikes me, this odd yearning for her approval, just like I once had with Phoebe. The more I think about it, there’s quite a lot that the two women share. The dark hair, the clear eyes, the bold confidence.

Villanueva sighs, and when she speaks it’s with a cold, professional tone. “I believe I was quite clear. We are in the midst of a murder investigation. Figuring out what happened to Ms. Barton is our responsibility, not yours.”

I’m quiet, Villanueva’s scolding sending waves of shame flooding through me.

“But that’s not all I wanted to talk with you about.” Villanueva clears her throat, and I perk up, hope lighting in my stomach.

“I had mentioned that we were running some additional tests,” she says, and the flame of hope grows brighter. “One of those tests was on a knife that we had found within a kilometer of the scene.”

Instantly, the flame goes out. The wind picks up around me, throwing specks of dirt into my face with a speed that renders them as sharp as shards of glass. I close my eyes tight, leaning into the darkness.

The knife. The piece of evidence I left behind.

Villanueva’s voice suddenly sounds far away.

“It had been buried just beneath ground level. Our canine unit discovered it. It was rusted and old, so it needed to be handed carefully, but it was largely preserved by spending the last decade in the dirt. That’s why the tests took so long.

But the results came back today. And they were quite surprising. ”

I refuse to open my eyes, refuse to accept this news as true, to acknowledge that I put myself in this position.

“Claire, we found a partial fingerprint on the handle. From what we can tell, based on the fingerprints you submitted prior to the Adventure Abroad program, it belonged to you.”

My world stops.

“And on the blade, we found blood. Blood that belonged to Phoebe Barton.”

Immediately, I’m back there. On that night. The insides of my eyelids replaying the scenes like a film unfolding. The knife in my hand, the rage in my stomach. Holding out the blade towards Phoebe. Wanting nothing more than to make her pay for what she did, how she hurt me.

“As you should understand, that alone is probable cause for arrest. We’re sending an officer down to Jagged Rock.

I’m telling you this both as a courtesy and a caution.

I have been notified that you are currently staying at the Royal Hotel.

You are under strict orders not to leave your accommodations until the officer arrives tomorrow morning.

At that point, he will arrest you and transport you back to Sydney, where you will be formally charged with Ms. Barton’s murder. ”

My legs give out immediately, my knees grinding against the harsh dirt scattered across the pavement, the denim of my jeans staining a dark red.

The same color as Phoebe’s blood on the night I made the worst mistake of my life.