‘Mum, it’s okay, I can’t stay.’
Jenny stared intensely, her brow creased. ‘Why do you keep coming here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Meg murmured, truthfully.
‘It’s not safe.’
‘Why’s that?’ Meg asked, wishing she hadn’t come. She could be halfway to Hartwell by now.
‘Because …’ Jenny’s voice trailed off. She looked around again. ‘They’ll know where I am.’
‘Who?’ Meg could hear the shortness in her tone. The judgment.
Jenny leaned forward abruptly and pressed the call button by her bed. Meg thought of the kind orderly who’d advised her to play along. Maybe he was right. It felt wrong though, patronising or something. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Meg pressed her lips together, inhaling deeply. She knew that paranoia was a common symptom, but until now, Jenny had just been confused. How did other people handle this? It would be so much easier if there was someone else to share this with. A sister or brother. After everything Jenny had put her through, it was so deeply unfair that she was burdened with this alone. The ultimate injustice.
A young nurse appeared at the door with a cheerful smile, glossy dark hair in a high ponytail. ‘Everything okay, Jenny?’
‘Brooke,’ Jenny said, breathless, pointing to Meg. ‘She has to go.’
Brooke frowned. ‘Don’t be silly, Jenny, she just arrived!’ She had the sing-song tone people used when they spoke to toddlers. It rankled Meg.
‘She’s just confused,’ Meg said quietly, by way of explanation.
Brooke ignored her. ‘Let’s make you more comfortable,’ she said to Jenny, reaching for the remote control to reposition the bed.
‘No!’ Jenny yelled. Meg and Brooke startled. ‘She has to stop coming here!’
‘Okay, it’s okay, Jenny.’ Brooke put a firm, reassuring hand on Jenny’s arm. She looked at Meg. ‘Might be best if you go.’
Meg nodded and walked out the door. She stood in the hall, her heart racing, listening as Brooke attempted to placate her mother.
‘It’s okay, Jenny. Everything’s okay.’
Just as she was about to walk away, Meg heard her mother speak again.
‘Has Tina gone?’
Chapter 10
Issy glanced out the window as she approached the sandstone suspension bridge on the outskirts of Hartwell, surprised how quick the drive was. And how small the bridge seemed. She tried to remember the last time she’d driven into town. It must have been years.
She usually bypassed the town entirely by taking the helicopter and landing at the Ashworth Park Hotel, or Kilmore, her parents’ place just outside town. This time, though, she was staying for a while, so she’d packed up her tiny Mercedes and driven the ninety minutes from Point Piper. Once she’d got her head around the whole Hartwell thing, she’d decided her father was right. Itwasa chance to show him what she was capable of. If she succeeded here, he’d have no choice but to move her into a more strategic role. And it was only for a month.
She’d be missing all the usual Christmas parties that typically filled her Instagram at this time of year, so she’d spent hours the night before scheduling generic posts to drop while she was away. Close-ups of shoes and handbags, throwback pics from recent social events, a photo taken when Nathan blow-dried her hair last week, tagging his salon. With any luck, her followers wouldn’t even notice that anything had changed. And she consoled herself with the thought that Sydney was just a short drive up the freeway. She could go back and forth if the small-town situation got too much for her.
The road wound past the old church and a bed and breakfast towards the main street of Hartwell. She glanced at the shops. All vaguely familiar, except for a little café, which was new. Or newish. It was hard to say. She barely went into town when she was here for Christmas or family events.
Hartwell Gaol was on the other side of the shopping strip. She pulled into the driveway and pressed a buzzer at the boom gate. Nothing. While she waited, she studied some graffiti on the wall to her right, trying to work out what it said. Why did graffiti artists (if you could call them that) use such illegible writing? Why go to the effort of breaking the law to write something in the first place, if no one could read it? It seemed illogical. She made a mental note to ask someone to have it removed and pressed the buzzer again.
‘Yes?’ a gruff male voice said.
‘Hello, it’s Isobel.’ She watched the gate, waiting for it to open.
‘Who?’
‘Isobel Ashworth,’ she said slowly. The intercom must be fuzzy. They would be expecting her. Her father said he would ask the relevant people to arrange accommodation for her in the new luxury apartments above the original building.
