Turns out, cops don’t take the same view.
“Conditions of release,” the duty sergeant continues, taking me through curfews, check-ins, and court dates. “Sign here that you understand your responsibilities.”
The pen’s chain clinks against the counter, and I quickly scribble my name before anyone changes their mind. The sergeant gives me a paper satchel with my belongings and another officer escorts me to the door, waiting under the sensor until my fingers find the handrail.
Damien’s red car isn’t parked along the curb directly outside. I stand on the footpath, birds chittering above my head, the occasional swish of a vehicle passing by.
When five minutes have passed, I walk towards the corner, wondering if he’s parked nearby, unaware of my release. Still no luck.
I take my phone from the bag and find the battery’s died overnight. There’s probably a message sitting there, explaining where he is, and I pluck at my throat.
Maybe they found his father.
I wish now, I’d stayed at the table. Sat in my discomfort a little longer. At the time, my thoughts had been internally focused, but now all I can think is how it must have been for Damien. Living above his dad’s remains. The constant worry he’ll be discovered.
The man his stories painted is a monster, but nobody is only one thing. He must have different memories of him too. Better memories.
My chest knots as I picture Damien, alone in that enormous house. Grieving.
Twenty minutes must have passed before I walk back into the station, approaching the front counter.
“Is there a phone I can use to call a taxi? Mine’s dead.” The officer dials the number and hands across the receiver.
All I want is to collapse on my cabin bed and sleep, but the police weren’t happy with my temporary campsite address and released me to Bryan’s instead. I need to warn him what’shappening before an officer pounds on his door, asking for me, so it’s his address I give the driver.
The vehicle reeks of pine air freshener, and I roll down the taxi window an inch and take shallow breaths, my eyelids growing heavy throughout the ten-minute drive. The adrenaline from last night has completely burned away.
When the taxi pulls into the curb, I frown at the red car parked ahead of us. After I’ve paid the driver and he’s driven away, I walk closer.
It’s Damien’s Jaguar.
I rest my palm on the cold metal roof and peer inside at the empty driver’s seat. How did he know I’d come here?
My steps are slow as I approach the front door and test the handle. Unlocked. I swing it open and pause, pulse loud in my ears.
The house smells wrong.
Not the brightness of morning coffee and toast, it’s an earthier scent. Raw steaks and sweat.
I push open the lounge door and light from a muted television flickers against the drawn curtains. My fumbling fingers locate the remote on the couch, and the screen goes blank.
“Bryan?”
My voice doesn’t carry, swallowed by the thick silence.
The door to the kitchen is closed, and I press my ear against it. Someone’s on the other side; their shifting weight makes the floorboards creak. There’s a wheeze that Bryan’s lungs make when he’s stressed.
“She didn’t know.” Even softened by the door, Damien’s voice is calm and measured. “All those nights you were drugging her cocoa, and she had no idea.”
I grit my teeth and push my way into the kitchen.
My tired eyes blur the scene into shapes and shadows, only deciphering the broad details.
Bryan seated in the centre of the room. Damien standing over him.
A step closer reveals that masking tape binds Bryan’s wrists to the wooden arms, his ankles to the legs. His chest is bare, head lolling forward so his chin touches his collarbone.
Blood drips from his nose onto the linoleum with a soft splash that turns my stomach.
