I flinch. I’m glad I’m staring out the window so he can’t see my horrified face. I’m wondering how to ask him how the restraining order came about, and I’m relieved when he offers it up.
“I went looking for Amanda,” he explains softly. “She stopped answering my texts. I didn’t know what was goin’ on.”
“So…” I turn slowly to him. “What did you do?”
“Knocked on all her neighbors’ doors and asked ’em if they’d seen her.” He rubs his left palm over his knee in a self-soothing motion. “But they wouldn’t tell me shit.” He straightens up as if jolted awake. “One of ’em even said Amanda never lived there. Can you believe it? Buncha bullshit liars.”
He didn’t answer my question, and the omission makes my palms sweat. “What happened then?” I ask carefully.
“Nothin’!” he says, throwing up his tattooed hands. But he’s more frustrated than angry. “The Johnson guy, he told me to get off his property.”
“And?”
“I didn’t.”
A loaded silence. A car pulls into the parking lot, headlights off. It parks near the pub door, waits.
“I didn’t hurt him,” Darren says darkly. He turns to me, looks me right in the eye. “No matter what he says.”
I believe him. I settle back in my seat.
“But he got his fuckin’ uncle involved, didn’t he?” He keeps puffing on the smoke. “Uncle’s the Beacon police sergeant.”
The pub door snaps open, and an elderly man with a black trucker’s cap stumbles out. The driver of the car reaches over, opens the passenger door, and the man collapses inside. We watch the car drive off, and I try to organize my thoughts.
“Are you certain that Amanda wouldn’t just up and leave?”
My eyes are still on the pub, but I know he’s shaking his head. “She wouldn’t just ghost me like that.”
“Are you sure she wouldn’t?” I ask it gently, and he gives me a reproachful look. “I mean, she left South Australia, yeah? And you said she wasn’t good about keeping in touch with her family. Maybe…”
I let it hang there, but he’s shaking his head. He scratches the back of his neck. “No. She wouldn’t leave without telling me.”
I’m about to speak when he beats me to it. “They bugged your house.”
I blink, and he stares into my eyes as if trying to make me understand. “Amanda,” he says simply, “she found a bug in her bedroom.”
My heart squeezes. “Which bedroom?”
He pauses, considers this. “I never went there.” He scratches his chin and looks away, embarrassed. “We always went to my place.”
“Was it the murder room?” I prompt, breathless. “The main bedroom?”
“Knowing Amanda,” he says, eyes soft and sad, “it probably was.”
I feel like I’ve been punched. I grip the seat, breathing so fast I’m almost panting. “That’smybedroom,” I say faintly. I stare straight ahead at the pub, not even seeing it. “God.” I shiver. “What if they’ve been watching me all along?”
Darren eyes me grimly. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he says.
I think of all the times I undressed before bed and slipped naked between the sheets. I feel sick at the thought. I wrap my arms across my chest. “Who’s watching me, then?” I ask nervously. “Jeff Johnson?”
“I think so,” Darren mutters, bunching his tattooed hands into fists. “He’s a sick bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him to spy on Amanda—or you.”
I wind the window down all the way, let the cold air come flooding in. It’s freezing, but it makes me feel better. Cleaner.
“Where’d she find the bug?” I finally ask. “Did she show it to you?”
“No.” He shakes his head and takes a quick drag. “I never saw it. She found it in the wallpaper, I think.” He turns to me. “It’s a mural, yeah?”
