‘When I heard Ellie hadn’t gone home, I went back to the river myself to check. I half-expected to find her holed up with a sleeping bag, keeping out of her dad’s way. There was no sign of her.’ Gretchen chewed her thumbnail. ‘Luke and I argued about whether we should say something. But we weren’t really worried at that point, you know? She’d been keeping to herself so much by then, I honestly thought she’d turn up when she was ready.’ She said nothing for a long moment. ‘I never once imagined she’d be in that water.’
She turned to look at Falk.
‘When they said she’d drowned, I couldn’t forgive myself. What if we’d stayed and spoken to her? I’d thought something wasn’t right, and I’d turned my back. I was so ashamed. I just shut down. I made Luke promise not to tell anyone we’d seen her. I didn’t want anyone to know how badly we’d let her down.’
Gretchen wiped her eyes.
‘Then when I thought things couldn’t get worse, everyone started pointing the finger at you. Even Luke got scared. If they thought you were involved, what would they say if they knew we were down there? Luke came up with this plan. He’d say he was with you. It would help you, it would help us. And I could pretend for the rest of my life that I hadn’t been there. That I hadn’t gone to Luke when I should have gone to her.’
Falk handed Gretchen a clean tissue from his pocket. She took it with a small smile.
‘You’re not responsible for what happened to Ellie Deacon,’ he said.
‘Maybe. But I could have done more.’ She shrugged and blew her nose. ‘I don’t know what it was about Luke. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was pretty bad for me.’
They stood side by side for a while and looked out over the paddocks, both seeing things that were long gone. Falk took a breath.
‘Listen, Gretchen, it’s none of my business, but Gerry and Barb, and Charlotte, they –’
‘Luke’s not Lachie’s father.’
‘But if –’
‘Aaron. Please. Just stop it.’ Her blue-eyed gaze met his, but only for a moment.
‘Fine.’ He nodded. He’d tried. Enough. ‘It’s OK, Gretch. But they’re good people. And they’ve lost a lot recently. So have you. If there’s a chance to rescue something positive from all this misery, you should take it.’
She said nothing, just stared back at him, her face giving nothing away. Finally, he held out the hand that wasn’t burned. She looked at it, then, to his surprise, reached out and pulled him into a swift hug. Not flirty, not even friendly, but perhaps peaceful.
‘See you in another twenty years,’ she said.
This time, he thought that was probably about right.
Chapter Forty-two
Falk’s family home now looked even smaller than he remembered. Both from childhood and a few weeks ago. He set off past it towards the river, skirting around the edges of the property. He wasn’t too worried about seeing the owner this time.
In the hospital, McMurdo had rolled his eyes as he told Falk how a lot of people had swiftly changed their tune. Started to feel downright disapproving of those fliers all of a sudden. Twenty years ago was twenty years ago, for God’s sake. Water under the bridge and all that.
Falk tramped through the paddocks, his head clearer now. Twenty years was twenty years, but some things shouldn’t be swept away. Ellie Deacon. She more than anyone had been a victim of this town. Its secrets and lies and fear. She had needed someone. Needed him maybe, and he had failed her. Ellie was the one at risk of being forgotten in all the chaos. Like Karen nearly was. Like Billy.
Not today, Falk thought. Today he would remember Ellie, at the place he knew she’d loved. He reached the rock tree as the sun was starting to dip in the sky. It was nearly April now. The summer fierceness was fading away. They said the drought might break this winter. For everyone’s sake, he wanted them to be right this time. The river was still gone. He hoped one day it would come back.
Falk sat on the rock and pulled out the penknife he’d brought. He found the point where the secret crevasse opened, and started carving. Tiny letters, E. L. L. The knife was blunt and the going was slow, but he persevered to the end. Finally he sat back against the rock and wiped his forehead. He ran his thumb over the letters, admiring his handiwork. His burned leg felt like it was on fire from the pressure of kneeling.
The pain jogged a thought. With a grunt, he turned and reached into his crevasse, feeling for the ancient lighter he’d left there last time. Nostalgia was one thing, but after recent events, he didn’t want to leave temptation around for anyone to find.
Falk knew he’d placed it deep and at first his good hand found nothing but dirt and leaves. He reached in further, stretching out his fingers. He felt the metal of the lighter as his thumb brushed against something soft but solid. He jumped, knocking the lighter away. Annoyed, he reached back in and paused as his hand hit the same object. It was rough but pliable and fairly large. Man-made.
Falk peered into the gap. He couldn’t see anything and hesitated. Then he thought about Luke and Whitlam and Ellie and all the people who had been hurt by buried secrets. Enough.
Falk thrust his hand in and scrabbled around until he got a firm hold. He gave a tug and the object came free with a sudden jerk. He fell backwards, his chest screaming in pain as it landed on him with a thump. He looked down and sucked in a breath when he saw what he was holding. A purple rucksack.
It was covered in cobwebs and dirt, but he recognised it at once. Even if he hadn’t, he would have known who it belonged to. Only one other person knew about the gap in the rock tree and she had taken the knowledge with her into the river.
Falk opened the bag. Laying the items on the ground, he pulled out a pair of jeans, two shirts, a jumper, a hat, underwear, a small bag of makeup. There was a plastic wallet with an ID of a girl who looked a little bit like Ellie Deacon. It said her name was Sharna McDonald and she was nineteen. A roll of money, tens, twenties, the occasional fifty even. Saved, scraped.
At the very bottom of the backpack was another item, wrapped twenty years ago in a raincoat to protect it as she packed. He took it out and held it in his hands for a long while. It was tattered and curled around the edges, but the writing beneath the hard-backed cover was there to read, in black and white. Ellie Deacon’s diary.
