

Forgotten

by Neven Carr

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author's imagination and are not to be constructed as real. The events in this book are entirely fiction and by no means should anyone attempt to live out the actions that are portrayed in the book.

Copyright © 2015 Neven Carr

Smashwords Edition

Also by Neven Carr

 Not Forgiven

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Thanks for Reading!

Keep Reading!

Loved the Book?

About the Author

Connect with Neven Carr

To my two amazing mentors

Lindell

I thank that you have a crazy, insatiable passion for editing - of which I don't.

And for chilled champagne - of which I do.

and

Suraya

You taught me many writing techniques and devices.

But none better than to accept all criticism constructively because once I did, it became my strongest and most rewarding device.

# Chapter 1

# Claudia

August 12, 2009

DEATH HAS A flavor of its own.

I know; I had smelt it before.

I smelt it now.

Coming from inside my apartment.

I hesitantly teetered on the threshold clutching two large grocery bags, a forest printed handbag and a wad of junk mail, wondering if my sense of smell was mistaken. I leaned into the void next to the partly opened door, felt the groceries lean in with me, felt my ponytail brush my cheek. All appeared quiet except for my heart's rapid knock and the faint clatter of keys still swinging from the front door.

I took another whiff. Still there. I shot up straight and swore. What did that mean exactly? That a dead body was in my home?

I almost laughed; the thought was seriously ridiculous. What would a dead body be doing in the modest home of a pair of hardworking twenty-somethings on a late Tuesday afternoon? This time I did laugh but I couldn't ignore the edginess in it.

So why the smell? Several explanations crossed my mind, unemptied garbage, a blocked drain, a keeled over rodent. Add to it a small apartment with poor ventilation and... bingo! Relief spread through me. I liked those alternatives; they were probable, rational. I scolded myself for imagining the worst.

Somewhere my memory tuned in and I heard my Eighth grade English teacher, Sister Iglesias, champion my thinking. "Claudia Cabriati," she said, "you have a febrile imagination that'll either make you loads of money or get you into loads of trouble." I recalled taking her comment as a compliment, until I looked up the word _febrile_. It meant delirious. I didn't think her analysis of me was very _godly_.

Back to the present.

The present saw me sadly still hugging the doorjamb, still reluctant to take that step forward. The ridiculous now bordered on the downright insane.

Honestly, Claudia, Simon's been away for just a week and you're already freaking out like some trapped butcherbird in your classroom. Do something before there are witnesses to your craziness.

The horrifying thought of an ogling, gaping audience spurred me onward. I hooked my head around the door unsure what I expected to see. The place was in near darkness. But to switch on the light meant going inside. Again, that didn't particularly press my happy buttons. I blinked repeatedly, waited for my pupils to adjust to the dark, felt my overstretched neck crick under the pressure. When shapes began to take form, all I could see was the shadowed foyer wall and the taunting light switch centered several feet in.

I groaned, and silently cursed the architect of these units. Still balancing at the threshold, I bit my lip and counted the footsteps to the light switch. Maybe five... six max.

Perhaps, I should just go in. I mean what's the worst that can happen? A dozen pictures of _worst_ drowned my sorry head and riveted me back to the spot.

Perhaps if I just gave the door an extra nudge, I could see more. But see what exactly? I ignored the question and instead lifted my right foot, pressed the wedged heel of my shoe against the peeling timber and shoved hard.

I swallowed.

The sluggish creak of unoiled hinges wailed. An unexpected but very distinct thud caused the door to recoil. I gasped and immediately stepped off the doorsill. Worse still, the smell was back, stronger now. And it didn't resemble any garbage, blocked drains or dead mice.

The first knots strangled my stomach, my breathing slid to an almost standstill and I felt cold shivers burn my skin.

And all I could hear was silence, sharp crackling white noise. Overridden by the subliminal echo of two words.

Move away.

I obeyed, quickly back stepping until one heel smacked into the skirting board of the corridor wall. There I leaned back, used the wall to regain some stability of my own. All the while, I kept my eyes pinned to the door. It was still swinging, slower now. Eventually it creaked to a full standstill. All was quiet.

Was I merely overreacting? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

It's what fear did to me.

Muddied my head, dulled my rationality and confused me so that I didn't know what to believe. And I hated that.

I carefully bent to one side and dumped my load. Plastic bags whooshed, cans clattered, folded paper splattered as they all came to rest in one muddled, mounded heap.

The muscles in my arms felt instant release, but as I straightened, I realized the true burden of weight hadn't left me. It dragged down my shoulders, hunched my back and dropped my chin to my chest.

I scanned my surroundings. Large black and white carpet squares, some with exposed threads, checkered the sparsely lit hallway. To my immediate right, two neighboring doors faced each other. A quick glance at my watch told me neither occupant would be home. To my left, stood a bronze elevator door guarded by a plastic green palm in a black ceramic pot.

All of a sudden, I felt as small and alone as the palm.

What to do?

Perhaps phone someone. Like the police? And say what? I think I smell dead people? I imagined their conversations over coffee and donuts and winced.

Maybe a trusted friend? And have them loyally travel through Sydney's peak hour to attend to my _febrile_ imagination? I shook my head.

_Always trust your instincts, Carina_.

I immediately recognized my Papa's voice, echoing his favorite mantra thick with his rich, Italian accent. Many times, I engaged in this mental banter with him. It often provided me with much-needed comfort, the occasional practical answers, even affirmations to some of my more zany ideas.

_I'm trying to, Papa,_ _but I don't think my instincts are playing fair today_.

I had an idea. I dropped to one knee and started ferreting through the grocery bags. Shoving aside several fresh ingredients for my world-renowned lasagne, I finally found what I was looking for. A packet of lollies, pink musk sticks to be exact. And they had to be pink; any other color was an insult to their authenticity.

I ripped, I grabbed and I chewed quite furiously. Like the drug they were, well for me anyway, every glorious mouthful reduced my rising anxieties, loosened the tightened knots in my stomach and cleared my head, if only slightly. I sucked in the bliss. And like any true addict, wolfed down three more sticks before returning the rolled up packet to one of the bags. Feeling a little calmer, I again concentrated on what to do. And soon decided to wait for someone to come.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long. The rumbling grind of the elevator slamming to a stop shattered the quiet. I immediately fluffed up my fringe, hitched up the straps of my lime green dress and my shoulders along with them. I smoothed out any wrinkles but found them more stubborn.

The bronze doors opened with a rickety swoosh. I prayed for someone friendly to step through them. He did. Shamus from the apartment four doors away, wearing clothes as loud and as busy as Central Railway Station at rush hour. A vivid red and green paisley shirt, sloppy, neon purple pants and a yellow speckled beret hooked over one bent eyebrow made me semi-grin.

And I sensed the first sweet tang of hope.

With his thumbs fixed in alternate pockets, Shamus crossed the checkerboard. "Hey, pretty lady, whatcha doing out here?"

His melodic Irish accent instantly warmed me.

"Am I glad to see you," I said. "I need your help." I nodded towards the unmoving door.

Shamus studied it, studied me, and then repeated the process. "Think you've been broken into," he said, adjusting his beret further back. "Think someone's in there?"

"I don't know. Just doesn't feel right." I didn't want to scare the poor man with any crazy, dead body thoughts. Not yet, anyway. "And the light switch is...."

"Too far inside, like my own place. I'll go check it out."

I grabbed Shamus' arm. "Don't go in though."

Shamus looked at me with a quizzical expression. I guess he had every right to. As if reading my mind, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his mobile. The cover was psychedelic, bright enough to emit its own lighting. With a few presses, Shamus shone a brighter one directly into my eyes. I blinked.

He threw me a cheeky wink, swung on his zebra-striped boots and casually wandered to the door. He tapped it open with his free hand, propelled his phone inward with the other. The golden glow from his phone haloed him and leaked into the corridor where I was uneasily waiting. Then it disappeared along with Shamus.

And for the first time, I remembered the lock.

Something alien churned my insides.

A few seconds passed and Shamus returned. I noticed wrinkles creasing the corner of his eyes. "Shit, Claudia," he said in a disturbingly offbeat tone, "what happened?"

What happened?

Snapshots ravaged my head. Snapshots of scattered cushions, smashed furnishings, my well-loved book collection tossed about... _a possible dead body or two._

My knees buckled. I skidded down the wall and landed with a blunt thud. I heard the unmistakable pounding of running feet, felt strong hands grip my shoulders.

"I was just kidding." Shamus' very apologetic voice.

_Kidding?_ He was just kidding? One doesn't kid with someone like me. Even the good Sister Iglesias would attest to that.

He helped me to my feet, my legs still shaky and balancing on four-inch heels. "Thought I'd just mess with you. No idea you were that worried."

Of course, he wouldn't. He didn't know me; at least not that well.

He didn't know my past.

What about the smell, I wanted to ask? But my voice was still stuck deep in my throat. I managed a small nod instead.

Several furrows creased Shamus' normally smooth brow as I wobbled free of his grip. "What's really going on here?" he said.

I heaved a heavy sigh. How do I answer that with a few simple words? How do I explain the irrational need to leave my loving family, the beautiful township I grew up in, in the hope that by doing so, by moving interstate my absurd anxieties may actually disappear?

I recalled Papa's saddened voice. _Sydney, Carina. So far from the people who love you._

_I know,_ I said, _but you can always visit._

And he did, quite often, sometimes with Mama, sometimes not.

Sometimes just to surprise me.

"Trust me, Shamus. There's something not right," I repeated in a brittle voice. "And... I think there's someone dead in there." I gritted my teeth to the point they hurt, screwed my face tight and waited for the expected belly laughs to roll out.

They didn't.

I tweaked open one eyelid. A pair of wide non-humorous eyes stared back. In fact, a decent dose of shock and disbelief seemed to darken them. He cast a swift glance towards the apartment then back at me. "You're shitting me."

I shook my head.

"H... how do you know?"

How do I know?

I moved in, smelled the aromatic scent of Shamus' cologne, a pleasant change to the previous invasion of my nostrils, heard his shallow breaths. "Because," I whispered, "it leaves its distinctive stench on everything it touches. Particularly in one's memories. _And I remember_."

Shamus blinked repeatedly. His mouth dropped open. And the sudden paling of his skin made him appear unwell. He glanced at the door again, began furiously rubbing his hand across his mouth. Beads of sweat bubbled above his top lip. "When's Simon due home?"

I thought of my Simon working away at another journalistic assignment. Only a week earlier, I had convinced him that I'd be fine while he was gone, that he needed to stop worrying about me.

Yet here I was.

"Not until the weekend." That was a disturbing five more days away.

Shamus took a moment. "Okay. Stay here, I'll be back."

"Like the Terminator?" I laughed nervously.

He stared at me.

Crazy?

I possibly was. Crazy with fear.

Always the fear.

Without another word, Shamus strode down the corridor and disappeared around the bend.

I was alone again.

Me and the palm.

***

I wrapped my arms around my body, tried to rub away the freshening goose bumps. Shamus would be back soon and this whole absurd mess sorted.

I felt useless. It was crippling me, this fear born from unexplainable roots. I rubbed my arms just a little harder. The sound reminded me of sandpaper against soft wood.

From the clammy air surrounding me, I heard Papa again.

_Remember Nonna,_ he said.

Nonna?

Just the mere thought of my grandmother took me back to a time when I was ten, back to....

Old, chunky photo frames haphazardly crowd the marble mantelpiece, some oversized, some so tiny I can barely make out the faces. But I know they are photos of family, of blood.

It is the Cabriati way.

A smiling toddler dressed in a perfectly pressed sailor outfit and clutching onto a green, toy battleship is my favorite - Papa seated on Nonna's lap. Not far from the mantelpiece stands a faded floral settee. Nonna's precious patchwork quilt lies crumpled over it. Unlike the settee, the quilt shimmers with a rainbow full of striking hues. I recall Nona stitching it; I recall it wrapping me many times into its caring, exquisite warmth.

Papa bends on one knee, looks down on me; his large, sturdy hands press into my small, fragile shoulders. I feel frighten but not of Papa.

" _Tell me what you just said," he whispers. Even at that age, I know urgency when I hear it._

" _Someone is dead," I repeat._

His hands tighten; they almost hurt. "Why do you think that?" There are lines on his face, not ones I recognize.

" _I just know," I answer honestly. "I know the smell."_

Papa's gasp is loud. He draws in his breath before saying more. "Claudia, tell me what you remember." Papa's eyes look dark, almost black. It scares me because I know he is frightened too.

" _I don't remember."_

" _Are you absolutely certain?"_

I nod my head quite vigorously. The unfriendly lines on his face vanish. A wide, gentle smile takes their place. His strong arms squeeze me, almost too firmly but I don't complain. I then feel his soft breath tickle my ear and I hear him whisper....

"Claudia, I'm back."

I instantly snapped to the present and turned to Shamus. He was armed with an iron golf club, a shaky-looking bike helmet that covered most of his face, except for his broad eyes, and a crooked grin. His flatmate, Clinton, lumbered alongside him.

Built like a healthy Spanish bull, Clinton appeared ready to charge at anything resembling red. Clothed in once-white coveralls and heavy-duty boots - both dotted with various splashes of color - he marched to the door, stood stiffly with his back to it and crossed his arms. A strong odor of paint followed him.

I wanted to laugh.

But another memory flooded back.

Papa is beating his chest with woven fists, wailing as if in pain. He crumples to the floor like a roll of discarded paper just outside my Nonna's sewing room. "Mama," he cries out repeatedly, "not yet, Mama... nooo...."

My own mother immediately runs to him, gently cradles him, soothes him with comforting words. And she stares at me with glaring eyes. "You knew," she whispers. "You knew Nonna was dead."

I instantly cower amongst the large leafy parlor palm that decorates the entrance. "I didn't, Mama," I say truthfully. Tears well in my eyes.

She grunts a few Italian curses and ignores me.

_Remember Nonna_.

And in doing so, it reminded me that the past is inevitably the expert. And that same past now crowded in on me.

Another icy shiver chilled my veins.

Shamus noticed, curved a friendly arm around my shoulders. "You okay?"

Not really. But I nodded, anyway.

"Clinton and I are going to check out your place," Shamus added. "You can stay here if you want."

I didn't want; I needed to know. And the old saying – safety in numbers – eased my fear somewhat and stubbornly encouraged me on.

Shamus strode to the apartment. He pushed open the door and confidently stepped in. Clinton, having never been in my apartment before, trailed behind him. I followed last.

The swift burst of fluorescent lighting made my eyelids flicker. Shamus tilted his nose slightly upwards and sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything," he said.

I wanted to say, _that's because you hadn't smelled it before_ , but didn't.

Crazy had its limits.

"I smell something," Clinton said.

I should've felt shock. Not simply because Clinton backed me up, but because he usually responded with grunts, not actual words.

We took a few more steps until the foyer ended and the living area began. Shamus flicked on another light.

I gasped and instantly clapped my hand over my mouth. The entire area was as immaculate and as orderly as a Saturday open home display causing me to wonder if I was even in the right place.

"Is your mother visiting?" Shamus sidled up to me with an amused expression.

I ignored him and moved forward. Something greater than fear wanted to examine this madness further. The kitchen sink was conspicuously shy of the dishes left there that morning. The outdated burnt orange bench tops, the stainless steel surfaces of the oven, the similarly surfaced fridge, all glistened.

The cream-colored ceramic floor tiles were so clear I could practically see my reflection. Cushions stood like soldiers on the faux leather lounge, plump and perfect. Magazines lay in straightened piles, as did the newspapers. CDs rested in their allotted slots on the black stand. Scores of my students' essays sat neatly arranged on the glass dining table, the table also a victim, smudge free and dustproof.

In its center, a glass vase filled with long, olive stems. Their tips snipped of floral life. Creepy now took on an entirely new meaning.

I spotted the tea towels next. The sight of them religiously folded and hanging in perfect formation made my belly do backflips.

Troubling pictures of uniformed cans, alphabetized herb jars and parceled packets stopped me from opening the pantry doors. I grabbed Shamus' hand, noticed his smooth, soft skin. "This isn't right," I said. "We have to get out of here."

I dragged him past the newly polished twin wooden elephants - I had no idea that Simon's obsession could look that good - past Nonna's ancient silver platter of hand me downs, looking very silvery, very un-ancient and a large, second hand ceramic pot, disappointingly seeming no different.

Clinton's thundering footsteps trailed behind. Before we reached the exit, Shamus stopped, gripped my arm and made me stand rigidly still. Beside me, an octagonal mirror eerily sparkled. I lowered my gaze to avoid looking in it.

"Why do we have to leave?" Shamus whispered.

"Our place is never this clean except in the school holidays," I explained. Well, not even then. Teacher plus travelling investigative journalist - who has time to clean? And cash for a cleaner? Not at our budding career stage.

Shamus shrugged his shoulders. "So? A friend helped you out."

I scoured my list of friends. Of course, any one of them would, but only if they thought I needed the help.

I didn't. And it still didn't explain the smell.

Shamus took a few steps forward, stopped, then turned to face the hallway leading to the bedroom. Clinton and I tailed him. The hallway was naturally unlit but it drew enough energy from the living room light. Unwelcomed shadows danced along a mishmash of photo frames and artificial pot plants. The screeching silence pierced my eardrums.

"I think I can smell it now." Shamus' voice was strangely quivery. "Someone's shit themselves."

I hoped not, but I was also glad he finally recognized an out of place smell. The fact that it was more a bodily excretion was comforting. Always better than the dead person alternative.

"I'm going to check out the rest of the place," Shamus said, as he centered his club before him. Clinton loyally followed. I wasn't as brave.

In the entire commotion, I had completely forgotten about the object behind the door. I hurried back to the foyer. Once there, I skidded to a standstill. Hoisted upright against the wall was a medium-sized, piece of luggage. A silver handle stuck out from its top, a white, plastic nametag angled just enough to catch the foyer light.

I didn't need to read the name. The luggage tag was enough. Vividly blue with the inscription _Not just another black bag_ stared back at me. A birthday present from me to him. My fingers began knotting fiercely. Why was he here? A surprise? And if so, where was he?

I shot a glance in the direction of the bedroom. It was noiseless, no scurrying footsteps, no excited voices shouting as one would expect with a surprise.

No nothing.

Just that damn, bloody smell.

But then, that would mean....

Blood rushed to my head; its pounding rhythm hammered against my eardrums.

Oh my god, Papa... no.

Carina....

Something strong and fast clenched my chest and squeezed. I doubled over, searched frantically for air. A sharp, blistering pain speared me when that air didn't come. I gasped, breathed out, gasped, breathed out. But all I felt was a dulling faintness and the rising bile burn my chest. I automatically leaned into the side of the foyer wall.

It's just my imagination. Papa, please... let it just be my imagination. Sister... Sister... whatever her name, would tell you so.

You know it's not.

Burning, hot tears scorched the corners of my eyes, as did the mounting bitterness in my throat.

No, Papa, no... don't do this to me.

I didn't do this, Carina.

And then his message hit me.

I had done this to myself.

Oh my god, no, please no. My world began rapidly evaporating into hazy white dots and rising light-headedness. It tempted me with promises of somewhere more illusionary, somewhere where guilt didn't devour my soul. I only had to take the next step. So easy.

But I couldn't.

Searching deep for a strength well buried, I placed my shaky hands on the solid foyer wall.

Carina, don't do this to yourself; don't do it to me.

I have to, Papa. I have to be sure.

As if in a predestined trance, I slowly but carefully mapped my sweaty palms across the wall until I reached a corner. I took a huge breath and swerved around it.

I first spotted Clinton scrabbling along the floor. He stopped, gripped his bulging midriff and vomited. Still bent, he lifted his head and glanced at me. His eyes were glassy, filled with obvious dread: his body seemed withered and small. He sluggishly straightened himself just enough to scuttle past me and leave.

I felt my own stomach fluids not far away.

Oh my god, Papa, this is really happening.

Yes, Carina, it is.

An extra round of chills rippled my skin.

I saw Shamus next, crouched on the floor only feet away from the bedroom; the golf club lay at his feet. I staggered towards him and unsteadily dropped to my haunches. My right hand remained glued to the wall. "Shamus," I murmured.

No answer.

I grabbed his shoulder with my free hand, gave him a partial shake. He looked up, but I barely recognized him. His normally readable face was blank, his skin a ghastly grey, his lips bloodless and still.

I placed a shaky palm on his cheek; he barely responded. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, sensing a genuine urge to hug him. It was pointless, though; he was too lost. I uncurled to a semi-stance and set my sights for the bedroom.

My feet were like lead, slow, heavy, painful to land... slow... heavy... painful. My heart felt the same. Dragging one beat at a time. Until I arrived at the bedroom entrance.

The smell was pungent.

Papa.

Carina, I love you.

I love you too.

I then swung around and entered.

That's when I saw him. Stretched out along the bed. Motionless, yet so peaceful. Any prior thoughts of the 'petal-less' stems in the living area quickly vanished.

Here they were.

Scores of crimson red petals carpeted him like a protective blanket. Agony ripped my insides, guilt riddled my blood and a driving urge to scream this injustice to the world rose in me. How could this happen to someone so beautiful, so gentle, so loving? I crumbled to the floor, let out a wail and yelled at all those unforgivable wrongs.

Cold had no meaning now. Neither did fear. Strange, I thought. There's an unequivocal solace in finally knowing the answers. No more guessing... no more what ifs, no more buts and 'perhapses'. And all I sensed was this incredible necessity to be with him.

I gripped onto the doorjamb, used it to lift my body. Once semi-balanced, I stumbled to the bed and dumped both of my hands onto the white, thick quilt.

Tears were now torrents, falling wildly. Tears for him. Every last drop. Love filled my heart; the overflowed memories of his unconditional protection swarmed the marrow of my bones.

And it hurt so badly.

I slipped to his side, tenderly brushed several of the offending petals off his forehead. Something viscous glued them to my fingers. I wiped my hand onto the quilt. White quickly became red.

Blood.

One look at him, at the purpled-red hole that dirtied the center of his forehead, at the congealed stream of fluid down one side of his head, hardening parts of his soft, dark hair, confirmed it.

Subconsciously, I knew what had caused the wound.

Consciously, I didn't want to believe it.

"I'm here," I said. I lifted his unusually flaccid arm and wrapped it around me. "It's now my turn to look after you."

Death has a flavor of its own.

I know; I had smelt it before.

I smelt it now.

But this time was different.

This time was from someone I cherished.

My Simon.

# Chapter 2

# Claudia

Fourteen months later

December 3, 2010

3:04 pm

I FELT LIKE the vacant bag racks.

Abandoned and alone.

And for the next seven weeks of the school holidays, probably just as useless. As I slouched against the racks, I swallowed back the rising lump in my throat and sadly watched the last of my students leave.

How I would miss them.

It's been fourteen months, Carina.

So what, Papa.

Don't you think it is time to get back your life?

Teaching is my life.

No, a life of your own.

I knew what Papa meant. I swung a sharp glance to the ring on my left hand. Its diamond was small but the love it signified was indisputably massive.

_I already told you, Papa_ , _not yet._ And I concluded our mental chitchat.

With a heart as heavy as the oppressive air encircling me, I returned to my classroom. As soon as I entered, its painful emptiness and silence encased me. Stripped of the student's life force, the room was now nothing more than brick and mortar, barren and soulless.

It was time to go.

I neared my desk, took in the chaotic mish-mash overcrowding its top, everything from precariously stacked Christmas gifts, strewn stationery to a now redundant planning book. Control, I noted, was already slipping from me, and the holidays barely begun.

I groaned as a fresh mental weariness took over. Surrendering to it, I landed in my chair with an emphatic thump, so glad the damn thing didn't collapse on me. I slumped forward, rested my elbow somewhere between a tube of Avon moisturizer and an exquisitely boxed red and green Christmas bauble, and plunged my chin into my palm. With my other hand, I picked up my favorite pen and began clicking it.

Its rhythmic sound prompted my wretched mind to wander.

Time to get back your life.

This time, Papa's words belonged to a recent memory.

Papa and I are slouched in a couple of green chaises on the patio of my fifth story unit indulging in a bottle of Italian Chianti and the enchanting views of Nankari Bay.

The clear, blue ocean mirrors the sky and is unnaturally still except for the slow, muted ripples of a lonely yachtsman sailing too close to shore. A soft warmish breeze toys with my hair, gently caressing my cheeks. I lean back, smile and greedily breathe in the fresh, briny air.

" _Nankari is special," Papa says._

It certainly is. It is my hometown. It had also been Simon's.

Situated on Queensland's majestic Sunshine Coast, it rests beneath two rocky headlands that stand like a pair of giant soldiers loyally guarding their most precious jewel. A jewel, deserving of its Aboriginal translation, 'a beautiful place.'

" _You are ignoring me," Papa says in his normally gruff voice._

I take another sip of Chianti. It leaves an odd taste in my mouth as if suddenly tainted. "Time to get back my life. I heard you."

And I know he is speaking of Simon. Even after all this time, an abrupt sadness fills me. I close my eyes and silently weep.

" _I know you hate talking about him."_

I nod and keep my eyes closed.

" _And I know you are going to hate what I am about to say next."_

I look at him; my muscles immediately tighten and I wait.

Papa sighs and fiercely rubs the back of his neck. "I think, well... no, I really believe it is time for you to take off Simon's ring, to move on."

I shrink into the lounge like one stung. Is Papa serious? A further study of his worried face tells me he is. I cover my ring defensively and sense a renewed disquiet take over. Take off Simon's ring? Like for good? The idea has never entered my head. Not once.

Hot anger instantly burns me. "I'll remove the ring when I am ready," I snap, "when I decide it's time."

Papa's broad shoulders wilt. I know I am hurting him. But I am hurting too.

" _I understand," he mumbles, and he casts his troubled eyes to the waters._

But does he understand? I don't think so. How can he?

He doesn't know the full story.

No one does.

I change the subject.

"What a fricking mess."

I jumped, causing the perfectly packaged bauble to fly off the table. It smacked against the stained carpet miraculously resettling in one piece.

There was no mistaking that inimitable tone.

It was my friend, Melanie Lloyd.

Her 'teacher' voice could have shredded steel but then that was Mel's talent, if one could consider her voice a talent. Balancing a bright, red tub on her hip, she stopped a few inches shy of the desk. She studied it, studied me then began shaking her mop of flamed hair. It was wild and unruly, much like her fashion sense, much like her.

"Honestly, Claudia, if your face was any longer it'd soon come with its own carry bag."

I feigned a half-twisted smile. "Cute."

" _I_ thought so. So, are you leaving all this crap for tomorrow?"

I glanced at the clock. I had been pen clicking for almost thirty minutes. "As I usually do."

I tossed the pen. It landed amongst the rest of the tabletop jumble. Returning the following day was an obsessive habit of mine. In some strange way, it helped me adjust better to the longer breaks.

I stood and hunted for my car keys, finally finding them on the whiteboard ledge balancing between a blue marker and some worn out erasers. I collected them. They jangled noisily, felt heavy in my hand. I looked down, only to see an overabundance of attached worn out souvenirs. A faded 'Tigger' figurine bounced just like his 'A. A. Milne' character.

I grabbed my basket, slipped on my sunglasses, then headed towards the door. Mel's clogs clip-clopped behind me. I waited for her to leave, took hold of the sun-hot handle and slammed another year closed.

"Coming for a drink?" Mel asked. "You know, to celebrate."

"Celebrate?" I winced, hopefully to myself.

"Come on, you don't want me partying by myself!"

The image of a jubilant Mel doing the Macarena came to mind, and I grinned. She and herself would party just fine.

We headed towards our cars. The sight of the almost vacant parking area brought to mind vivid pictures of a ghost town. All it needed were some rolling tumbleweeds.

I unlocked the door of my green Rav 4 and nestled the basket onto its floor. Mel, as always, was within a breath away. When I finally had enough courage to look at her, I recognized her world-class death stare. I grabbed my drawstring bag, stretched it across my face and playfully cowered behind it.

Mel pulled a droll face. "Cute."

" _I_ thought so."

Mel dumped the red tub beside her and placed her hands on her hips. "I know what you'd rather do," she declared. "Go home and stare out into the waters like one of those stupid zombies from one of your stupid zombie movies and...."

The constant rumble of a car's engine caught my attention, briefly muffling out Mel's voice. A standard white Holden stood stationed in an undesignated area at the other end of the car park.

I don't know why, but I found it curiously odd. Perhaps it was the unconventional way it was angled, across the painted parking lines rather than within them. Perhaps it was the way its sun-stripped bonnet was arrowed directly towards the opened gate.

I took note of the driver's window. It was wound down. Only one person sat in it, wearing a black leather-like jacket with a matching hood. A branch of a nearby wattle tree, thickly covered with green and gold foliage, threw a slight shadow against the figure, just enough to give it a less than friendly impression.

"... But I've decided... not today." Mel's banter cut through my thoughts.

I tried to refocus on what she was saying but I found it difficult. For whatever reason, the whole Holden scenario made my skin burst into uncomfortable bumps. I interrupted her, calling her name twice.

She glared at me. I hooked a sneaky glance in the vehicle's direction. "Do you know that car?"

An exaggerated huff followed. She scrutinized the vehicle and then dismissed it with a rapid flick of her hand. "It's a car, Claudia, like many others that travel our roads."

I didn't much care for her patronizing tone. "Have you seen it before?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not doing that whole 'someone is stalking me crap' are you?"

That stung. Since childhood, I often had the peculiar sense of being watched from a distance.

_Just your imagination,_ I could hear my mother saying.

_Exactly,_ my father's typical response.

But Mel had always believed me.

As if just realizing it, Mel's face softened. "I'm sorry."

I returned my attention to the driver. There was something weirdly familiar about him. But be damned if I could place what that something was.

In that instance, he faced the exit. The engine revved loudly. Tires howled. And just like that, the car disappeared leaving behind the distinct smell of burning rubber and a wisp of smoke.

"That was odd." Mel sounded unusually subdued.

I almost choked. _Odd_ didn't remotely cover it. I turned to Mel. Her expression appeared quite puzzled, her normally ruddy skin pale as she stared into the smoldering vapors of a now long departed car.

I gripped her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Her bright pea green eyes blinked back to life. "Of course I am. It's just a fricking car, with some jerk of a driver."

"You think that's all it was?"

"There could be a zillion reasons why he was here, like casing the school to break into over the holidays."

I wanted to believe her but couldn't. The whole incident had remarkably unsettled her. As for me, I couldn't shake off the _familiar_ thing.

"I'll let security know before I leave, just in case," Mel added.

I hugged myself, ran my palms over my cool skin. All of a sudden, the thought of being alone wasn't so appealing. "Drinks sound good," I murmured.

Mel tried to appear delighted but it was forced. "You won't regret it."

For a moment, she studied me, then shook her head, collected her tub and began marching in the direction of the office.

"Go do whatever it is you have to do," she called out, "then get that skinny little arse of yours down to The Local. And don't forget to brush your hair; it looks like a family of scavenging birds has nested in it."

Original Mel was back.

***

Finding a parking spot outside The Local Watering Hole was a near impossibility. I lost count at the times I swore. I finally found one between a contemporary white motorhome and a rusty old Commodore. After three attempts, I eventually squeezed into it.

As I made my way to the pub's entrance, I absorbed the extraordinary views. Elevated high on Nankari's southern headland, I could see most of the jagged coastline and the exquisitely smooth waters of the bay. On such a muggy afternoon, the steady sea breezes made The Local a perfect drinking spot.

I took a deep breath, then entered the place. When I did, I felt as always, like I was suddenly transported back to 19th century Australia. And as a history enthusiast, I loved it. Loved the large, rustic barrels that served as tables, the black wrought iron stools, with worn out cushions, as seats. Loved the honey-colored paneled walls decorated with original leather saddles and semi-rusted farming equipment.

And most of all, the oil paintings, fertile with red, oranges and yellows that perfectly captured an environment too harsh to survive in, the freedom the land offered, too seductive not to try.

The smell of beer was as always, fresh, pungent and enticing, and the buzz of patrons' voices loud but homey. I swung my newly brushed hair to one side, straightened out imaginary creases from the bright green dress hugging my body and headed towards the bar intending on arming myself with the largest drink I could.

Outdoors was busier still. Sets of oiled-timbered picnic tables lay scattered on the wide panoramic deck along with more rustic barrels. Each carried the weight of jovial customers.

I found Mel at one of the tables. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice-filled bucket; a generous serving of hot potato wedges spread before her.

Champagne I loved. I parked myself across from her, downed my own glass and made for a rapid refill. "It's just magical here, isn't it?" I said, soaking in the sun-kissed sky.

"Mmmm," Mel mumbled between mouthfuls of chili-covered potato. "And so are these wedges." She scoffed a few more. "So what're we doing with you these holidays?"

It was as if she were ticking off an item from a 'Things to Do' list. "I'll be fine." I licked the chili sauce off a wedge and decided it was too greasy.

"No you won't." That direct, that honest. "Seven weeks? Too long for you doing nothing. Only make those nightmares of yours worse."

Mel was referring to a set of dreams I've had for as long as I could remember, very alike to each other, _very frightening_. Sometimes, they occurred on consecutive nights. Other times, days or even weeks would pass before I would have one again.

We chatted for a while. Mel began listing a number of possible holiday-occupying options, while we basked in the glorious twilight, tasting champagne bubbles.

A roguish sea breeze played with a wisp of my hair. I lazily fingered it behind my ear. Mel was right about coming. I felt amazingly at peace. Even the fading memories of the white Holden now seemed inconsequential.

"Hey," Mel whispered. "There's a guy looking this way. And, yum, he's simply gorgeous."

I immediately recognized her impish grin and rolled my eyes.

"No really, he's soooo cute." She tapped my arm. "Look now. He's turned away."

I didn't know why I went along with those silly fantasies of hers, but I did turn in that direction. On the other end of the deck was a man with coal-colored hair leaning against the railing as if he owned them, a beer glass cradled in his hand. Mel, as usual, was right. He was good looking. Tall and powerfully built, he transmitted an air of superiority and confidence. In that precise second, he turned and caught my eye.

Ah, shit.

I hastily looked away. "Really, Mel, need I remind you that you're already married?"

She appeared gobsmacked. "Not for me, Claudia. For you."

"What?" The suggestion took me aback. I glanced at Muscle Man, unsure of how to respond. This time he was smiling at me, quite generously.

Shit, again.

I closed my eyes and swung back around. No doubt about it, he was something else, but Mel knew it was the last thing I wanted. I had another sip of champagne. My head began to feel like the bubbles, light and frothy.

"Very nice!" Mel sighed, "But I'm not surprised someone that delicious is eyeing you off."

My eyebrows rose in question.

Her own rose higher. "Don't give me that 'I don't know what you're talking about' face."

I said nothing. It was safer.

The twinkle in her eyes returned as she stole another peek over my shoulder. "Someone like him could keep you entertained these holidays."

_Was she for real?_ "I don't need a man to entertain me."

"Well one could argue that point."

My eyes tapered.

"But one won't," Mel said. "He's still impressive, though, very impressive."

Did Mel just moan? I shook my head and stood, deciding we needed more ice and a break in the conversation. I strolled towards the bar, aware of the thickening crowds on a typically packed Friday.

Upon my return, I glanced towards Muscle Man. Well, perhaps not so much him, as his biceps, noticeably accentuated beneath the short sleeves of his white polo shirt. Impressive, yes.

He was looking straight back at me. I should've blushed or something. But a visible change in his expression troubled me instead. He was frowning, his interest redirected to something inside the pub, to the right of where I was now standing. When he looked back at me, his frown had creased further. He then flicked his head to my right.

I instantly checked the area, but only saw a raucous group of males larking about. Looking back at Muscle Man, I noticed him repeating the pattern, catching my eyes and flicking his head some more.

For a blink, I had the impression he was trying to tell me something.

For a blink, I was interested in what that something was.

Was someone watching me?

Yet again?

Or was I simply being paranoid after the Holden incident? I spun around for a second time, searched with more care, but still failed to spot anyone recognizable. What was going on?

Always trust your instincts, Carina.

I can't see anyone, Papa.

Doesn't mean they are not there.

Damn it.

I side stepped a table of giggling girls eyeing off the rowdy youths, gave the area beyond them one more thorough search.

Nothing.

I began to feel ridiculous. I turned to Muscle Man. He had his hands thrown to either side of him, shrugging his broad shoulders. Then with an apologetic expression, that seemed seriously exaggerated, he lifted his beer as a gesture to join him for a drink.

Was that what this entire performance had been about?

A mere ploy to charm me?

I instantly felt irritated. Not just from his blasé reaction or his obvious brazenness but by my own gullible readiness to go along with it all. I turned away, deciding I wouldn't glance his way again.

"Saw you looking at him," Mel sang when I returned.

"And won't be looking again," I sang back. "The man has issues."

"What man doesn't, girl?" Mel laughed and sculled back the last of her drink.

I laughed in return. It felt so damn good. I freed the champagne bottle from the mountainous chunks of ice and shook it from side to side, stressing the dribble at its bottom. "I tell you what," I said in a more light-hearted tone. "It's time for another bottle. So no more serious stuff about guys and their whacky behaviors! You in?"

"Hell, yeah."

I leaned back, grinned and felt more relaxed than I had in a long time.

***

But what I was yet to discover.

Someone _had_ been watching me that day at the pub.

Someone wearing a black leather jacket.

_With a matching hood_.

# Chapter 3

# Claudia

December 3, 2010

9:15 pm

A FEW HOURS later, Mel's ever-obliging husband, Peter, dropped me home.

I slipped out of their car and gazed up at the buildings towering over me. The night hid the beauty of their earthy-colored exteriors, the ivories and taupes and rich, deep reds. But it couldn't mask the lights randomly glimmering from identical rows of tinted glass and partially curved balconies with white, metal balustrades.

This was Zephyr, a large, contemporary complex situated directly opposite the bay.

This was my home.

Renting a unit there was more expensive than others further inland, but I didn't care. I loved its coastal position, the tranquility of its beautifully manicured gardens and more importantly, the high security it offered.

"We'll wait 'til you're inside the gate," Peter drawled.

I muttered my thanks. Hazy from the champagne, I stumbled to the steely entrance. A bright, sensor light immediately kicked in making me wince. I fingered my password into the code pad. It flashed _Incorrect_ in neon red. I growled and tried again. A third attempt finally saw the gate swing away from me.

Mel semi-emerged from her rolled down window. "You look pissed, Cabriati."

I pulled an indignant face at her. Pissed I was not. Mellow and relaxed, definitely.

Mel laughed as the car rumbled away.

I swung the gate closed, heard it clang into place. I then sauntered along the cobbled pathways, swinging my bag. Subdued lighting from the tall, arched streetlamps guided my way. I raised my head and breathed in the delights of the night air. Its cool touch brushed my heated skin, bringing with it the mouth-watering aromas of a distant barbecue, the sweet sounds of the ocean waves licking the shores.

The sound of the gate closing made me stop.

Someone else returning home, perhaps?

I turned. Moonlight shed a dull, ghostly light along the tall, concrete walls and its darkened entrance giving it an almost menacing appearance. I narrowed my eyes and searched, but saw no one.

Did I imagine it?

For the third time that day?

I quickened my pace and the tapping of my heels became more pronounced. A branch cracked, leaves crunched. I stopped and swung another look behind me.

Again, no one.

"Is anyone there?" I called. I cleared my voice. It sounded too scratchy.

Silence.

I resumed my pace. A troubled feeling inched under my skin, digging deeper with each hurried step. I was amazed how alert I'd suddenly become. Visions of my unit, the protection it offered only sharpened that feeling. I turned again at yet another unexpected sound, like strong nails scratching a blackboard.

Still nothing.

Fear gripped me. It rebuked me for being irrational. It also instructed me to move faster. And I did, scuttling past the initial buildings. A howling dog sparked more shivers, more fear.

Always the fear.

I was almost running. My breathing jagged, rapid. My heart drumming harshly against my chest.

When I saw a figure standing rigidly near one of the lampposts, I slammed still. My hand gripped my mouth and stifled a scream. The figure hastily stepped into the light.

It was a woman, tiny, almost childlike. But her faintly creased brow, the soft semi-circles cornering her mouth and the lines fanning her eyes, suggested someone much older. Her golden hair was wrenched high, set in a thick plait that tumbled over her shoulder and down her white shirt.

"I'm sorry," she said awkwardly, appearing quite alarmed herself.

I said nothing. I was too busy sucking in air.

She was pulling her plait, twirling it repeatedly around her small fingers. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

I immediately felt a little crazy about my behavior. I had probably frightened the poor woman more. "It's me who should apologize." I forced a feeble smile.

A short, uncomfortable silence followed.

"So, was that you who just came through the gate?" I had to know.

But she shook her head.

I grimaced. Strangely, the woman continued staring at me. She was partially smiling but her lips were trembling and her eyes were moist. I stepped closer. "Are you all right?"

She wiped her finger beneath each eye and nodded. "It's just that... that I have been waiting for such a very, very long time."

It was an odd thing to say but she appeared so sad, so fragile. I wanted to help. "Who are you waiting for? Maybe I know them."

The lines on her brow deepened and her plait twisting became clumsy and jerky. "I've... actually been waiting... for... _you_."

What?

She frowned in a way that made me think she feared my reaction. I, on the other hand, wasn't sure how to react. Instead, I did a hurried scan of her, looking for anything familiar. But there was nothing. Maybe she had the wrong person.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

Her 'yes' was soft and unsteady.

I leaned in closer, studied her again, this time with more care. That's when I noticed her eyes, richly dark, emotionally intense.

Eyes I had seen before.

I gasped. "Who are you?"

The woman took a small, tentative step towards me. Her troubled expression was gone. Instead, her face now twinkled with a recalled affection. "Cordy-Bear" she murmured. Tears rolled down her paling cheeks.

I staggered at the name. Another memory hit me. A different one, infinitesimal at first, but eventually bursting into images of a much younger woman: one with the same loving eyes, the same generous smile.

And one who would use that name often.

"Who are you?" I spluttered again. My fingers were wobbly and my bag slipped from them. I heard it land with a soft thud.

The woman drew closer still and with the same tenderness, clutched one of my hands between both of her own. An immediate sensation of comfort followed. Her skin was velvety, so smooth and inviting and the soothing smells of cinnamon and vanilla emanated from her. Her familiarity, her unfamiliarity confused me, yet oddly warmed me.

And for one brief, crazy moment, _fear left me._

And it felt so damn liberating.

My smile was huge.

Hers showed such joy.

"I have things to tell you," she whispered, "important things."

I merely wanted a credible explanation for our unusual connection. As if sensing my need, she released my hand and began fingering inside her bag. I held my breath. The object she pulled out was white, flat. An envelope? She placed it in my hands and closed my fingers over it. As she moved away, I noticed it was indeed an envelope, a large one with my name exquisitely inscribed on its front.

Beneath it, also flawless, the words... _love from Alice_.

Alice?

Alice who?

"Happy birthday, Cordy-Bear," she said.

Happy birthday?

At once, I recalled similar envelopes with similar inscriptions, ones I would find every year beneath my pillow. Inside would reveal the most striking cards, each meticulously handcrafted, each creation unique, with perfectly quilled flowers and satin bows and clever pop-out surprises.

"It's not my birthday," I whispered, the same words I whispered every year.

Her only answer was a kindly smile. So many questions sprang to mind. But for now, they seemed unimportant. For now, it seemed as if time had stopped still just for us.

Until...

Her eyebrows arched unexpectedly, her widened eyes shot over my shoulder. I began to swing around but her surprisingly strong hand whipped hard against my chest instantly unbalancing me. I fell sideways, seizing several branches of a nearby bush. As I tried righting myself, I heard it.

The crack.

Ripping the air.

What followed was unclear, erratic. Yet several impressions stayed strong.

Of me automatically swinging to the sound's direction, discovering nothing. Of the sensation of sticky patches sprayed upon my already bristly skin. Of the woman's startled face frozen into something horribly twisted.

My muscles began jellifying, my heart pounded erratically. And a knot of strong, undiluted fear rocketed from deep within. With unblinking eyes, I looked down to the woman's hands. They were grasping her chest, the white of her shirt crumpled in her small fists. A circle of red had formed and was rapidly spreading across her shirt.

She looked down once and then returned her glassy, terrified eyes to me. "I'm sorry... so, so sorry," she choked. Blood burst in broken bubbles from her mouth as her body began to slowly fold.

I instinctively reached forward to stop her from falling. But it was too late. She crumpled to the ground. Piercing screams shattered the silence.

It took me a good fifteen seconds to realize that those screams were my own.

# Chapter 4

# Araneya Estate

1987

THE LITTLE GIRL finished counting to ten and removed her fingers from her face. "I'm coming," she chimed, her voice sounding like a thousand crystals colliding in the breeze. Delight crinkled her pretty face; her smile was as large as the sprawling gardens surrounding her.

Her joyous eyes danced from side to side, eagerly searching which way to go. Ahead of her was an enormous, old fountain expelling water from numerous fine jets. Nearby, two marble lions guarded the structure. Granite pathways snaked from the fountain's corners until they vanished into hidden twists and profuse vegetation.

The girl ran to the fountain, first stopping at one of the lions looming menacingly over her. She wasn't afraid of it. She was used to its snarling glare and its threatening jaw. She grabbed hold of one its sun-warmed paws and swung around to the back of it.

" _Boo," she shrieked, but there was no one there. She repeated the same performance with the other lion, and as before, the space was empty. She jumped up and down clapping her hands, the long waves of her hair bouncing in rhythm to her jumps. "Where are you?"_

No answer.

She proceeded to skip around the fountain, pausing to watch one of the jets streaming water high into the sky. She raised her small head in an attempt to see its tip but instead, the cruel, summer sun blinded her. Rubbing her eyes, she waited for her sight to return and then pranced down one of the pathways. In playful rhythms, she leapt behind every bush, every garden ornament that crossed her way, seeking the hidden. In time she did, a tiny woman sitting behind a solid, stone statue of an angel.

" _There you are," the girl sang with much satisfaction. "I told you I could find you."_

" _You should always know I'd be here, little one," the woman said, twisting her long_ _golden plait around her fingers._

" _Why?" she asked in her sweetest tone._

" _Because it's the guardian angel, and that's who I am." The woman moved aside, revealing a gift-wrapped package resting on an old, weathered bench. "Happy birthday, little one."_

The girl shrieked. She raced to the package; her fingers impatiently worked at its wrapping. And when completed, there, amongst the fragments of the ripped and crumpled paper, lay an adorable rag doll. It had huge eyes and long hair just like hers, and remarkably in the same color. It wore a blue and white dress, edged in lace just like her favorite dress.

She hastily picked it up and bundled it lovingly into her neck. "Dolly," she whispered. She then wrapped one arm around the woman. "Thank you, Alice, thank you," she said, with her child-like sincerity. "I love you so much... so very much."

" _I know, little one, and I love you too."_

And Alice meant every word.

# Chapter 5

# Saul

December 12, 2010

3:35 pm

SAUL REARDON LEANED against his office desk.

It was large, curved and handcrafted from solid mahogany. On its dark leather inlay lay the basics, an ACER laptop, a white, slimline lamp and a black, multifunctional printer. An out of place snow globe titled _The Magic Forest_ rested to the left of a cylindrical container of sharpened pencils.

A man, fortyish, thickset with a bushy beard and brows to match, stood across from Reardon, nervously wringing a shabby-looking cap in his large hands. His face was tanned and heavily lined.

"I don't know what to say, Jacko," Reardon said, staring at the small, unopened gift in his hands. And he didn't. Jacko could barely afford the family's next dinner, let alone whatever was inside the parcel.

"We knows yer don't want no money and all, but well... what yer did for us...." Jacko shrugged and dropped his head.

Reardon looked up, felt something decent stir inside of him. He stepped forward and calmly rested his hand on Jacko's rounded shoulder. "I was happy to do it."

Jacko blinked away the rising moisture in his eyes. "Yer such a selfless man."

Was he? Reardon wasn't so sure.

"Aint seen the likes of it before, well... not the ways I's lived. Yer don't seems to care who we are but if there aint no-one else who can help, yer just do."

_A penance I inflicted upon myself years ago, Jacko._ And Reardon recoiled at the thought.

"And yer wants nothin' in return."

Just your loyalty.

"Just our loyalty."

Reardon smiled.

"And me loyalty is there for yer anytime." He let out a deep, throaty cough and nodded at the parcel. "Anyways, open it."

Reardon began stripping off the speckled gift-wrapping. It was a little tattered, wrinkly, sections of it marked by old, yellowed sticky tape. A blue pre-loved bow balanced on the top. Pieces fell with a soft whoosh onto the marble floor. What remained was a photo, framed in white cardboard with roughly colored crimson hearts.

"Ellie wanted yer to have that, to remind yer of how yer helped save her."

Ellie was Jacko's seven-year-old daughter. The photo was of her. She was leaning over a small table with a red crayon in her hand. Blonde curls framed her chubby-cheeked face, her fringe pulled back by a pair of bright purple baubles. Her smile was wide and unmistakably happy. But her eyes dominated all else. They were the most remarkable blue, glassy like, yet so full of warmth.

Much like Issie's.

_Much like yours,_ Reardon could hear his mother say.

"She made it herself, even wrote them words," Jacko said with a burly swell of his chest.

Heading the frame, in childish scrawl was – _I won't forget you ever._

Reardon's breath was sharp; it almost hurt. _I won't forget you either... ever._ "How's she doing?"

"Real good, real good. She's movin' around real fine now; she can't wait to shows yer."

"I can't wait to see it." He pictured a very frightened, very damaged Ellie of eight weeks ago. He clenched his jaw tightly, felt a deep-rooted anger re-ignite. He looked across at Jacko and said as fiercely as he could, "Those men will never bother you or your family again."

"I believes yer." Jacko's tone was just as fierce.

Reardon nodded and then shot a look at his left hand. There were three, deeply embedded scars on his palm, one crossing the other two, creating the symbol Ѝ. His chest tightened.

Disturbing images of another set of men quickly infested his head. As did the hauntingly terrified faces of their seven innocent victims. Victims misguided by their trust in Reardon. He visualized the day when he would finally hunt the bastards down. And his chest loosened just a little.

_Patience, Saul,_ he would hear his mentor say. _Let it guide you._

He had been patient for six years now. Six long years of following one lead or another. But as initially promising as those leads were, the results were always the same.

Nothing.

We will find them, Saul.

He had to believe it. Closure, at least for the children, at least for his Issie, that's all he wanted.

I love you, Daddy.

I love you too, sweetheart.

"Yer okay, Mr. Reardon?"

Reardon snapped back to the present and again lifted the photo of Ellie. "Just a little overwhelmed."

Jacko smiled and before long, he left.

***

Reardon strode towards his bookshelf.

It lined one of the room's nine-foot walls and housed a wealth of his passions. He searched for a particular book titled _The Road Less Traveled_ \- a special gift from his mentor. When he found it, he carefully placed Ellie's photo before it.

He ran his hand over his hair, messing it further, then headed to the bar where a semi-filled coffee maker sat bubbling on a white stone bench top. The heady aroma of the coffee was enticing. But Reardon reached for the bourbon instead. He filled a short glass deciding against his usual ice.

On the way back to his desk, he paused at a chess game still in progress, centered on a low marble coffee table. Beside it lay a current issue of _Business Weekly_. He grinned at the game. At present, he was winning.

He slumped into his chair, stretched out his long legs and took a slow swig of his bourbon. It was warm, smooth and slid down his throat like virgin honey. He then leaned forward, clicked his laptop to life and stared at the name heading the documented page.

Claudia Cabriati.

Reardon rubbed his brow, felt his fingers press hard against his skin. Someone had to be messing with him. Right?

Either that or this was one bloody coincidence.

The office door flew open causing Reardon to shoot a look over his shoulder.

Ethan Sloane entered, swinging a well-used cricket bat and whistling an upbeat version of 'We Are the Champions.' He shoved the door closed with an easy back kick, tossed the bat onto one of the sofas, and then strode directly towards the bar.

After grabbing a beer, he yanked a rubber cooler from the pocket of his cricket whites, thrust the beer into it and himself onto the other sofa. Its leather fabric whooshed under his muscled weight. With little effort, he twisted the cap from his beer, aimed it towards the sink and threw. It landed with a tinny clatter.

Ethan grinned broadly and took a long scull of his ale.

"I take it the game went well," Reardon said, returning to several small piles of printouts. He stapled one last batch together and placed the stapler back in its drawer.

"Certainly did. You should've seen me, mate. Smashed a six right over the fence. Bloody brilliant, if I say so myself."

"Really?" Reardon's chair squealed as he swiveled to face his friend. Ethan was now lying horizontally, his unblemished socked feet crossed on the bottom armrest. His adidas joggers were scattered randomly on the floor. "With _my_ lucky bat."

Ethan feigned outrage. "Mate, luck had nothing to do with it. It was skill. Pure Sloane skill. Man, I was like an art form! The flawless foot movements, the seamless swing of the arms, the cracking connection of bat to ball and then the ultimate follow through." Ethan shook his head and let out a long, relaxed sigh.

"Sounds quite the picture. I guess the only question left is, which female did it impress and what time are you picking her up?"

Ethan arched one eyebrow. "For someone with your mathematical capabilities, I hate to tell you that's two questions. But seven thirty, actually. A pretty little number named Cherisse."

Reardon crossed his arms and grinned.

"You know you could come. A small group of us are meeting at The Local." Ethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "After that who knows? The chicks would really dig that posh London twang of yours. Naturally, I'd have to rip them off me first, but hey, what are good friends for?"

For a moment, Reardon considered Ethan. He was almost as tall as Reardon, well over six feet and displayed all the rewards of someone who worked out tirelessly. Along with his supposed boyish charm, it made him a very resourceful person to have around.

_Get yourself a good wingman,_ his mentor had once said. And Reardon had. One that, in time, had become more than some selected sidekick.

He and Ethan were like brothers.

As for Ethan's invitation? Reardon's silence was the only answer Ethan needed.

"Don't get too comfortable," Reardon said. He handed Ethan the detailed printouts on Claudia Cabriati.

"What's this?"

"Read it, tell me what you think." Leaning back in his chair, Reardon stole a few, short moments to take in his favorite spot in the house. It faced two enormous double-glazed doors that clearly revealed the panoramic splendor of Queensland's Blackall Ranges. Reardon worshipped the Blackall Ranges. Here, he could think forever.

"You want to help this woman?" Ethan sounded puzzled. "Why? She's not your thing."

Ethan was right, she wasn't. Years ago, Reardon had made a pact. That pact included a prescribed set of people he would help - as Jacko had said - only those who had no one else. Cabriati didn't fit that description, not in the slightest.

One of Cabriati's many supports was Melanie Lloyd. She had rung Reardon earlier that day.

" _I'm told you can definitely help her," she says in a noticeably strong, expectant tone. "Claudia's already been through enough."_

Reardon is well aware of Cabriati's sorrowful past. "Mrs. Lloyd...," he begins.

" _Don't go 'Mrs. Lloyding' me," she interrupts. "I'm not an old woman yet. Mel is just fine."_

Reardon smiles. He has a good feeling he is going to like this woman. "Mel, I will say what I say to everyone. I can help her but she has got to want that help herself."

" _Of course, she wants it." Mel speaks as one addressing a fool._

But Reardon is no fool. "4pm tomorrow then."

She rings off shortly after.

Reardon sighed, then passed Ethan a printed photo of Cabriati. "Let's just call it a feeling."

Ethan's reaction was immediate. "Whoa! A feeling? Man, I could guess where you're having that feeling! She's one hot...."

"That's not the reason." Reardon noted his slightly defensive voice.

Ethan analyzed the photo with more interest. "I've seen this woman before."

He had?

"At The Local, just over a week ago." Ethan paused and then, "Yep, it was definitely her. She was drinking with a friend." A wicked smile spread across his face. "I was trying to get her attention; she's a looker all right."

"And you refrained?"

"Know when they aren't interested, mate, and she clearly wasn't."

"What? That virtuous charisma of yours actually hit a snag?"

Ethan jumped up, threw the bottle into a large metal bin and strode over to the fridge. "It's a rarity, but it's been known to happen."

Reardon chuckled. "That in itself is enough for me to meet her. Maybe even award her with a medal of fortitude."

Ethan yanked out another beer and threw Reardon what appeared to be a rather derisory glare. "You're bloody hysterical, mate." He flopped back onto the sofa. "But it just might interest you to know, that someone else was watching her."

Reardon was definitely interested.

"Someone further indoors, in one of those poorly lit sections."

"Description?"

"Not much of one; too hard to make out the face. He had the hood of his jacket pulled over his head and wore large shades. At first, I thought it was some kid trying to look cool. Who else would be wearing a jacket in this ridiculous heat?"

_If it was to hide his identity, was it for Cabriati's benefit or for someone else's?_ "What made you think it was a he?"

"Instincts, mate." He grinned a roguish grin that visibly said, _I know a female when I see one, disguised or otherwise_.

Ethan tapped the photo. "This woman got up to go to the bar and the guy dropped his shades, watched her every movement. Several men glanced at her. But this? This was completely different. Whoever he was, kept a strong fix on her all the way back to the deck. I managed to catch this woman's eye, and tried to direct her attention to him."

"And did she?"

Ethan shrugged. "She looked in his direction a few times, but nothing. I assumed she either failed to see him, or just wasn't concerned about him. Whatever, she returned to her table. When I looked back, the guy had done a runner. It was all pretty strange."

"So you got to see his face."

"When he dropped the shades? Only partially."

"Recognize him if you ever saw him again?

"Maybe, don't know." Ethan threw the photo onto the table. Noticing their chess game, he leaned forward to study it more closely. "How did this Cabriati chick find out about you?"

"Matty Galloway. He apparently owed Cabriati a favor."

"Galloway's a good man. He must believe she needs you."

Reardon was still unsure if he really needed her.

"You're going to hate this, buddy," Ethan said, as he pushed the white queen forward.

Reardon shot an uneasy look at Ethan. He felt a small sense of relief when he discovered Ethan was referring to the game not Cabriati.

"Check," Ethan proudly declared.

Reardon examined the move and scowled. He then flicked his head towards the printouts.

"Righto," Ethan reacted with a sharp salute. "Let's have a look at this in more detail." He swiveled his body, planted his feet firmly on the floor then spread the pages out on the table. "Cabriati's name is oddly familiar." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "Wasn't she involved in something not that long ago? Give me a minute."

Reardon was happy to give him several.

"The Bellante fiasco," Ethan said.

Reardon ran his hand across his face, felt the day's growth lightly prickle his skin and thought of _Thomas Bellante_. A prominent Melbourne solicitor. Also reputed to be an unscrupulous trader of people. And as much as Reardon detested Bellante's alleged sidelines _,_ he had needed him.

Bellante had become Reardon's _new_ lead.

"Wasn't she the one in Bellante's last e-mail right before Bellante went bush?"

Oh, she certainly was that. Reardon sighed, recalling his frustration at Bellante's unexpected disappearance.

"The one with the carked fiancé? Simon... something?"

Reardon nodded but flinched at the adjective.

"Well, I'll be damned." Ethan scratched his head and half-laughed. "I remember us spending bloody ages studying her profile, see if there was any connection between her, Bellante, his disappearance and those psychotic deadheads you're trying to track down. But we found nothing, not one fricking link."

Precisely why Reardon had so easily dismissed Cabriati in the first place.

"And now a woman gets shot at her home and she wants your help." Ethan scoffed out aloud. "Shit, man, got to be a coincidence, surely."

"Don't believe in coincidences." Reardon stood, made his way to the bar and poured another bourbon. He could sense Ethan's gaze burn an imaginary hole in the back of his shirt.

"Bit early in the day for you," Ethan said. "And with no ice. Hmmm, we are in a troubled form."

"You talk such crap, Ethan."

Ethan chuckled and returned his attention to the handouts.

Reardon leaned against the bar, felt its solidity press into his lower back and took a sip of his drink. It helped smooth away some of the barbed sensations in his dry throat. He couldn't deny that Ethan was right. He was in troubled form and it was very unlike him.

The crinkly sounds of paper directed him back to Ethan. His head was downturned, still engrossed in reading. "I'm guessing this is why you've decided to help Cabriati? Because she might have some answers for your own cause?"

Reardon said nothing.

"Not like you, mate. You don't use other people's misfortunes for yourself."

This was different.

"You can just ask her some questions... then let her go. You don't need to take on her case to do that."

And make a possible mistake by dismissing her again? Reardon didn't need that either.

Ethan threw his arm across the top of the sofa and leaned back. "Judging by that totally pensive look, I'm guessing you're doing it anyway."

Reardon semi-smirked. "Guess I am."

"Then what are we waiting for? Details, buddy, we need to jot down the details."

Ethan immediately shot up and strode to the interactive whiteboard angled not too far from Reardon's desk. He picked up a marker, then with a hooked thumb gestured Reardon to get back to his laptop. "Bring up the e-mails," he ordered.

This time, Reardon saluted and headed back to his chair where he did exactly that. Within seconds, the e-mails appeared on the board, glaring back at them in bright, oversized print.

E-mails dated November 23, 2009 from Thomas Bellante sent to a Charles Smith – someone who was a regular on Bellante's list of correspondents.

**Bellante:** _In reference to Claudia Cabriati, he has accepted the request._

**Smith:** _Good. What about the other matter._

**Bellante:** _It'll work out._

**Smith:** _It better... or else...._

"Or else what," Ethan parroted their exact reactions when first reading the e-mails.

To Reardon, a vast number of possibilities could have answered that question. The fact that Bellante disappeared mere hours later narrowed those possibilities quite significantly.

"There were no other e-mails about Cabriati other than this one," Ethan said it more as a question.

Reardon shrugged. "That's not to say they didn't exist before we began intercepting Bellante's messages."

"Or the fact that Bellante and Smith could've been communicating on something other than what we bugged." Ethan uncapped the marker. "When did we first bug Bellante's office and computer?"

"Well over a year ago."

"Exact dates, man, not bullshit approximations."

"Wednesday, August 19," Reardon answered, grinning. He closed down the e-mails, rocked back in his chair and watched Ethan scribble the date and the corresponding action on the board.

Ethan stepped back, placed his hands on his hips and stared at his writing.

"What?" Reardon asked. Ethan was being uncharacteristically quiet.

"How many leads, Saul," he whispered, turning to face him.

Reardon felt his chest squeeze. He knew what was coming next and he rigidly clenched his jaw.

"Six fricking years of leads, man, and every single one of them...."

Ethan didn't need to say anymore. Reardon knew the rest. Every single one of them had been dead-ends.

Just as Bellante had been.

"Aren't you getting a little suspicious of it all?"

Of course he was.

"It's like someone's always one step ahead."

Reardon had already considered that, particularly when bearing in mind the high caliber of people involved. But what else could he do? He took a long slug of his drink and shook off the bristly sensations. "Move on," he said in a low, cool voice.

Ethan frowned and stared hard at him. Reardon looked away.

"Move on it is." Ethan returned to the whiteboard. "Monday, November 23, 2009 – Smith and Bellante communicate in regards to Cabriati." He drawled out each word as he printed them. "Approximately four hours later, whoosh... Bellante vanishes like a polar bear in an end-of-the-world snowstorm."

Reardon winced, was glad to see Ethan's notes excluded his over-dramatized simile.

"When did our eagle-eye canoeists happen?"

Nine days had passed before a group of teens discovered Bellante's animal-scavenged remains along the marshy fringes of the Mitchell River, northeast of Melbourne. He passed this on to Ethan.

"Got it," Ethan said, scribbling furiously. "Wednesday, December 2."

"Then December 15 - Patrick Hollinger."

"The drug addict arrested for Bellante's murder?"

Reardon nodded. The evidence had been solid. Hollinger's confession and his subsequent fatal overdose days later, secured it.

"And still nothing more on the mysterious Charles Smith?"

"Not a damn thing." As frequent as Charles Smith had been on Bellante's e-mail, the man appeared not to exist. His e-mail account, obviously created under an alias, was as worthless as Smith had now become. And no amount of searching conducted by Reardon could trace his identity.

"Nothing more than what we already gathered from the content of the Smith/Bellante e-mails," Reardon said, "that Smith and Bellante worked for several racketeering organizations."

Ethan didn't appear surprised. "So next came the victim at Cabriati's home."

"Yep, a year later; Friday, December 3 - Alice Polinski. Age forty-nine. Formerly of Summit Road, a small acreage on the nearby outskirts of Nambour."

Ethan sketched out Polinski's details onto his timeline. "And what did our Alice do there?"

Reardon shifted his weight forward and collected his glass. It felt too warm and he now regretted not adding the ice. "Our Alice didn't do much of anything. Spent some time in Sydney, then sixteen months ago moved back to Summit Road where she lived in total isolation."

"Seems a radical change of scenery. You said _back_."

Reardon discovered Polinski had lived in Summit Road for many years, rented the Sydney place during her short stint there. "Summit seems to have been her principal residence."

"Do we know why she went to Sydney?"

Reardon shook his head.

"Relatives?"

"None so far."

"And no obvious connection with either Bellante or Smith."

"Not yet." Even though Reardon's gut stressed there was a connection, a bloody strong one.

There was a brief moment of silence. "So what was Alice doing in the Zephyr complex?" Ethan asked. "Holidaying?"

Reardon flicked his head to one side. "Maybe. However, you don't normally get shot while holidaying."

"You think?" Ethan returned the marker, grabbed his beer and fell back into the sofa. "So what's your take on this?"

"Why does Cabriati want our help? She continues to claim she doesn't know Alice Polinski. If that's the case, wouldn't she just spend a few shell-shocked days milking sympathy from her friends and then get on with her life?"

"True. So she's lying?"

"The thought has apparently crossed the minds of some of our smarter little friends in blue. But if Cabriati did have anything to do with Alice's death, the last thing she would want is our help."

"All very interesting, buddy. But it's nothing the police can't handle."

This instantly brought images to Reardon, of specific members of one particular workforce. He cocked a crooked eyebrow at Ethan. Ethan's automatic grin revealed their heads were in the same space. "Okay, well some of the police. But still a possible pushover to solve."

So why did Reardon's instincts keep telling him otherwise? Reardon stared at his drink, was mesmerized by its rhythmically circling fluid.

And he wondered.

He wondered what a seemingly innocent twenty-eight-year-old schoolteacher would have to do with an unscrupulous man like Thomas Bellante and the brutal murder of a middle-aged woman.

Whatever the answer, Reardon knew one thing.

He had to find out.

# Chapter 6

# Claudia

December 13, 2010

3:25 pm

WITHOUT INDICATING, I abruptly wrenched my car onto the gravelly roadside and hit the brakes, slamming the car still. It instantly sparked off a cacophony of angry horns. Combined with the unbroken rumble of committed motorists, it only worsened the already dull thudding in my temple.

I rested my head on the steering wheel, took comfort in its soft, thick casing and breathed deeply. But it did little to lessen the pain or the increasing uncertainty bubbling in my stomach.

I couldn't believe what I was about to do, seek the help of a complete stranger. Had I really become that desperate?

I could picture Mel's head nodding furiously, her eyes rolling several times and I grunted. Mel had been the one who originally set up the meeting. At first, I had complained about it to her. But, in the end, who was I to disagree, particularly when the alternative was the very cold, very intimidating Detective Inspector Weatherly.

The mere thought of the man was enough to send me back to that awful night nearly two weeks ago.

The night has changed, mutated into something wild and ugly.

I am crouched on a plastic chair hugging my knees, rocking. Sticky, red fluid has thickened on my cool skin and feels odd, unreal, its unfriendly odor far too familiar. A female police officer is sitting nearby. She is asking more questions. But this time, I don't answer. My head is too crowded with my own questions.

Bright, painful lights conceal the nearby darkness. Orders are loud, impatient, and the tireless drone of inquisitive bystanders drowns out the once soothing hums of the sea. Orange tape flaps intermittingly, enclosing the horrifying scene, imprisoning me.

I sneak a morbid glance at Alice's crumpled body. People swarm her, buzz around her as if she's some sort of scientific display. I turn my head in disgust.

Slow, even footsteps become louder, then stop. I look up to see a man. He immediately reminds me of a feral fox with his sharp, narrow, facial features and his shrewd, murky grey eyes, vigilantly studying, waiting. His silvery hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place, as perfect as his dark, creaseless suit.

He introduces himself as Detective Inspector Weatherly. His voice is oily, arrogant. "We need you to answer all the questions, Miss Cabriati, not just the ones you want to."

He is glaring at me. I attempt to glare back but eventually my eyes drop to my tangled fingers.

" _Claudia!" It is Mel and my shoulders immediately slump with relief._

She crouches in front of me. I notice her clothing first, faded blue gym pants and an over-sized T-shirt. "You have no bra on," I whisper, suppressing a roguish giggle. But I fail and laughter invades the dismal atmosphere like a poisonous intruder.

Mel glances at her visibly erect nipples, then stares back at me. "Fuck the bloody bra, Claudia. Are you all right, just tell me you're all right."

I nod but it is fragile.

Mel grips my elbow and carefully helps me up.

" _What're you doing?" Weatherly barks._

Mel throws him a long, examining look. "Taking her home with me... now."

A brief and heated exchange follows, until the detective growls and unexpectedly gives in. The next thing I remember is Mel guiding me into a waiting taxi.

She holds me in the back seat, tightly, gently. I can smell the sweet scent of citrus on her and find it soothing.

" _I think I knew this woman," I say, as I glance at the cab driver. He appears lost in the mundane lyrics from the radio. Nevertheless, I lean closer to Mel's ear; speak in what I hope is a decipherable whisper. "I think I know from where. But I can't tell the police; they'd think me crazy."_

And the thought that I possibly am, doesn't quite escape me.

Mel pulls me closer still. "We'll sort it out," she says. "Whatever it is, we'll sort it out."

I lifted my head from the steering wheel and thought of the days that followed. Police visits, invading journalists, nosy neighbors and of course, my family, who were totally beside themselves with worry, my father in particular, pleading for me to return to their home.

As did Mel.

But I couldn't. I wanted seclusion. I wanted the comfort of my own surroundings. And that's what I did, successfully squirrelling away in my home, amongst what was safe and familiar.

I straightened up further and glanced at the dashboard clock. It only confirmed what I already knew, that time was moving faster than I liked. I re-focused on my meeting with this man... this....

I swore and frantically rummaged through my green beaded bag until I found his name scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper.

This... _Saul Reardon._

I repeated it over and over. As I did, I sensed a quiet strength about him. And then I laughed. I had to be going crazy. Right? I knew so little about him. Other than what Matty Galloway, Simon's younger cousin, had told me three days earlier.

We had met on the beach, across from my complex. He had heard what had happened and wanted to help. I was unsure how he could, until he passed me the paper with Saul Reardon's name and number _._

" _I don't understand," I say, staring at the paper and then at him._

Matty looks like an ad for the grunge look in low-hanging shorts and a black T-shirt that bears the words - 'Stop following me. I am not a shoplifter.' Several piercings decorate his long, narrow face.

" _I know Simon would've wanted me to help," he says. For a brief moment, there is a pained sadness in his sleepy, hazel eyes and my own hurting heart reaches out to him. I know how much he had respected Simon, loved him, even though they were so dissimilar in just about every way possible. I squeeze Matty's hand and smile._

He smiles back. "Anyway," he continues, "the only thing I thought of was this." He nods towards the paper. "I don't know how much trouble you're in, Claudia, maybe none, maybe shitloads. But what I do know is if you need someone, see this man."

I say nothing.

Matty hooks a thumb in his pocket, scrapes back his long, dark hair. To me it looks as if it needs a good wash. "Few years back," he says, "I got myself in a heap of shit."

Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. "Did Simon know?"

He shakes his head. "Simon had already done enough for me... didn't want to disappoint him... you know?" His voice is a little rickety. "Well, this man helped me instead. He's totally cool at what he does."

" _Which is what exactly?"_

" _He just, well... helps people in trouble."_

" _Like a private investigator?"_

" _Nah, just the opposite, not something he wants advertised if you know what I mean."_

I have absolutely no idea what he means, and I am convinced this shows on my face.

" _I was pretty screwed up, Claudia. Saul Reardon, he was like amazing. Don't know how he does it but he does. He has the skills, knows the right people. More importantly, he just cares. He saved me literally. And he can save you too." He stops and his eyes waken wide. "I mean, that's of course if you need saving."_

" _We all need saving at some point."_

I reflect upon how close to the truth my thoughts are. After all, hadn't I intentionally concealed information from the police, the fact that the murdered woman knew me, the curious yet familiar name she used, the birthday card; its mysterious predecessors? Hadn't I stated to Weatherly that I had no knowledge as to her identity, even though I knew this to be false?

Hadn't I even considered the idea that the wrong person was shot?

" _He is someone you can trust," Matty says._

And I believe him.

The perpetual bustle of passing cars jolted me back to reality. Recalling Matty had done little to change my mounting insecurity.

I pictured the forthcoming meeting with Saul Reardon. I played out the likely conversation. I could even visualize the expressions on his face, shifting from mild bewilderment to complete disbelief, perhaps even amusement when I finally revealed the truth.

I cringed at the thought, anxiety swelling larger than the late afternoon traffic. Visions of my home began to spread through my chaotic mind, visions of soft, feather doonas and thick, downy pillows where heads can sink forever.

It didn't tell me what I should do. It simply gave me the time to do it myself. In a flash, I leaned forward and turned the ignition key.

I was being truthful when I said people needed saving at some point in their life. I was being truthful when I said that this man could possibly help.

Nevertheless, I had changed my mind.

I set the course for home.

***

"Claudia, wake up." The voice was deep and masculine.

"Leave me alone," I grunted and pulled the snuggly doona over my head.

"Like hell, I will."

I heard a swish, felt the cool air-conditioned air swiftly nip my skin.

"You _are_ getting up!" boomed the same insistent voice.

I growled and bolted upright. Several dialects of swear words crossed my hot-tempered head. I recognized my brother, Nathaniel, or as I called him, Nate. I immediately bit back any blasphemous counter-attack.

"Jeez, Clauds, you look terrible." His frown was heavy.

"Thanks," I replied sarcastically. I tried straightening my hair. Ugh! It felt all knotted and coarse. I grumpily peeked up at Nate. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"You're kidding, right?"

I threw out my palms and mouthed, "What?"

He stared at me as if I had just sprouted a pair of large horns. I patted my head to check.

"Would a _Buon Natale_ , [Merry Christmas] suffice?"

It sufficed plenty. "Shit!" I scrambled along the bed. Something wobbled in my head from the sudden rush as I soundlessly begged forgiveness from my Mama, Papa and all the heavens above for my shameful exclamations on such a reverent day. I instinctually grabbed onto my brother and waited for the spinning to pass. I then stumbled to my wardrobe.

"And put on some makeup," Nate suggested. "Mama and Papa are going to go ballistic if they see you looking so pale!"

While I was getting ready, I spotted Nate casting a long, slow look around him. I bit my lip. Several items of clothing littered the floor or hung from two semi-opened drawers of the tall, wooden chest. Shoes were scattered in all directions. Partially opened books scored the two bedside cabinets along with three half-emptied coffee cups and an open packet of musk sticks.

Nate closed his eyes and groaned.

The kitchen and the bathroom bore a similar, dismal outlook. I recalled countless times when I tried to clean, but the brief motivation collapsed along with my own miserable depression. I flushed hot with shame.

Pushing it all aside, I instead focused on my appearance. Before long, I posed before Nate, dressed in a white strappy dress, the hemline bordered with a bright floral design. A long, richly hued necklace swayed between my breasts; matching bangles jingled playfully along my wrist. I had pinned my hair back in a lazy knot and curled some wisps around my now made up face. I appealed to Nate for approval.

"Better," he said, holding a green object. "Here's your bag. Let's go."

I collected the bag, grabbed my keys and a fresh packet of musk sticks and tossed them both into it.

***

The drive to my parents' home began wordlessly, my brother absorbed with the challenging twists in the road. Physically, we could have been twins; both tall and leanly built, both possessing thick, russet-colored hair and very distinctive, wide-set eyes. As Mel so bluntly put it once, _"Your eyes are like bloody newborn calves, Claudia, a pair of pure, chocolate innocence and unbearable cuteness. Even, fricking Hitler would've laid down his army for them."_

Mel was always prone to over exaggeration, but the thought made me smile all the same. I turned my thoughts back to Nate.

He was younger than I was by almost seven years but often assumed the role of big brother. This wasn't simply a by-product of my occasional, emotional requirements. He just retained a maturity, a common 'senseness,' well beyond his years, often attracting girls older than him, like his ex, Suzy Baker and his current girlfriend Ellen. And once again, he had come to my rescue. I reached out, touched his knee and thanked him.

"Not needed," he said. "But Mama and Papa think we had this prearranged, me picking you up."

"Got it."

"And if I were you, I'd clean your place up before the olds see it."

"That bad?" As if, I didn't already know.

"Ooo... yeah," Nate gave me a cheeky looking wink.

Silence again.

"You okay, Clauds?"

I shifted my gaze out the window and scrutinized inner suburbia zipping past. Children with beaming faces dotted the yards, amusing themselves with their new possessions. Christmas, I mused, was happy children. I sighed wearily. When would I _ever_ be okay?

"Not really," I said. I had never lied to him but I had no desire to talk about recent events either. "You know, I searched for my name on the internet the other week."

That caused an intrigued looking smile. "Why?"

"To discover its meaning."

"And?"

"And it means _crippled_." I let that hang for a while. Nate appeared a little bewildered. "Do you reckon Mama and Papa foresaw they had a train wreck in nappies when they chose that name?" I knew I was being over dramatic and over emotional, but I _could_ with Nate.

"You're not crippled, you're just...."

"What?" I pressed him.

"Going through a bad time."

I sighed, allowing my thoughts to wander. Not long after, we arrived at our parents' home.

"Ready for this?"

My stomach flipped as I stared at my parents' two story brick home. "Are they all here, like even Uncle Franco and...?"

"Uh huh."

I had no basis to be astounded by this. After all, it was Christmas and this was what the Cabriati family did, some members traveling great distances just to be present. Maybe it was the unsettling recognition of what was yet to come. "And I guess they've all been worrying too."

"Um, more like agonizing!"

I winced. "Great. Can you take me back home now?"

"As if the family would ever let that happen." He hopped out of the car. "Just suck it up, chicken!"

I reluctantly pulled myself out. "I have no presents."

"No one expects any from you." Nate paused. "Look, I know what they're like but cut them some slack. They've been really worried." He sidled up to me, throwing his long, sleeveless arm around my neck. "Anyway," he said cheerfully, "don't forget what Papa always says. Blood is thicker than water and..."

"...the Cabriati blood is thicker than that! How could I possibly forget?"

We both laughed and entered where the celebrations were already well under way.

# Chapter 7

# Claudia

December 25, 2010

12:05 pm

"HOW IS MY favorite daughter?" a low, accented voice muttered near my ear.

I was seated on an old, timber seat situated at the rear of my parent's sizeable backyard. "Your _only_ daughter is just fine." I patted the vacant spot beside me.

Papa sat his large framed body against the back of the seat and crossed his solid legs. The seat creaked and wobbled. "Are you sure of that?" he said, examining me more closely. "You look a little pale."

I groaned inwardly. So much for my diversionary tactics of color. "Papa, I'm okay." I answered in my best happy voice. But Papa knew me too well.

"My little Carina...." And he cast a slow, sorrowful gaze over me. Carina was my Papa's pet name for me, one that he had used for as long as I could recall. It was Italian for _cute_.

A significant upgrade, I noted, on _crippled_.

For a short time, we watched our loud, high-spirited family revel in much eating, much drinking and much laughter. I semi-grinned at some of their typical idiosyncratic behaviors. And at the knowledge that the bonds in the Cabriati family were truly strong.

"Would you not reconsider returning home if only for a short time, until things settle a little?" Papa asked.

I noticed the growing disquiet on his face, the heavy frown, the downturn of his now lack-luster eyes, and it troubled me. At times, I honestly believed his only purpose for existing was to brood over me. And sadly, in light of recent events, that wasn't about to change anytime soon.

"I know you're worried," I began, "but you must let me deal with this in my own way."

However, I was fast questioning my ability to do that. Particularly in light of my last conversation with one very miffed Mel.

" _Damn it, Claudia," she scolds, after discovering I had pulled out of the meeting with Saul Reardon. "This isn't some game you're playing here. Or worse, something you can just lock away inside your head and pretend never happened. This woman knew you. And although I understand why you didn't explain everything to the police, you need to explain it to someone. Someone who knows what they're doing."_

She is right.

" _I just wish all of this would go away." But of course, I am being naïve, unrealistic._

" _I know." Mel's voice is gentler now. "Listen," she says. "How about we just get through Christmas first. After that, if the police still have no answers, we go to someone. Whether that someone is Saul Reardon or not, we just do it... okay?"_

It is a fair trade off.

My father cleared his throat and I turned to him. His eyes are like a gunmetal blue, strong, full of authority and they were shrewdly watching me. "Are you sure you did not know this woman?"

I found the question odd. Papa had already asked it on two other occasions. I shifted uneasily. Trying not to avoid his sharp gaze, I answered. "Like I've told you, she somehow knew me. But I've no idea from where or when and definitely not who she is... _was_."

I felt immediate guilt at my lie. But Papa didn't need any further anxiety. He watched me some more. Soon the deep ruts on his brow smoothed away and a more relaxed shine returned to his eyes.

"You're looking well, Papa." My assessment was two-fold, not merely to change the subject but because he did have a distinct glow of wellness about him. And it gave me much comfort.

Crinkles fanned from his smiling eyes. He ran the back of his large hand against my cheek. "Who is worrying, now," he said. "My heart attack was seven years ago. Your Papa's doctors say I am strong like... like a bear." He flexed both his arms. And then he laughed.

I laughed with him, but I knew I could never forget that horrendous era when we had nearly lost him. "How about I stay the night," I said, "seeing it's Christmas."

He gave me a tight squeeze. "You should spend some time with your Mama too."

I thought it a curious request. As much as my mother loved me, we weren't that close. I turned to see her short, fine frame swirling in soft hues of greens and blues, sturdily balancing on her much-loved, red high-heels. I didn't know how she coped with such an elaborate production each year. But there she was, directing several of the female tribe, who helped taxi plump platters of food.

"Of course," I assured Papa.

"Hey, you two!" My youngest brother, Marcus appeared carrying a white, plastic chair and a sizeable plate stuffed with food. I instantly recognized the delicious smells of freshly homemade antipasto and focaccia, baked honey ham and apple encrusted roast pork.

"Looks good," Papa said. "Your Mama has really outdone herself this year." He stood up. "Want some?" he asked me.

Um, yeah!

"Far out," Marcus said, as our father strode away, "you have him totally wrapped around your little fingers."

"You're just jealous," I teased. "So where's the true favorite of this family?"

"Milo?" Marcus was referring to our oldest sibling. He grunted. "He's having lunch with some so-called pals. Can you imagine if any of us even suggested not having Christmas with the olds?" He mimicked a rugged, blunt knife slicing his throat.

"Nothing short of sacrilegious." I laughed.

It was during the late afternoon, while I was hanging out with my two brothers, that Milo made his long-awaited entrance.

Nate nudged me. "Our prodigal brother has arrived. Stand back and watch the spectacle."

A small commotion began bubbling where Milo had entered. He was balancing a tower of colorfully wrapped gifts that he fast laid on the table. Family swarmed to him with eager, beaming faces. Milo greeted them in his typically cool, semi-detached manner. I watched with a mild sense of awe. It was always the same.

Milo was the flame and the moths were hovering.

Deciding that this particular moth would have ample time later to warm her wings, I instead stayed with my brothers. Before long, Milo stepped up to us. We hugged, superficial hugs like usual, made meek attempts at small talk. Until Milo asked if he could speak to me privately. I couldn't remember the last time I had a private conversation with Milo and it triggered my freaking out sirens.

However, I tried not to show it, unlike Nate and Marcus with their comically shot-up eyebrows and gaping mouths.

***

Privately for Milo turned out to be his old bedroom. As I entered, I felt as I always did, like one walking into a long, forgotten tomb, cold, dismal, 'shadow-less'. Sparsely furnished with just the bare necessities, the narrow windows and queen-size bed were dressed in what Mama protectively claimed was midnight blue. My brothers and I saw it for what it was, a few shades from depressive black.

I shivered off the macabre thoughts and swung to face my brother. His stony, Papa-like eyes were staring straight at me. "How are you going, you know, with what happened?"

I was astounded. It wasn't as if my brother wouldn't care; it was just uncommon for him to show it. "As fine as one can be," I quipped, "after some poor lady has been shot in front of you."

Milo grimaced, quite noticeably. "Did you know her?"

_Why does everyone keep asking that?_ "No, I didn't." Yet another lie, but I wasn't about to trust Milo with my absurd ideas about Alice.

His bottom lip dropped away as if readying to say something, but then it stilled. His thick fingers scraped his ashen-colored hair, causing my own fingers to jitter and knot. He was really freaking me out now.

"Your fingers," he whispered.

I shot a glance at them. "Yes, Milo, I've ten of them." Milo glossed right over the joke. A sense of humor was never one of his strong points.

"It's a mannerism of yours that you've always had... quite distinctive."

"Yes, it is, I guess."

"But you're not aware that you do it."

"Not always."

He appeared a little spaced out. "Milo? What is it?"

There was another uncomfortable pause and then, "Are you certain that you have no memory of that woman?" His voice had become strangely urgent. And the out-of-place use of the word _memory_ disturbed me. Was I supposed to have known Alice? Of course, I had some impression of her but not in the real sense that Milo was suggesting. I asked him.

He wiped his hand across his now moistening brow but said nothing. I stepped forward, closing the small gap between us. "Please, talk to me," I said. Fresh alarm bells were chanting a different, more pressing tune.

He pulled at the pointed collar of his black shirt, staring... thinking.

I glared at him without blinking and pleaded once more.

Milo sighed then turned. In two large strides, he reached the bedroom door. For a second, I believed I had failed and he was leaving. His hands held alternate doorjambs. He stretched his neck and looked in both directions, then returned to me.

He grabbed my shoulders. "I don't want to be right, Claudia," he whispered to the point I could scarcely hear him, "but if I am, then I'm worried for you."

My heart plunged several inches and I asked him why.

But again, Milo went quiet.

"Milo, you're scaring me."

"Don't be. I'll sort it out, I promise." He said the words far too quickly and with an unmistakable fear I'd never heard from him before.

But fear of what?

Or more to the point _... who?_

"Listen to me," he went on. "If any of this gets seriously out of hand, if you want to know stuff or have questions, come and talk to me."

I could've easily planted Alice Polinski's death, as well Milo's cryptic behavior under the 'seriously out of hand' banner. "What do you mean?"

"There are things, Claudia."

"Things?"

Things!

It hung in the air like Pandora's Box, with its forbidden, burning mysteries, its cautionary, hidden secrets, best ignored, best left unopened.

And somewhere from the cavernous pits of bolted memories, one of those _things_ was trying to call to me, reach out to me. I sensed its inscrutable pain, its lustful urge to surface and I immediately banished it away.

I gripped Milo's hand. "Tell me. I want to know, now." My body began trembling and I swallowed hard.

But Milo shook his head. "Not here."

Not here? Why?

"Tomorrow, my place... okay?" he added, with a clear sense of finality.

I felt temporarily dumbstruck.

He began to pull me from the room. "Come on," he said. "We better join everyone or they'll be wondering what's going on."

_Well, they wouldn't be the only ones_.

We walked out of the house and into the outdoor throng of irrepressible relatives. Milo gave me one last hug.

"Tomorrow then," I managed to say to him, if I could last that long.

His warm look, his lopsided smile was strange, foreign to his face. "Tomorrow, Claudia." He then slowly maneuvered amongst the crowds.

"What was that all about?" I turned to see my Papa's sister, Lia. She appeared, as she always did, like someone extracted from the seventies. She was all blonde waves, high cheekbones and bright, cerulean eyes that quietly reflected the kindly, carefree spirit that she was. Her sleeveless dress was a palate of dazzling colors and hung loosely against her slender figure. A glass of white wine lay entwined in her short, narrow fingers.

"I don't know," I said. And that was no lie.

"How have you been since we last talked?"

I shrugged. "Um... not sure, you know?" Apart from the rest of my disturbingly screwed up life, I still felt rattled from Milo.

Lia's thin, fair brows joined and she gave me a small hug. " _La forza della mente la mia cara._ [Power of mind, my darling]." Words she had mouthed plentifully during my life; words she would undoubtedly mouth again. "You will survive this; trust yourself. More importantly, trust your heart."

Lia was special to me, very special, and I always took comfort in her advice. "Can I ask you something?" I felt unsatisfied, edgy, just wanting answers.

She collected both my hands in hers. "Of course."

I had so many troubling questions but I asked the most vital one. "Why do people keep asking if I knew Alice Polinski?"

It was as if I had just hit Lia with a giant bucket of Alaskan snow. She stiffened instantly, her unreadable face staring straight at me. Any residual 'rattleness' I had from Milo just raised several more layers.

I shook her by the elbow. "Lia?" She blinked, then cut her gaze from me. She searched the crowds, until she latched her eyes on one particular person.

_Papa_.

Unspoken words played out between them, their expressions looking more and more somber with each breath.

What the shit was going on?

Fear now knotted my gut. I grabbed Lia and spun her to face me, repeated my question about Alice. This time, Lia appeared startled, fearful herself. "Go and see Nonno," was her shaky, but abrupt reply. "I need to talk to your Papa."

What?

All of a sudden, my well-sized cup of trained, faithful acceptance had reached its brim and frothed up anger took over. "No," I hissed. "I want someone to tell me what is going on in this family. And I trust you, Lia, to be that person."

Lia cringed until deep lines arched the corners of her tightened mouth. She cupped my face with her small hands and said in a soft, gentle voice, "Claudia, there is nothing going on. We are all just concerned for you. And if people are asking it's because they're surprised that Alice Polinski knew you."

I wanted to believe her but my churning gut was warning me differently.

"Just go talk to Nonno. He's been asking about you."

"Please, Lia...."

But Lia remained adamant.

I should've retaliated; I knew that. With my Papa, Milo and my own cautioning feelings, I hungered for answers. But twenty-eight years of family conditioning had taught me otherwise; that any such act, would prove completely unproductive. I let Lia go with great reluctance. Her rapid bodily swing from me was unpleasantly conclusive.

Irritation prickled my skin, irritation with myself for not being more assertive. I went in search of wine. I secured two glasses of what I knew to be my grandfather's favorite fruity Italian elixir. I soon relocated myself alongside him.

Nonno was smartly dressed in a crisp, aqua shirt and cotton shorts. Wisps of white hair were combed back off his forehead. His long face had more lines than a road map and far more character.

He once told me, many years ago, that every line on his face was a story and that every story was a solid brick in the beautiful construction of his life. I had believed him.

What made my heart now crumble was that Nonno had Alzheimer's. I cherished those fragile times when he could remember even the simplest things. It took several topics before he displayed one of those lucid moments. I brought the wine glass to his thinned lips. He took a few sips before reclining back into his wheelchair.

"Ah, Claudia." His soulful eyes twinkled with heartfelt recognition. He placed his withered hand over mine. " _Mi spiace_ , [I'm sorry]. You're in some trouble."

Trouble indeed _._ " _Sto benissimo, Nonna_. [I'm okay]."

"No, Claudia, I don't think you are." His bony fingers squeezed my hand with some force. "You do not understand. That woman, you must stay away from her. You must not talk to her."

My smile collapsed. "Nonno? Who are you talking about?"

He blinked wildly. I repeated the question. But Nonno had regressed again, began babbling about Bebo, his fifteen-year old dog from years ago.

I remained kneeling beside Nonno, as I tried to lure him back with soft, soothing words, with gentle strokes of his cheek. And to my surprise, he did return. His smile was brief as he whispered my name. I helped Nonno to another small sip of wine. I then questioned him about the woman he had mentioned earlier, praying that he hadn't forgotten her. He hadn't.

Additional lines crinkled his forehead. "The one who came to your home, uninvited."

What?

My hands became quite damp and shaky, and I fast put down his glass. "What are you saying? Are you talking about?" I stopped, too frightened to ask if he had meant Alice Polinski.

But I had to know.

In a scratchy, uneven voice, I blurted out her name. For a second, the words dangled in the balmy night air like a noxious fume, spreading slowly. When they finally reached Nonno's ears, his expression became barely recognizable. His fiery eyes shriveled, his wrinkly upper lip curled into a vicious snarl. "I spit on this woman," he hissed.

My hand ripped to my mouth.

"We don't want her here."

We?

Something squeezed the last of the oxygen from my lungs. I gasped and shot to my feet, then took strength from a nearby wall.

Who could _we_ possibly be?

My Nonno and who else?

I caught my parents engrossed in a heavy conversation with Lia. Did the _we_ include any of them? I studied Marcus and Nate occupied in a light-hearted tussle on the lawn as they so often did. Could they? Or for that matter, could Milo? Was that what he was trying to tell me in his maze-like manner?

Surely not. Surely, the idea that there existed people in my own family who knew Alice, was simply too ridiculous to take seriously. Surely, this was nothing more than just the ramblings of an old, sick man.

Regardless, it was becoming more and more difficult to shake off the thought. But nothing compared to the next solitary word from my Nonno.

" _Cordy-bear...."_

And my world, as I knew it, abruptly stood still.

# Chapter 8

# Araneya Estate

Christmas Day

1987

" _OUCH, ALICE, THAT hurts," the little girl squealed, holding a fistful of her hair._

She was sitting on a velvety-cushioned stool facing a large, oval mirror. It had an off-white, timber frame and sat slightly sloped above its similarly colored dresser. A pair of pink lamps sat on opposite ends of the dresser, along with two plush 'Care Bears' and a merry-go-round music box.

Alice stood directly behind her. In her hand, was a long handled hairbrush. "Sit still, little one," Alice said. Her voice was soft and gentle. "Your hair is thick and long; it takes several good brushes to rid the knots."

" _I like the knots better," the girl grumbled. She dropped her face and pouted her small, bottom lip._

Alice laughed. "No one likes knots. Besides, it's Christmas Day and you will want to look your best for your Papa. He's going to be there with all his friends."

The girl's face immediately brightened and she giggled loudly. "Yes and he will bring presents."

Alice began re-grooming her hair. When the brush hit another tangled bump, the little girl squeezed her eyes tight until the moment passed.

" _Christmas isn't just about presents, you know," Alice said._

" _I know. It's about giving and being with the people you love." The girl said this in a very matter-of-fact manner._

Alice began to braid the now knot-free locks.

" _Alice, does my Papa love me?"_

Alice's hands froze mid-braid. Her own eyes captured the wide, questioning ones reflected in the mirror. A fretful grimace had now replaced the girl's previous delight.

" _Of course, he does," Alice answered, feeling a little fretful herself. "He loves you more than life. Don't ever believe any differently." She went back to the braiding._

" _He looks so sad all the time," the girl said. "Do I make him sad?"_

" _What makes you say such a thing? You make him happy, very happy." Alice completed her plaiting, and then tossed the long tress over the girl's shoulder. "Now, enough of this gloomy chatter." She lifted her from the stool. "Let's have a good look at you, instead."_

The girl stood straight with her rounded chin pointed upwards. Alice dropped to one knee and checked the buckles on the girl's white, patent shoes. She next grabbed the hem of her blue gingham dress and pulled it gently, straightening out any crinkles. Alice leaned back and gave her one last look. "You are simply lovely," she whispered.

The girl beamed.

Alice stood and took hold of her hand. "Come on," she said in more upbeat tones. "Let's go and make your Papa really happy."

# Chapter 9

# Saul

December 26, 2010

6:35 am

BOXING DAY MORNING at Reardon's home was like any other.

Except for the billowing smoke. Its black tail oozed out of the kitchen, launching several frenzied alarms and Shirley Svenson into direct battle. Using the largest tea towel she could find, she madly fanned the fixtures, an almost impossible task for someone of such short stature, while throwing hostile glares at Ethan Sloane. Soon, the bitter air faded into nothing more than a whitish, wispy haze. The alarms then stilled.

Ethan, on the other hand, was salvaging the remains of his French toast; the blackened vestiges revealing that his optimism would be short lived.

Reardon leaned against the entrance, watching the entire spectacle. In his hand, was a folded newspaper. "Is there a fire?" he calmly questioned.

"No, sir," Shirley declared. "I think we can assume all is safe, now." She pointed another deathly scowl at Ethan that Reardon knew only too well.

Ethan crossed his arms in mid-air. "Be careful, Danny. Remember, these hands are lethal." He instantly mimicked an over-dramatic karate movement.

Reardon lowered his head and cringed.

"Mr. Reardon," Shirley bellowed in a strong, severe pitch. "I cannot possibly do my job here caretaking this household in... in...." She stopped, hurled her thin, snarly lips at Ethan. "In his presence."

Reardon strode in, tossed his newspaper onto the white breakfast bar, and then faced Shirley. She stood like a dutiful soldier waiting for Reardon's reply. Her short, stubby fingers were laced together over her rounded torso, her peppered hair slicked back as sternly as her disposition, her chin stubbornly pointing up. Not that Reardon agreed or encouraged it, but this overplayed comportment of Shirley's often reminded Ethan of Mrs. Danvers from the movie _Rebecca._

"He is ill-mannered, incorrigible and...."

"Devilishly good-looking," Ethan concluded.

Reardon chucked Ethan a warning look. Ethan mimicked zipping his lips.

"You must speak to him about his continual, inappropriate behavior. Because I cannot, will not tolerate it another moment."

Reardon sighed. He often found Shirley's embroidered formalities a little intense - not a thought he would ever share with Ethan. But her genuine determination to do so, he found rather touching. He also knew that Shirley would never leave him. Her loyalty was too solid.

Reardon gave her his best encouraging smile. "I will certainly speak to Ethan."

She thanked him and then promptly left the room.

"Hmmm, a bit touchy today." Ethan was dipping fresh bread into a bowl of beaten eggs, obviously trying for a French toast re-run.

"You have bloody issues," Reardon said. He flicked on the reheat switch of the coffee machine. It's rich, bubbling aroma centered him.

"Yeah, yeah, serious mother ones. Heard it all before."

At times, Reardon truly wondered. "You know it'd make it easier if the two of you just got along."

"And miss all this pleasure?"

Reardon poured the coffee into his favorite mug. It was gunmetal grey with brass knuckledusters as a handle, a droll gift from Ethan. "So why are you here?" he asked. "I'd imagine there's someone far more entertaining in your own home right now."

Ethan flipped his successful breakfast onto a large plate and perched himself on one of the barstools. "You would think, but sometimes fate deals a nasty hand. Let's just say she didn't work out."

"So instead you came here, looking for fun in a certain housekeeper."

Ethan's beaming eyes glinted with mischief, and then he wolfed down his breakfast.

Reardon sat next to him, took several mouthfuls of his coffee while it was still hot. How he hated cold coffee. "Well then, seeing you're here, you can check out something interesting I've just gotten."

Ethan gave him a prickly looking expression. "This isn't to do with that Cabriati chick?"

Was Reardon that obvious? He didn't answer.

Ethan scoffed. "You're kidding. She dumped you, mate! Move on!"

"She didn't dump me."

"Stood you up... left you waiting... call it whatever you like. That's dumped, man!"

"It was an appointment, not some date!" Reardon cursed a rare, weak moment where he felt the need to defend himself, and wondered why that was. He begrudgingly unfolded his paper. "Only you could turn it into something more."

"Don't need to. Have eyes; can see. And haven't seen you this hung up on a woman since...." Ethan paused. "Well, haven't seen you this hung up on a woman. It's a good thing though. Means everything is functioning the way it should."

"You talk such crap, Ethan."

"Course I do." Ethan shoved his spotless plate forward. "So, this Cabriati fascination of yours, are you going to show me the info or not? Am a very, busy man, you know."

***

Once in the office, Ethan headed straight for the chess game, clasped his hands in a prayer-like position and pressed it against his day-old, stubbly chin. It took him only a few seconds to judge the state of play. "What's this?"

Reardon noted Ethan's gobsmacked expression and took major delight in it. He casually sauntered to his desk. "Checkmate."

"Impossible."

Reardon gave a small, informal shrug and smiled. "What can I say, it's all there in black and white." He collected a few sheets from his printer and handed them to his friend.

Ethan chucked him a twisted smirk. "You're such a funny man." He dropped into the sofa and began flipping through the sheets.

Reardon crossed his arms and mentally reviewed the fresh information he had just given Ethan. It was a phone transcript between a notable federal MP, Senator Carlo Macey, and a man named Colt, dated a week before Christmas.

And it was definitely interesting.

"Where the hell did you get this?" Ethan said.

"Can't answer that or I'll have to...."

"Yeah, yeah, kill me right? It's a wonder you don't have a ton of coppers beating down your door."

Reardon chuckled. "I have the actual recording. Want to hear it?"

"As long as it doesn't involve a jail term." Sloane stood and shifted closer.

Reardon half-turned and clicked the mouse. "The first person you hear is the Senator." He then began the recording.

***

"Yes, Angela."

"There's a Mr. Colt on the line. He says it's urgent and that you would speak to him."

A small pause.

"Put him through." The senator's voice was sturdy and even toned. In fact, both voices were extraordinarily clear for a recording.

A couple of clicking noises followed, then a low, crusty voice. "It's me."

"I've told you before. Don't call me on this phone."

"I do apologize, Senator." Said with unmistakable sarcasm. "But you're not answering your other one."

"I've been busy. What do you want?"

"What do I want? Haven't you been following the news?"

"And?"

"Stop playing games. You know exactly what I'm talking about and... I'm... worried. We all are."

A longer pause.

"I don't want to talk about this now." The senator's voice had changed, more hushed, more ruthless.

"Then pick a time."

"I'll call on my other phone and arrange something."

"When? I told you, we're all rattled."

"Soon. Just keep your nerve. All of you. Understand?"

Colt mumbled an agreement, but Reardon couldn't mistake his reluctance, or the edgy tremors in Colt's next words.

"Do you think... that Claudia Cabriati has remembered?"

***

Reardon stopped the recording, deliberately allowing the question to suspend in mid-air, deliberately waiting for Ethan's reaction. It came fast, Ethan's expression an impressive level of shock and confusion. "Told you it was interesting," Reardon said.

"What on earth would a Federal Senator have to do with Cabriati?"

"Good question and not one I've discovered the answer to yet. But, there's more." And Reardon continued the recording.

***

"How the hell should I know if she has remembered?" It was Senator Macey. "And even if she has, she isn't going to say anything, not publicly anyway."

This time, Ethan's look was brimming with questions and no doubt, the same questions that Reardon had already considered.

Colt cleared his voice. "One more thing."

Macey groaned.

"We're also wondering if...."

Colt went silent. Reardon suspected it was due more to Colt's apparent nervousness. Macey's verbal impatience spurred Colt on.

"If you had anything to do with... Alice."

The Senator's reaction was immediate. "Are you completely mad? Of course, I didn't."

"It just seems too coincidental."

"Well, if it's such a bloody coincidence then maybe it was one of you."

"We wouldn't! I... wouldn't...."

The Senator cut Colt short. "I've had enough of this shit," he said. "Just wait for my call."

"Soon then."

And with that, the recording ended.

***

Ethan grabbed his red cricket ball from one of the sofas. He began pitching it between alternate hands as he insouciantly paced the floor. Reardon went and stood by the glass doors, inhaled the soothing, peaceful beauty of the jade-colored hills and waited.

Time passed with every slow, silent sway of nearby ghost gums.

"Okay, you win, buddy," Ethan said. "My interest is piqued." He stopped the pacing, instead rested against the mini-bar. "So, have you found out anything more about this Colt character or what Macey's connection with him is?"

"Not yet, but working on it. It's obvious both knew Polinski."

"And Polinski's death? Reckon the Senator had anything to do with it?"

Reardon shrugged. "He sounded genuinely shocked."

"He's a bloody politician. They make their career on sounding genuine!" Ethan chucked the ball back into the sofa. It landed with a splosh and stilled. "This is crazy stuff. Who is this Cabriati woman?"

Precisely what Reardon had thought when first hearing the conversation. "Someone whose name keeps cropping up in the most unexpected places." He stared blindly through the sun-struck glass.

"You still think she may have some answers for you."

Ethan sounded concerned. And why wouldn't he? Ethan knew Reardon's past, every inconceivable, nightmarish detail of it.

"That she will give you some clues."

To the whereabouts of those - as Ethan elaborately stated - 'psychotic deadheads' that Reardon still searched for? He was certainly beginning to believe so. Or maybe it was nothing more than sheer desperation on Reardon's part.

"It's why you're still hanging onto her."

Possibly. But, bugger, if there wasn't something more, something he still couldn't quite finger. He spun to Ethan.

A recognizably mischievous grin played across Ethan's face. "You could just interrogate her for answers. You know rip out a few nails, bucket her with cold water...."

"Could you be serious just for a moment?"

"Thought I was."

Reardon ignored him, returned to his desk and sat down. "If we could just convince her that she needs our help."

"Really. And what makes you assume little Miss No-Show even wants our help?"

"I don't, but Claudia's friend, Melanie Lloyd, seems adamant that she does. She rang to apologize on Claudia's behalf."

"Claudia? Cabriati has now become Claudia? Shit, man, you have it bad."

"You can be a real arsehole, Ethan. Not everything in this world is about sex."

"What? Are you telling me my whole, adult life has not been... _everything_?"

The office phone shrilled. Reardon was almost thankful for it. He swung around and picked it up. A hurried, panicky voice responded on the other end.

"Are you sure no one has noticed yet?" Reardon said.

An answer.

"And Claudia is nowhere in sight?"

A pause.

"Tony, can you hold off ringing the police for as long as you can just until we get there?"

Another pause.

"Appreciate it. And if Claudia returns, keep her away. Got it? "

Reardon hung up, then grabbed his keys and sunglasses from the side drawer.

Ethan straightened. "Are you going to tell me where we're going and why?" He rested his De Laurent shades on his nose.

Reardon stood, strode out of the study and down the short hall, with long, slow steps. "There's been another body."

"What, in Cabriati's complex?"

"You could say that, but with an added personal touch this time."

Reardon swung open the front door and stepped out. Although the day was still young, the summer heat was already taking its first, sharp bite on his skin. It certainly wasn't a good day to be wearing jeans. Nevertheless, he began to make his way down the wide steps.

"Personal in the sense, that the body is in _her_ car."

# Chapter 10

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

7:05 am

MY HEAD!

I could swear a pack of sadistic demolitionists was operating jackhammers in it. I licked my dry lips several times then shuddered at their foul taste.

Shit, how much had I drunk last night?

I was getting pictures, not exactly flattering ones. Me dancing, me singing, me being exuberantly sociable and poor Nate coming to my rescue... yet again.

I shook my head and winced, deciding not to shake it again. I opened one eye, was grateful for the heavy window drapes and instantly recognized the enormous, blue bear eyeing me off. I had kept my promise and stayed the night in my old bedroom.

But it hadn't been easy.

Nonno's bombshell had left me confused, anxious and weighed down by an army of questions. The fact that Nonno had again regressed, and Milo had departed for another social event, left those questions disturbingly unanswered. As for asking any one of my family, who was I to put a sudden blot on the festivities with absurd, unexpected accusations of which I was still unsure. I recalled the unbearable impulse I had to run away from it all. But it was Christmas. Instead, I reached for the next best escape.

Alcohol.

And lots of it.

I clutched my thick, soft pillow, inhaled its old, memorable smells and again asked myself the same questions. Could there be any merit to Nonno's ramblings? Are there really people in my family who had known Alice and not told me? Or was some Alice Polinski paranoia tricking me into believing such a conspiracy?

On the other hand, hadn't I already sensed that I knew Alice in some odd way? Hadn't I wondered how her cards made their way beneath my pillow each year? Why then did I think it so impossible that someone in my family could be involved?

I sat up. My head was still thunderous, not just from the alcoholic indulgence but from a restless sleep. And I didn't even want to think about the reception I would get from my family. Maybe I could just make a spineless exit through my bedroom window. It wouldn't have been the first time.

I went and had a long shower and two Panadols instead. Dressed in the same clothes as the previous day, I left to face whatever lay ahead.

Enticing smells of fried bacon met me as I entered the kitchen. The censorious glare from my mother, the solemn disquiet from my father and the annoying jeers from my brothers, didn't ease my craving for the best hangover food. I needed to feel better and quickly. As soon as Nate took me home, my plan was to visit Milo as he had, himself, suggested. I apologized to everyone for the previous night and then tucked into breakfast.

"Claudia," my father began. "We have been talking...."

_Uh oh,_ _here_ _we go_.

I wordlessly implored Nate for help. He appeared too engrossed with his breakfast. I glanced at Marcus. He seemed amused at the whole scene.

"We think that until you feel better, you should be at home where we can care for you."

I sighed, a very profound, very exasperated sigh. I knew they loved me, I knew they worried, but at times, it was all so tedious. "No, Papa," I tried to say in a strong, disciplined voice, yet the words _feeble_ and _limp_ came to mind.

I avoided Papa's worrying stare and turned to Mama. She was collecting dirty dishes and cutlery, preparing them for the dishwasher. She was strangely silent. Her face, however, spoke volumes. A little irritation, a little concern, but a whole lot of something else. Fear, perhaps?

My mother caught my eyes and then hastily cut away from me. This family, I decided, was becoming more peculiar by the moment. I blinked several times and then acting on some bizarre impulse, I did the unthinkable.

"Papa, did anyone in our family know Alice Polinski?"

The effect was instantaneous.

My brothers stopped eating, their cutlery absurdly suspended in mid-air. I noted the frosty exchange between my parents. I noted my mother's fingers tighten against the edge of the breakfast bar. And then I waited patiently for an answer from the man I knew would never lie to me.

But none came.

My hands began to quiver and my once tasty breakfast was making a slow rise. I guess I should've stayed and pressed Papa for answers but the need to get out of there was greater. I grabbed my things and asked Nate to take me home. Interestingly enough, there were no objections from anyone as I left.

Nate spun his car out of the driveway. "What was that all about?" He sounded annoyed.

"Nothing," I answered, wishing it were the case.

"Why don't I believe you? And why would anyone in our family know Alice Polinski?"

I shrugged. Thankfully, Nate didn't badger me about it any further. I focused on the distant stream of the outside world and thought of Milo.

_There are things,_ he had said.

What things, exactly? Things about Alice Polinski? Things about our family, their secreted knowledge of her? Would he be able to clear up the on-going war in my battling head? I looked at my watch and realized it was only a little after eight, too early in the day to visit Milo who never rose before double digits. Enough time to have another shower and change before seeing him.

Nate parked his car just outside the back section of the Zephyr complex. He kept the engine running and said, "If there's something going on, Clauds, that I should know, you would tell me?"

I hugged him, assured him I would.

_But not before seeing Milo_.

Shortly after, I was back within the complex. As I neared my building, I spotted a small crowd buzzing around one of the residential car parks. I recognized a few of them; the round-shouldered figure of old Mr. O'Flanaghan, my neighbor, the tall, lanky Adam Hogan, a friend from the next block and the groundsman, Tony Braga, who wore his standard, eccentrically bent Akubra hat. I stepped closer and soon discovered the source of their fascination, a bright green Rav 4.

My car.

My first thought was someone had broken into it, trashed it in some way. Grave, sorrowful faces stared at me; concerned, whispery conversations played out between them.

And I knew. This was no trashing, not in the conventional sense.

The sultry morning air began to cool against my fast chilling skin. I dared not breathe. I feared it, feared the ghastly odor that could accompany it. I took a few small, hesitant steps nearer. The spectators parted to the sides, allowed me passage.

Tony Braga stepped in front of me. "You don't want to see him, Claudia."

But it was too late.

The arm drooped from the open passenger side; motionless it was and strangely angled. Blood dripped from it into a thickening pool of dark, crimson brown, snaking along the concrete, until it eventually thinned to a congealed standstill. Something withered and colorless smeared the car's side window.

And, of course, there was _that_ smell.

I froze. "Is he... is he... dead?" I asked no one in particular.

No one in particular answered. It was obvious. I stepped back.

_This couldn't be happening_ _._

Not again.

The entire, _who, how_ and _why_ thing did its first round in my head. And then I thought of Alice Polinski, her tragic face at the point of death. I thought of my Nonno and his frightful warnings. I thought of Milo and his surprising offers of help. I thought of my family, their inexplicable reactions.

I then thought of my poor, beloved Simon.

Slowly, the remnants of whatever discipline I had built up over the long months were deserting me. And this time, I didn't care. I closed my eyes and willed it on, willed on the darkened shadows to swallow me all of me, whole. My knees began to liquefy and I smiled, welcoming it.

Out of nowhere, someone's hand cupped my elbow. And a voice, deep and velvety, murmured my name. Something surprisingly warm took light in me.

"Claudia."

There it was again. It reminded me of melted chocolate, the type you sip on a cold, winter's day.

"I want you to turn around and come with me. Can you do that?"

I wasn't sure and said so.

The voice came closer, still so silky, still so ridiculously enticing. "Trust me, Claudia." Then closer still, a barely audible whisper. "I have been there."

Again, I thought of Simon, of poor Alice. Sad-filled tears quickly stung my eyes. "So have I," I answered flatly.

"I know," he answered back.

"Not, again. I can't... not again."

"Yes, you can." The voice was firmer.

I turned towards him. What I saw, a rawness of emotion, an honesty so pure, and something else, something I couldn't quite grasp.

The man smiled the most gregarious smile, and asked again, "Can you walk with me? I'll help you, but I need to get you out of here."

He seemed sincere but I was too shaky, too unsure.

"I know this man, Claudia." It was Tony Braga. He laid his hand gently on my shoulder. His expression appeared kind, concerned. "I was the one who rang him. Do what he says. You can trust him."

A simple, faint nod from me was all it took. The man threw his strong arm around me and steered me towards the gate, out of the complex and into his car. Once in, I covered my eyes with my hand, the gruesome images of what I had just witnessed plagued me.

"Claudia, are you okay?" I removed my hand and looked at the man. He was still outside, crouching on one knee, his arm resting on the other, his troubled eyes staring at me. They were the most incredible blue, like glaciers sparkling in the raw sunlight, intense and quite mesmerizing.

"I know this may sound a little, well... forthright at the moment," the blue-eyed man said. "But whatever's going on, I'll find out. I promise you."

Strangely, I believed him.

He straightened up and began to move around the front of the car. I studied him as his long, lean body slid into the driver's side, as he gradually swung towards me. His handsome face had a rugged quality about it, but in a way that didn't conceal the natural warmth and compassion that projected from him. That smile of his was still present, revealing dimples on both cheeks. His hair was short; the tips of its fair color, seemingly sun bleached and mussed about in that gel-spiked fashion.

Who was this man?

As if reading my mind, he answered my question. "I'm Saul Reardon," he stated calmly.

_The_ Saul Reardon.

I recalled the meeting I had failed to attend and worse still, failed to apologize for. I could feel the embarrassing blush swarm my face. "Oh," was all I could say as I looked away.

Once again, he appeared to read my mind. "Claudia, I think you have more important issues right now, don't you?"

He was right, of course. I shivered as reality hit back.

"Here," Saul Reardon said as he placed a black jacket around me. It smelled of leather and woody scented cologne. "You're probably still in shock. This will keep you warm."

Warm? I very nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. It was probably over thirty degrees outside! Nevertheless, he was right; the jacket was soft and felt oddly soothing against my cold, bristled skin. Before either of us said another word, police sirens wailed in the distance.

Saul gripped onto the steering wheel. "We need to leave," he said. "Sadly and not surprisingly, the police will take one look at your car, put one and one together, and get three. So, is there somewhere safe I can take you until we sort this out?"

I quickly weighed up my options. There was my family, whose over-protectiveness and recent strange behavior caused me much discomfort. There was Mel, whose own family I'd already suffocated with my perpetual messes. There was Milo, and although I still needed to question him, any long-termed presence with him would be about as comforting and as beneficial as a wet sponge in a deluge. Attempting to select the lesser of three evils, my shoulders finally slumped.

Saul noticed, but didn't seem troubled by it. Instead, he simply started his car and sped down the street in the opposite direction of the oncoming sirens. "Like that is it?" he replied with that salient smile of his. "Well, as long as you don't mind being up in the mountains for a while, I know the safest location for you."

I was wary of his answer. "And that is?"

"My place."

# Chapter 11

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

12:35 pm

THEY ARE GENERALLY the same, my dreams, the same scenario, the same sequence of events and the same central focus, a large, intimidating door _._

I am standing at the forefront of what seems a very long hall, almost too long to be real. I often have a vague sense that there is something in my hand but I don't look at it; the hall is of more importance.

The walls on either side seem oversized and climb high into nowhere. The same fixtures and paintings decorate them. I am unable to make these out with any clarity, but they leave me with a feeling of being otherworldly.

It is dark. And yet it is not, which gives me the impression of some lighting being present. Its existence only increases the eeriness and the gloom, creating an incessant stream of ghostlike shadows appearing and disappearing along the walls.

I feel fear in stepping forward, but some unrecognizable force pushes me to do just that. As I walk along the hall, the wall on my left ends and gives way to a spiral staircase. It is made of dark iron. Occasionally, I pause long enough to take in the intricacy of its design, the swirls and curls that career downward.

To my right there is another painting. This one, I do recall, a portrait of a man, quite fierce in his expression and quite conservative in his demeanor. Large bushy eyebrows rest over cold, grey eyes that give me the impression of being followed. For a moment, I remain paralyzed before it, fascinated by the detail but at the same time frightened of it. Sometimes, I sense it speak to me, instructing me to go back to where I came.

But I know I can't.

An abrupt movement to the left of me catches my eye. Slowly stepping up the shadowy staircase is a woman. She stops; her hand grips the iron railing. The expression on her face is changeable, sometimes impassive, sometimes jubilant but always staring at me. She is saying something but I cannot make it out. My mouth moves as if I'm answering, but the words are silent, lost in the ethereal void between us.

She then turns and fades downwards into nothingness.

I turn my attention back to the door. Interestingly enough, the markings on the door continue to increase in detail with each dream. It is almost as if it is a living thing, maturing, developing its own characteristic designs.

In addition, there are voices. I'm certain of that. Barely audible, but definitely present. Soft, colorless voices, humming. In some of the dreams, I imagine that I can actually decipher intermittent words, but their nonsensical disorder lacks any meaning.

In spite of it, it never takes me long to establish the origin of the voices. The door, ever dominant, ever formidable, continually reigning in its hold over me, drawing me closer and closer.

When I finally arrive in front of it, as I always do, I am immediately taken aback, not just by the sheer magnitude of it and all its curious markings but also by the swift shot of terror overpowering me.

Ordering me not to open it.

The feeling consumes me, saps my energy.

In every dream, it is precisely at this point that I wake up.

***

My body lurched with an enormous inhalation of air.

My dress was drenched, my body quivering. I sat upright, raised my arms behind my head and concentrated on inhaling several deep breaths, a ritual I often did to steady my reaction to the dreams. Gradually, my heart stopped its thumping; my body its shaking and my senses returned to some normality.

As they did, I slowly began to take in my surroundings. I was on a queen-sized bed, in a room of contemporary taupe and white furnishings. To my left, soft, gossamer curtains fanned from partially opened sliders, revealing a bushy stretch beyond. To my right, a glistening white ensuite. In front, large paneled doors, most likely the wardrobe.

I bit my lip and tried to recapture the events that led to my being there, the family Christmas and all it epitomized, and the gruesome incident in my car. I dropped my head in my hands, wishing I had not remembered. Soon, another image began to form. That of a man.

Saul Reardon.

I remembered him coaxing me from the nightmare and me freely driving off with him, off to his house. I remembered arriving and an elderly woman greeting me with worried words like shock and exhaustion. I remembered her guiding me into this room and my sinking into the folds of the soft, welcoming bed.

And then I remembered nothing.

I glanced at my watch. It had been almost four hours. Had I been out that long? And if so what had happened since? Had the police found out the identity of the person in my car? Were they looking for me? Was I now a fugitive?

I stood up and hurried towards the glass doors, pulling aside the white fabric. The view of the tree-studded hills was breathtaking and the only sound was the melodious warble of a magpie.

The quiet surprised me. There were no police cars, no reporters, no sticky beak spectators. Not like the Alice Polinski incident.

I returned to the bed and caught sight of a piece of paper lying on top of a bedside table along with my beaded handbag. The neatly folded object had my name scrawled across it. I grabbed it, opened it and began reading. There was something reassuring upon discovering the letter was from Mel.

Claudia,

I've brought some of your things for you. You were sound asleep, so I didn't want to wake you. Anything else you need, please call me. Your parents are going ballistic but I think Saul has calmed them, at least for the moment.

The world seems to have gone mad! Please, Claudia, whatever you're thinking, just stay put. It's the best place to be right now. Don't even think about returning home. It's chaos there! Heaven knows how you're handling all this. Just remember I'm here for you. Call me when you can.

Love Mel

p.s. Really like this Saul character. He assures me he can help you. Listen to him and for goodness sake, Claudia, TALK to him. This is definitely not going away!

p.p.s. He's also really cute! Ciao.

I rolled my eyes. Was there any man alive that Mel didn't think was cute? I re-read the letter. I couldn't bear to think about my parents' emotional level; I could scarcely think about my own. Mel was right. The world, _my world_ , was going mad.

I thought again of the man I met today, and wondered why he was at the complex. Was it because of what had happened? And if so, how did he know? Who was he really?

A week ago, I had avoided him. Today, I had completely entrusted myself to him, allowing him to remove me from the scene of a crime and bring me to his own home without one observable sniffle of dispute.

_This is not like you, Carina._ I could hear Papa say. _What have I always taught you?_

Never to get in a car with a stranger. I know, Papa.

I thought of Tony Braga, of Matty Galloway and Mel and whispered, _but he's not a stranger... not in the real sense_.

And I wondered if Papa would agree.

I redirected my thoughts to Saul. I recalled his promise to help, the sincerity in his calming voice, and the concern in his eyes. A strong part of me considered that perhaps, this time, I should accept the support that he seemed so prepared to give.

An even stronger part of me was now regretting I hadn't done so earlier.

I entered the wardrobe, instantly struck by the amount of clothing Mel had brought. Thumbing through the items, I wondered, with some unease, at how long she thought I was staying. Were things so bad that returning home in the near future was such an unrealistic option? Or was she just being overly cautious?

Some of the items she had packed, my togs, dinner wear and even several lacy G-strings took me aback. What did she think? That I was on some island holiday? I shook my head, knowing that this was so typical of Mel. However, I did thank her for the several packets of pink musk sticks alongside my bras.

Looking past my so-called necessities, I noticed a rather out of place object, a rectangular wooden box, one that I had owned for many years. Inside it were things of personal value. I wondered why Mel had brought it.

Deeming every minute now a waste, I pushed the box as far out of sight as I could and pressed on. Selecting a pair of denim shorts and a lime-colored, sleeveless top, I showered and dressed. I quickly clipped back my hair, threw on a little make up and after checking myself in the mirror, ventured out to whatever fate had waiting for me.

# Chapter 12

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

1:12 pm

WHEN I STEPPED from the bedroom, I recognized the soft, mellow sound of Pete Murray singing 'Saving Grace'. Using my instincts as a guide, I turned right and followed the hall around the corner until I was at the foot of a large, open living space.

On one side was a long, spacious kitchen, on the other, a dining/lounge area positioned against a full wall of tinted glass. The glass revealed not only the remarkable views of the countryside, but also those of the distant coastline. Everything in the room was white, the lofty walls, the floor tiles, the minimalistic, contemporary furnishings with only occasional splashes of bright, ornamental color to break the sterile monotony.

It was very tasteful, very modern and very striking.

"You're finally up."

I turned and at once recognized the woman I'd met when I had first arrived. In her small hands was a pile of white folded towels.

"I'm Shirley Svenson," she said, baring a set of almost white but crooked teeth. She parked the towels on the breakfast bar then sidled towards me. "I work for Mr. Reardon."

I returned her smile and began to introduce myself.

Shirley Svenson chuckled. "Oh, I know who you are, dear. You don't have to tell me." She bent her head a little closer. "However, if you ever feel the need for a woman's ear, mine is always available. Know what I mean? Woman to woman like."

I was touched by her offer. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"Anyway," she chirruped, "I'm sure it's Mr. Reardon you'd want to talk to right now." She hobbled into the hallway. I followed accordingly. "Just mosey yourself down the passage there, right to the very end," she directed with a point of a finger, "and then turn left. His study is a little ways down on your right."

I thanked her and then began my _mosey_ down the hall. Turning left as instructed, I made out a deep, smooth voice in the distance, one that became increasingly clearer with each step.

I felt a little nervous. If anyone had said twenty-four hours ago that I'd be skulking around the house of a man I barely knew, I'd have scoffed in their face. I shook my head, recalling it had been only yesterday that I was having Christmas with my family.

I shifted forward and soon was standing at the study's entrance. With his back to me, lounged in a rather officious looking chair, was Saul Reardon, speaking to someone on the phone. I studied the room, but settled my gaze on the bookshelves. They were enormous and held an inordinate number of books. I fought off the natural urge to explore the many titles. Instead, I remained at the door, waiting for Saul to finish his conversation.

I watched his every movement, the way he rested one ankle upon the opposite knee, the playful way he ran his long fingers through his hair, the way his sinewy body would move forward with such fluidity and then just as easily fall back. I didn't know why, but I found it fascinating.

Before long, he ended his call. As if sensing my presence, he spun around, looked at me and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Hey," he said.

He was wearing that striking smile, and when he spoke, it was as I remembered; like hot, oozing chocolate. Once again, I felt mesmerized and I wondered if everyone felt like that in his presence.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

My head danced from side to side; my hands wrung themselves dry. "I'm not sure." My voice sounded as brittle as my legs felt. "A bit numb, perhaps?"

"Hmmm... no doubt." He stood and strode towards a very lengthy, very classy built-in bar. "I was just about to have a coffee. Like one?"

"White with one, thank you." And then I proceeded to make myself comfortable on the soft, lavish sofa. As I did, I took note of the marked contrast of the room as compared to the remainder of the house. It cast darker, deeper shades, more color, less clinical. It was intriguing.

Saul passed me a mug of the fresh brew. He then sat on the opposite end of the sofa. One of his hands laid outstretched along the sofa's top; the other framed his mug. He was quiet, watching me. It should've bothered me but it didn't; everything about him was so remarkably reassuring. On the other hand, maybe that was the case because I wanted it to be. "I don't know how to thank you," I said.

He tilted his head, looking bewildered.

"For today. I don't know why you were there, but I was so fortunate you were." The alternatives alone made my stomach spin.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "I've a feeling this is just the beginning."

"So, the... person in my car...."

"Was murdered."

Even though I thought as much, the certainty of it still shook me. "This makes no sense."

"No, I can't imagine it does."

I used my grip on the coffee mug to control my skittish fingers. For some reason, I wanted to appear more resilient than I was; for some reason it mattered what Saul Reardon thought.

More silence followed.

Again, it wasn't an uncomfortable one. I had the impression he was allowing me time to absorb, make the next approach. I took a sip of coffee; it was good, very good. My family, coffee connoisseurs. I threw a look in the direction of the glass doors. "I hear things are a little crazy out there."

"Crazy is probably an underestimation. However, short of Mel, very few people know you're here. So, for now, you can forget about them and just concentrate on you."

That seemed fine with me.

"Hope you didn't think me brazen in calling Mel. I wasn't sure how long you'd be here. And, I thought there'd be some things you'd need. I also knew Mel would be worrying about you."

How would he know that exactly? "And my parents?"

"I've let your father know you're safe. Followed Mel's advice and told him I was a friend of hers." He winced in a roguish way, if that was possible. It made him appear younger and for the first time I wondered how old he actually was. "Didn't want your parents thinking you'd just go off with _any_ stranger."

I flinched at the irony of the situation.

"Anyway," Saul continued, "I didn't tell them where I lived. That's up to you."

I would in time, but not yet _._

"Of course, I had to let the police know you're with me, but they'll keep your whereabouts quiet."

I raised both my eyebrows. "So I'm not a fugitive from justice?"

Saul grinned. "You sound disappointed. No, nothing as exciting as that. The police discovered you had a solid alibi. Your family confirmed it. Naturally, Weatherly still wants to interview you, but I delayed that until morning."

I recalled the daunting detective, and wondered how Saul managed such a ruse.

"Also, if you need anything else, Shirley Svenson will help you. She's here throughout the day. Otherwise, she has a residence on the grounds, a few hundred yards away. She's on speed dial on the phone in your room. Don't let her stern manner put you off. Underneath it all she's really caring and no doubt will enjoy having another female around."

I thought of the woman from earlier whose actual manner seemed anything but stern. "What do I do now?"

Saul took a sip of his coffee and looked at me. "I'm assuming you still want my help."

I stilled. To me, employing his help was now unquestionable. "Of course," I said. "I know, I... well... before." I awkwardly groaned.

He obviously sensed my groan as an affirmative. "I promised you I'd figure it out and I will; just need the assurance."

He paused for a while, brows furrowed. Something else was bothering him. In several swift motions, he aligned his coffee mug on the table with mine, propped both elbows on either thigh and clasped his hands together. He then angled his head towards me. "Listen Claudia, there are a couple of things I have to make clear before we start. I don't want you to think I'm insensitive after what you've already been through, but it's important."

Now it was my turn to need assurance. His abrupt sternness was a little unsettling. He was watching me carefully, almost without blinking. "I'm not sure what your perception is about whatever's happening to you. But let's just say that this is bigger than it first appeared."

How big?

"Because of that, there's something I need from you."

"Is this about money, payment?" I instantly regretted the question. There was no mistaking Saul's horrified expression.

"I don't do this for money." Something shadowy danced in his eyes. I swore beneath my breath as I realized my question had truly upset him. He spun his face from me. When it spun back, the shadow had gone.

"What I'm trying to say is," he continued, "we could uncover some pretty unpleasant things. So you need to be prepared for it, to deal with it. _No running, no hiding_."

The unmistakable emphasis on Saul's latter words left me wondering just how much he knew about me. Yes, it was true I had a history of retreating into my own world when things got too much. But how did he know this? And what unpleasant things? More than what had already happened?

My insides felt like collapsing and my head brimmed with a new brand of fear.

Saul inched closer along the sofa. "Claudia, look at me."

I did. Those ridiculously, hypnotic eyes riveted me into place.

"Sorry if that sounded a little direct, but I really want you to deal with this because I need your full concentration. I don't do this alone. It's not how I operate. I don't go away, find the answers and bring them back to you. We do this _together_." His voice was steadfast but assuring. "You and me, right to the end. Okay?"

I was unconvinced how someone as emotionally rickety as me could assist someone as noticeably resourceful as Saul. I told him this.

"You underestimate your abilities. Trust me."

I meekly nodded, still uncertain. "You said a couple of things," I reminded him.

"I did. The other thing, well... I don't know what you know about me."

Very little, but enough to entrust you with my life.

"I'm not the police, Claudia. I don't live by their rules. In other words, I don't do things in what you would term conventional. Some things may be a slight blurring of the lines. It doesn't bother me but I just want you to be aware of it; it may bother you. However, it does help get results."

Results were what I needed. I would worry about the methods, if that ever arose, later. Once again, I indicated agreement. "Is that it? Do I now sign on some dotted line or something?"

He chuckled. "Yes, that's it and no... no dotted line necessary." Saul stood to re-fill his mug and I welcomed the same.

Once again, I marveled in the way he moved, so sinuous, so relaxed. I hastily looked away as he turned, handing me the refreshed mug. "What do you want me to do now?" I asked with more assertion.

He settled again upon the sofa. "I want you to tell me everything, every detail, every thought, no matter how trivial it may sound. Okay?"

I was hesitant at first, but once I began, I couldn't stop. It was as if every word I spoke brought a fresh sense of exoneration. And the most ridiculous thing of all? I felt so strangely at ease with him. I had just met the man and yet I felt I had known him for much longer.

I spoke of the mysterious cards I received every year. I spoke of Alice Polinski's murder, her surprising knowledge of me and the card she gave me that night. I spoke of my Nonno and his worrying revelations. I spoke of my brother Milo and his vague statements. And finally, I spoke of my parents' odd reactions.

All the while Saul sat silently, listening, never once interrupting.

"Are you always like this?" I asked.

A crooked raise of his eyebrow. "What's that?"

"The way you listen with such... I don't know... such self-control."

"Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No, not at all. It's just that most men couldn't help but butt in."

He shrugged. "Possibly, but I get the impression you're really avoiding what you're about to say next."

His observation threw me; more so because he was correct. "I knew Alice Polinski."

He didn't appear surprised. "And?"

"And, well... it's from where I know her... _knew_ her that is completely strange. You'll think I'm crazy."

"I doubt that. So, where did you know her from?"

I twirled the mug in my hands and took a deep breath. "The dreams. She's the woman in the dreams." I closed my eyes. I didn't want to witness Saul's face in case the expression there wasn't altogether complimentary. "I've had them since childhood."

I felt the soft touch of his hand. It was as warm as his voice. "Claudia, tell me about these dreams."

And I did. And as before, he paid attention to every word. "I had one today... here."

"And you believe the woman on the staircase is Alice Polinski?"

"Yes. She's much younger of course but it's her eyes, her manner. It's definitely her. It just doesn't make any sense."

Saul drifted into silence. He then stood and moved towards his desk. There, he jimmied the mouse of his laptop. "On the contrary," he said, concentrating on the wide screen. "It'd probably make a whole heap of sense if you look at it from a different angle."

I swung my body to face him fully. "What do you mean?"

"Haven't you ever considered it unusual that your dreams contain so many similarities?"

"Of course, I have. But I was never entirely sure what it meant."

"And your parents? Weren't they concerned?" He had turned and was staring directly at me.

"My father encouraged me to forget about them, that they would probably disappear in due course."

Saul seemed amazed. "But they didn't."

"No. Not completely. They lessened a bit, particularly when I left Nankari, but since Alice Polinski, they've become intense again."

Saul leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. "Were these the same dreams that were associated with your PTSD?"

Shit! I felt as if someone had just socked me in the ribs. After Simon, I had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which lasted several, horrible and very painful months. I inhaled sharply. "How did you know?"

"Not important right now. So were they?"

Unable to find my voice, I nodded.

"But your PTSD doesn't explain why you've had them since childhood."

"I know. I tried to tell the psychiatrist that, Dr. Cruikshank was his name, but he ignored it."

"Not very professional."

I rolled my eyes. I had thought the same. "I think because they'd strengthened to such a degree at the time, he included them as one of the symptoms; I'm not sure." I paused, recalling that in the end I didn't even care. "What do you think the dreams mean?"

"Could possibly be your mind's way of recalling something."

"A memory?" I had already begun toying with the idea. Recognizing Alice Polinski, in addition to my family's reaction to her, appeared too coincidental. "If it is a memory, then why keep it a secret from me? And why don't I remember it properly?"

"Not sure, Claudia, but I'm guessing the obvious."

"Which is what?"

"That something happened to you as a child, something unpleasant enough for you to forget, and if I'm right, I presume your family doesn't want you remembering either."

I took time to absorb this, until a ghastly thought hit me. "But that would mean," I barely whispered, "that whoever shot Alice Polinski...."

# Chapter 13

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

2:25 pm

MY CHEST CAVED.

Was the poor woman dead because of something I knew? Something that my own family didn't want me remembering? Worse still, could they have had anything to do with Alice's death? I searched for other explanations, but they seemed as tenuous as my sanity.

"It's just a theory," Saul said, with a definite look of concern. "But understand, we aren't dealing with a fairy tale here."

Weren't fairy tales synonymous with happy endings? The idea that my own tale wouldn't result in such a conclusion, only rattled me further. Regardless, I drew in a huge breath and told Saul I was fine.

He watched me for a few seconds then turned to his laptop. "There's something I want you to listen to. It might give credibility to that memory theory."

I hoisted myself up, hoped my jerkiness wasn't too noticeable and made my way to Saul. He offered me his chair. I gladly obliged and sank into its firm but luxurious seating. His desk was wide and like everything else, perfectly ordered and just as opulent.

A small snow globe, filled with white sprinkled fir trees, sparkly winged fairies, and other tiny, mythical creatures caught my curiosity. Boldly imprinted on a bronze plate was its title, _The Magic Forest._ It was so quaint, so child-like, so incongruous to the man near me.

And I wondered to whom it had once belonged.

"Have you ever heard of a Charles Smith?" Saul was half-seated against his desk. His towering height made me feel uncharacteristically small.

"No, never. Am I supposed to?"

"I don't know. What about a man called Colt?"

I shook my head.

"A Senator Macey?"

"The Minister for Environment?" Him, I did know. "He's a huge campaigner for the anti-gun laws."

"Do you know him?"

"Not personally, no."

Something troubling muddied his face. Saul bent down to grab the mouse. He was so close to me now. I could hear his soft, rhythmical breathing, smell the same pleasant, earthy cologne as his jacket. "Ready for this?" he said.

I nodded, although I was doubtful that I was.

What followed was a recorded conversation between the Senator and a person called Colt. I listened, feeling a little bewildered as to how it connected to my own situation, until it reached a certain part.

" _Do you think Claudia Cabriati has remembered?"_

I instantly stiffened. "This is crazy."

Saul was scrutinizing me again.

"Believe me," I said, staring right back at him, "I do not know these men."

A second more of scrutinizing and then, "I do believe you. But they obviously know you."

More secrets. I began to feel irritated, felt it burn my already hot cheeks. "And I guess this Charles Smith knows me too?" I couldn't help the added sarcasm.

It turned out he did. And then Saul told a story about some crazy e-mails, about Charles Smith, about a Thomas Bellante... _about me_. For a short time, it left me drop-jawed speechless. I could've asked Saul how he knew of the e-mails but I had other, more important questions. "Wh... what did this Smith want done to me?" I tried not to second-guess the options.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

I had no idea and said as much. Saul rubbed the back of his neck appearing disappointed.

"When did you say these e-mails were sent?" I asked.

"Just over a year ago, the same day Thomas Bellante disappeared."

Shit! I swallowed hard, gripped onto the armrests and flopped back into the chair like some mindless, raggedy doll. "You think the two incidents are related?"

Saul shrugged a very non-committal shrug. "Hard to say for certain. But the timing, you being the common factor is pretty questionable."

I pressed my sorry body further into the seat, wished I had a musk stick or two on hand.

"Tell me your thoughts," Saul murmured.

_My thoughts?_ Attempting to unravel that menagerie of madness was challenging; to extract one intelligible concept was almost impossible. Frustration was mounting, control was crashing and what Saul now thought seemed inconsequential.

I turned to him. "You want my thoughts? Good luck. Can you even understand the state of play between my ears right now? It's like feral rats breeding in there." I said it with a little more ferocity than necessary. However, I felt better for my outburst.

Saul threw his head down and chuckled.

"You may laugh."

He apologized. It sounded sincere, but I still made out the amused sparkles in his eyes. "Let's just stay focused on one thing at a time, okay?"

I happily agreed. "So, there's something I know but can't remember."

"Any idea of such a thing, something just a little off... unusual?"

Again, I searched my memory, but it came up as blank as the now sleeping laptop screen. "If the dreams are a memory, then the hallway, the door, actually _do_ exist somewhere."

"That's a strong possibility."

It was too farfetched to believe. Yet, in some peculiar way, it made sense. "That would mean Alice was a part of this place and most likely so was I."

"Again, a strong possibility."

"And again, something I don't remember."

From his high-perched stance, Saul watched me with a growing frown. "Tell me about being watched, of being followed?"

I spun him a sharp, dumbfounded look. Who the shit was this man?

"I gather from your reaction that I've hit a nerve?"

He gathered correctly. I just gathered myself.

I explained my earlier years, the odd sensation of figures watching me, settling down once I left Nankari, only to return when I did, over a year ago. I explained the psychiatrist's assessment. _Just another symptom of your Post-Traumatic Stress,_ he had said. But I knew it was shit, as was the whole dream debacle. I had told the psychiatrist as much. But, again, he refused to listen.

"So there was more than one figure?" Saul questioned.

"Don't know." I was thankful that Saul didn't discount the story, as had the psychiatrist. "But I felt it many times, and after I returned to Nankari, the figures appeared different." Saul asked how but I couldn't explain with any factual clarity. "I always got the impression they were well covered."

Saul rubbed his fingers hard against his temple.

"I'm not being very helpful."

"It's okay."

But I didn't feel it was. I had the sudden urge to stretch my stiff, rankled muscles. I stood and wandered over to the glass doors. Outside there was a wide, light-colored timber deck edged with a matching railing. A small butcherbird was skipping along the top of the railing. It stopped and swung its head, eyeballed me for a brief moment then flew off into the blue, cloudless horizon. I sighed, felt some of my tension fly with it.

Saul was near; I could feel him. "What's up?" he asked.

"Are you really serious with that question?"

He dropped his head and grinned. "Sorry. Guess it's a lot to take in."

We stood there, silent, still, taking in the miraculous scenery. "You have to understand, Saul," I eventually whispered, "after... well, after Simon."

I glanced at my ring, wriggled my fingers. The diamond instantly snatched the bright, inflowing sunlight, causing faint, rainbow colors to sparkle from it. A recognizable twinge pierced my heart.

"After Simon," Saul encouraged. There was much kindness in the way he said it; I left thinking he already knew about my fiancé.

I continued. "I came back to Nankari, and when I did my head was a little crazy for a while. I didn't know what to think, even how to. Sadly, for the most part, I didn't even care." I closed my eyes for a second, taking stock before confessing the next part. "And, well, as with everything that causes me pain, I shoved it away. I'm very good at that... _compartmentalizing_." I said it with great disdain. "It sounds weak, but it makes managing my life easier."

He moved in closer, his earthy scents strengthening. "It's not weak. It's just your mechanism for coping and you've certainly had enough cause to do that."

I liked what he said. "How did you know about the watchers?" I asked.

Saul sighed deeply, hooked his thumbs into the pocket of his light blue jeans. "Because, there _was_ someone watching you at The Local, the night Alice was shot."

I felt as if an earthquake had struck Nankari but I was the only one experiencing the aftershocks. For a second time, I could've dwelled on just how Saul knew this, but my main concern laid in my next question. "Do you know who?"

Saul shook his head. "The person was well concealed, a black leather-like jacket...."

"... _and a matching black hood_." My legs threatened to fail me and I swore. I quickly returned to the sofa collapsing into its sturdy corner. And there, I thought about the identically dressed person in the school car park, the same fateful day as Alice, thought about how I had been correct in my suspicions of him. I wasn't sure if I felt good about that or not. I heard a slow, swoosh next to me, felt the sofa shift.

"How did you know about the hood?" Saul said.

I knotted my fingers and then related the car park incident to him. "All this time," I concluded, "these watchers weren't something in my head."

"Definitely not on that day."

Why was I shocked at this discovery? Hadn't I always believed the watchers were real? Perhaps it was now the certainty of their existence that I found so unsettling. "But Papa kept insisting it was just my imagination."

"I find that odd, Claudia, particularly these days with all the 'stranger danger' stuff."

Stranger danger?

It then hit me hard and fast. And I wondered why it hadn't before.

Papa's incongruent behavior.

His perpetual, almost fearful lectures about never entering strangers' cars, his blasé, often-humorous responses to my own claims of watchful figures. So what did this mean?

If it meant anything at all.

I pushed onward. "That probably explains Muscle Man's whacky behavior."

"Muscle Man?"

I told Saul about the overly cocky, flirtatious man at The Local. A distinctly pained grimace appeared on Saul's face. Maybe it was due to my whacky reference.

"And you didn't recognize anyone?"

"No. I feel as if I should've now."

We both followed with a reflective silence until I ended it. "I assume there's more to this recorded chit chat between the Senator and Colt."

My assumption was correct. I steeled myself for further shocks as Saul returned to his laptop, sat in his chair and restarted the recording. I wasn't to be disappointed. Not with Colt accusing Macey of Alice's death and the Senator's rapid denial.

I remained surprisingly composed.

"The man in your car," Saul said. "Was an Anthony Iacovelli."

I had never heard of him and said so.

"He went by another name, Patrick Colt."

The connection wasn't lost on me. "I see why you said this is far more complex than it first seemed. Any idea why he was killed, and why in my car?"

Saul's _no_ was absolute.

I coughed out an erratic, zany laugh. "That's a relief. I was beginning to think you have some paranormal power or something. I mean, how do you know all this?"

His smirk was lop-sided. "I have my means."

Matty Galloway came to mind. _He has the skills,_ he had said, _knows the right people._

And I silently questioned who those _right people_ were.

All of a sudden, I rolled my shoulders downwards in a resigned, exhausted slump.

"We can stop for a while," Saul said.

As enticing as the idea was, I shook my head. I wanted answers. A few clicks later, I heard the familiar tune of the computer shutting down. Saul flipped close its lid and swung to face me. "There's something I'd like us to do, very soon, if possible."

And he told me about Alice's house, situated halfway between Nankari and Saul's place, just outside of Nambour. Saul wanted us to go there.

"It's obvious you were important to her. Maybe if we dig around a bit, something will jog your memory."

My memory.

Everything always came back to that one thing. I sighed. Searching someone's house, particularly a dead person's, didn't exactly press my happy buttons, but I agreed nonetheless.

A flicker of light sparked in my mind, sheer, hazy, nothing recognizable but it glowed with promises, constructive promises of answers, destructive promises of undesirable changes and painful disappointments.

Time to grow up, Claudia.

"I need to call my father before we go."

Saul stood and handed me his phone. He then left the room. I thumbed the required buttons and waited uneasily until I heard Papa answer. "It's me."

"Carina, thank goodness. Are you okay?" His voice was like a renewed breath of courage, a safety net, one that would always be there for me.

Time to grow up, Claudia.

"Papa," I whispered.

"Where are you? I will come and get you."

How easy was it to fall into that complete, trusting comfort, allow Papa to take over and solve all my problems without any effort on my part, just as he had so many times before?

Time to grow up, Claudia.

"No Papa, you don't need to get me. I'm safe."

"Safe?" Papa's voice was abnormally loud. "I am the only person who can keep you safe."

I sensed my childlike trust ready to crumble. "Why is that?"

" _Because, I am your Papa,_ " he said with such vehemence, such finality.

I said nothing, but the constricting pain in my chest was everything.

"Do you not know what is going on? There was a man murdered in your car. There are police everywhere. Your mother and I want you home now."

Somehow, I gathered the resources to remain focused. It wasn't easy. "I'm sorry, but this is something _I_ have to work out."

"I do not understand, Claudia, work out what exactly?" I flinched at the clear omission of my pet name. "Is this something that this Saul Reardon has put into your head? Who is this man? Why are you with him?"

"Someone I hope can help me."

"Help you? Your family will help you."

I paused to muster up more courage. "I don't think they can, not this time."

His unsteady, un-rhythmical breathing was deafening to my ears but his voice softened. "Carina, what is troubling you?"

I took a deep breath. "You are, Papa."

Silence.

"You knew Alice Polinski."

More silence.

"Who was she? How did she know me? Know us?" There were no denials, no excuses, only more silence. Cold, burning tears pricked my eyes. "Papa, why won't you speak to me, truthfully?"

"I... I... cannot."

I could tell he was hurting, but it was small to the hurt that was rapidly consuming me. "I have to go." He protested but I ignored him, quickly ending our conversation with a press of a button.

I wasn't sure how long I stood there. In time, Saul twisted the phone from my clenched fist. "What happened?"

I was too talked out to explain. "I'll tell you on the way to Alice Polinski's."

# Chapter 14

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

3:12 pm

THE DRIVE TO Alice's home was short but it gave me time to analyze the man beside me. His open-necked shirt matched the color of his eyes, further intensifying their remarkable blueness. The shirt appeared tailored, heightening the broadness of Saul's shoulders and the brawny muscles in his arms. I imagined his long, lean legs, hidden by his jeans were just as sturdy. I concluded that he worked out often.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I felt my cheeks redden. I had just been caught checking him out. But how could I not? The man was undoubtedly attractive. I could almost hear Mel's high-pitched voice shrill, _I told you so_.

"I was just thinking what great taste in clothes you have." I cursed myself for the ludicrous explanation.

His eyes twinkled. "I'm glad you approve."

From that point, I decided it best if I kept my focus elsewhere. I grabbed my bag. Several beads captured the sunlight streaming through the windscreen causing multi-colored reflections to dance about. It was quite striking and would've been enough to entertain me. But I needed more. I rummaged through my bag's many inhabitants until I discovered what I wanted. "Want a pink musk stick?"

Saul threw me a questioning look.

"My vice."

"And what does this vice do for you?"

"Oh, just about everything. Calms my nerves, helps me think, takes away the bad things, well... almost. Cheaper than happy pills and taste much better."

He took one. "How could I refuse then?"

While chewing, I scanned the car's interior, appreciating the delightful smell of new leather. "My brother, Nate, would have serious car envy if he saw this. It's a Wrangler Renegade, isn't it?"

Saul rolled a steady hand across the steering wheel as he took a sharp bend in the road. "That it is. You know something about cars?"

"A little. My three brothers are off-road junkies. I just happen to be their ears when they're rambling about their ambitions, particularly Nate. It's his eventual goal to own one of these."

"He has good taste."

Several more swings of the wheel and we had apparently arrived. But all I could make out was endless bushland. Saul parked his Jeep amongst some inner roadside brush, the car's bush muted color melding perfectly. We then continued on foot, making me wonder if we were doing something not altogether legal.

_Some things may be a slight blurring of the lines,_ he had said _._

Perhaps this was what he had meant _._

We trekked through the open bushland. I could hear the crunch of the dried out leaves beneath my feet, the busy buzzing of bees around the yellow flowering banksias. Tall, buttery trunks of ghost gums gave us respite from the harsh, biting sun and the unique smell of their leaves was prolific, medicinal. I breathed it in, took strength from its beauty.

Eventually I spotted a house in the distance, sections of it still concealed by compact foliage. On closer inspection, I noticed it as one of those old wooden Queenslanders. It was perched high on a significant rise of land, giving it a noble presence. A large veranda enclosed it. We ventured towards the cleared boundary bordering the house and then stopped.

Saul stretched his arm across me. "Wait here."

He disappeared but only briefly. When he returned, he beckoned me to follow. I remained close behind, wandered past several rockeries that buffered half-dead plants and other unrecognizable overgrowth. Stoned pathways were nothing more than home to uncontrollable weeds invading every crack available. I questioned Alice's motives behind such disrepair. Or perhaps gardening just wasn't her thing.

Once we reached the foot of the house, Saul stopped and examined me, strangely. "You don't know this place, do you?"

I studied the house in more detail. It rested on tall, unpainted timber stumps. Its cream-colored exterior was cracked and peeling, its corrugated iron roof appeared dull, parts of it covered in reddish rust. I searched for anything familiar, but could only feel sadness at what would've once been a very stately home. "No, should I?"

"I don't know." He moved closer to the tired looking steps and went up to the equally neglected front door.

"Won't it be locked?"

"Probably."

Before I could say another word, he had fished an object from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and jimmied the door open.

We then entered the house of Alice Polinski.

My initial impression was horribly creepy. I was in the residence of a person I half-believed was from a dream and one who had just been cold bloodedly murdered. Ghostly fingers slithered along my skin and I trembled.

"Are you all right?" Saul said.

"This just feels weird." Again, he stopped and inspected me. It was becoming quite unsettling. "Why do you keep watching me?"

"Looking for indications."

"Indications of what?"

"Of something familiar to you."

I vigilantly scanned the hallway but found nothing. "How about I just _tell_ you if something rings a bell."

Saul grinned. "Deal."

We spent the next half hour combing from one airless, musty smelling room to another. We rummaged through wobbly drawers, creaking cupboards, anything in the hope of discovering just one worthwhile clue.

Nothing.

Alice Polinski, whoever she was, was as nondescript in her life as she was in person. Her home betrayed very limited personal keepsakes. In fact, if I had to illustrate her personality from the contents alone, it'd have been exceptionally taxing.

"There has to be something." Saul was standing in one of the newly inspected bedrooms. Similar to the others, its old furnishings were sparse.

"There are no photos," I said. "None, anywhere. Don't you think that's strange?"

"Possibly, but it doesn't necessarily mean there weren't any."

"What do you mean?"

"Take a look at the tops of all the dressers, the shelves. There was something on them and in all likelihood, only recently."

I crossed to the dresser. Amidst the layer of dust, lay two conspicuous dirt-free imprints, one quite large, the other smaller. The adjacent shelves, revealed similar markings. "There were books along these." I indicated a set of aligned wall units.

Saul gave them a quick look and agreed. He then studied the empty wall where several hooks hung in an orderly fashion. He smoothed his hands over the scuffed marks in the paintwork, stood back and studied some more. "There were things hanging here. But again, only recently. Someone's been here before us and, for whatever reason, has removed them, particularly from this room."

Naturally, it begged the questions who and why.

Saul's eyes narrowed. "If you were as important to Alice as I believe, she would've hidden the most valuable things where no one would look, someplace of special significance to her, or perhaps even to you."

I didn't know what Saul was talking about and told him as much.

"Claudia, I want you to try again. Go through the entire house, more slowly this time. There has to be something here, something you recognize or something that has meaning only to you."

"That is one huge assumption."

"Please, I feel right about this."

I sighed and then did as he asked. To me the task seemed erroneous, especially when I had no idea of what I was searching for. After re-examining every tiny section of the place, I still came up with zilch.

Sweat trickled down beneath my breasts, leaving small, damp patches on my top. I picked up a nearby notepad, leaned against the kitchen wall and fanned my moist face with it. As I did, I took note of the striking, natural outlook that stretched from the back section of the property. It was so picturesque, so contrary to this timeworn house.

Still fanning myself, I moved closer to the window and looked down towards the gardens. They weren't any better than the front yard, wild with never-ending overgrowth.

But it was amongst this pandemonium of plant life that I saw it.

I dropped the notepad and froze. Somewhere in my circuitous mind, a memory flickered.

Saul appeared from behind me. "What is it?"

I didn't pause long enough to answer, but instead scrabbled out the back door, down another set of rickety steps and towards the object that caught my attention. I stopped in front of it, Saul close at my heels.

There, blanched and weather worn, stood a statue of an angel about five or six feet high. Its grey, stone eyes were frozen upon a small child curled at its feet. "I've seen this before," I whispered. My heart was hammering in the back of my throat.

"Here?"

"No." As if in a trance, I kept my eyes fixed on the motionless shape. "My guardian angel."

I sensed Saul's movement to the right of me. "What guardian angel?"

"The cards." My thoughts were racing, my mind full of awe. "The birthday cards. The ones I got every year on December 3, the ones I told you about. They were always signed the same, _I am forever watching over you. All my love, your...._ "

" _Guardian angel._ " Saul instantly plunged to one knee, and began tearing apart the ground covering directly in front of the statue's feet. "We need a shovel."

It didn't take me long to locate one, in a small shed beneath the house. Unlike everything else, the shovel appeared new, unused. I returned to the stone figure. Saul then used the shovel and his energy to lift the soil.

"Why that spot?" I asked.

"Just a hunch." He didn't once slow his pace as he spoke. " _I am forever watching over you._ I figured this is where the angel is doing exactly that."

He figured right. Within moments, the clanking when metal hits metal sounded. I immediately knelt down helping to finger the dirt away. My head was giddy with a rush of anticipation. My heart however, was thrashing with dread. What would we find? Something rewarding, something valuable or something that would only further complicate my already muddled life.

The metal sound belonged to a large hinged door, possibly three or four feet in length, half that in width. There were signs of rust, a little corrosion around its rugged edges, but other than that, it seemed solid.

Saul wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, leaving behind a dirty smudge, and then grabbed hold of the ringed handle with both hands. He pulled the door until it rested back upon its hinges.

And that's when we saw it.

A wooden box with a series of words fastidiously engraved along its crest. Any giddy anticipation had collapsed, as I read the words repeatedly.

My darling Claudia. Age 0 months to 12 months.

Immediate instincts told me it was another person, another Claudia, not me.

But....

I looked across at Saul who was watching me. Even in my current state of disbelief, I couldn't help but be conscious of his open concern. He leaned back on one knee.

I hesitated. Exposing the contents of the box could unbolt a new channel of existence for me. The only question remaining was did I want it to?

_We could uncover some pretty unpleasant things,_ Saul had warned, _so you need to be prepared for it._

"You and me, right to the end. Okay?" he said.

I took a breath. "Okay."

We lifted the box and placed it on the ground. What took us aback was the sight of more boxes in the concrete lined void. We continued to haul them out one by one. There were eight in total, each inscribed with _My darling Claudia_ , the only notable differences being the ages; each box typified another year with the final box, reading _Age 7 years – 8years._

Disregarding a surge of unrest, I unfastened the first box. Lying as innocently as its pastel pink color was a small photo album, my name skillfully embroidered in lime green across its fabric cover. My unsteady fingers slowly picked it up. Beneath it, I noticed baby clothes, rattles, booties, soft, plush toys.

My attention though, sprang back to the album and the contents it was about to confess. The need to know had now mushroomed, superseding any earlier uncertainties. Saul moved closer. Feeling his presence gave me strength.

I opened the first page.

There was Alice Polinski, the woman in my dreams, waiflike, pretty, fair-haired, wearing a huge grin as she gazed upon the tiny baby nestled in her arms. It was titled _Claudia and Me - Day 1._

I quickly flicked through more pages. Each of them paraded images of me, my first smile, my first wave, my first step. On and on it went, my first year of life depicted in pictures. I couldn't ignore the apparent absence of my parents, of my brother Milo or any other family members.

There existed just us.

Alice Polinski and me.

I closed my eyes in numbed silence, desperately trying to come to grips with what was in my lap. I then scurried to wrench open the other seven boxes encountering more albums, more clothing, more toys, each box chronologically displaying a period of my life.

My life until the age of over seven.

A time I had no recollection of, not even now, not even with all the evidence before me. Only a short time ago, I had the impression that my life as I knew it was about to change; little did I know just how accurate I was. My hands began trembling as I swung to the man beside me. "Saul," I whispered _._ " _Who am I_?"

He offered a look of genuine sympathy, coupled it with his strong arms around me. By then, I could no longer fight back the tears. My body shook as they streamed down my face. He didn't say a word; just held me close, occasionally stroking my hair.

I don't know how much time passed with the two of us huddled together amongst the shards of what was once a regal garden, watched by the eyes of the guardian angel, _my_ guardian angel. The sweet sounding rustling of the surrounding trees, their aromatic odor did little to pacify me. Instead, the sturdy, rhythmic echo of Saul's heart calmed me, encouraged my tears to eventually stop.

I moved away. "I've dirtied your shirt," I half choked, brushing the dampened mascara on his shoulder.

"Hmmm, not the shirt that's in such good taste." He lifted my head with one hand and using the thumb from his other, he wiped away the smudges beneath my eyes. "There," he said surveying his handiwork. "Beautiful, again."

My cheeks heated and I turned away. "I want to go through these boxes. It may help me remember."

"I agree. We can take them back to my place where you can study them without interruption... if you want."

I did want.

It took some time, but together we managed to load all eight containers into Saul's Jeep. We closed the metal door near the statue, re-covered it with the soil and spread vines and broken shrubbery to conceal it as best we could.

Before leaving, I knelt before the statue and gently ran my hand along the child at its feet. I didn't know why, but in some strange way, I felt that this child symbolized me. I raised my heartfelt eyes to the vigilant ones of the angel, safely guarding the infant. For one small moment, I imagined it to be the face of Alice Polinski.

Whoever she was.

My guardian angel.

# Chapter 15

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

4:55 pm

"I NEED TO see my parents now," I said, as we approached a major T-junction.

Saul appeared surprised. "Are you sure about this?"

The silent drive from Alice Polinski's had given me ample time to reflect. "I need to know who she was; why I was with her." And then in a low, deliberate voice. "I need to hear it from their mouths."

Saul didn't question me any further on it. He flicked on his indicator and turned right. The road was smooth and wide, so unlike the narrow, gritty one we had just left. One more turn saw us motoring along the four-lane highway towards Nankari Bay.

"Remembered where you've seen that statue?" Saul said.

Of course, I hadn't and told him so. "It's a weird feeling. I know it but I can't recall anything else about it."

"Do you remember any part of those seven years?"

"Not a single thing."

"Didn't you ever find that a little odd?"

I shook my head. "I thought it was normal. I mean, when were your first memories?"

Saul shrugged. "Perhaps three years old... definitely at four."

I felt baffled; I'm sure I looked it.

"What about baby photos?"

Again, I shook my head. "My parents said they got destroyed in a flood or some such story. Now I know that was all a lie." My blood was cooking. I could feel it, feel it sear my already hot skin. "So many bloody lies. And for so long."

I stared ahead at the outside world, at the blue, cloudless skyline, at the uniform stream of mid-afternoon traffic. It appeared so normal, so in control. And I wondered how that was possible, when my own world was crumbling and with such heartless speed.

"You know, I actually entertained the thought that Alice Polinski could have been, dare I say it, my mother? But it's not possible. The resemblance between Mama and me is too great. Not to mention that my brother, Nate, and I are almost identical." I stopped and took breath. "Besides," I continued between clenched teeth, "'blood is thicker than water and the Cabriati blood is thicker than that'. What a crock of shit!"

I sounded like a ranting lunatic. I was also mindful that I wasn't alone. Saul wore a smirk so huge it stressed his dimples. "What are you grinning at?" I asked, a little too gruffly.

"You," he replied.

"I'm glad I amuse you."

"Hmmm... not so much amuse. It's just when you're angry, your face changes to a bright crimson shade and your eyes sparkle more than usual. You have a very telling face."

"So I've been told." I looked away from him.

"I like telling faces."

I didn't know how to respond and decided to leave it alone.

A large Mobil service station and a relatively new Hungry Jacks signaled our arrival into Nankari. As we drove into its bustling heart, I began describing the directions to my parents' house.

Saul threw me a brief look. "I already know where they live."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Is there anything you don't know?"

"Quite a few things. But I try not to make it a habit." He was as usual, calm and controlled, in complete contrast to me.

"Are you always so bloody composed?" I guessed my rising irritation was visible in my probably _telling_ voice.

In what appeared to be an act of annoyance, Saul jerked his car to the roadside. I caught hold of the armrest. Even the engine's stationary purr sounded more like a fractious growl.

Saul turned his impassive face to me. "I understand that what you've discovered today, combined with what you're about to do, is extremely difficult," he said. "You have every reason to be as angry as hell, but please don't take your anger out on me."

Shame hit me fast as I realized he was right. I apologized at once.

"Just remember who you're angry with," he concluded.

For a second time that day, his eyes stilled and that dark thing re-surfaced. Something was truly disturbing him. Not knowing what to do, I just waited. And as quickly as the puzzling incident had begun, it ended. Saul grabbed the steering wheel, and drove the Jeep back onto the road.

Soon after, we pulled up outside my parents' house. The tree-lined street was devoid of any unwanted vehicles. "No reporters," I said, frowning.

"Why, do you want some?" Saul had reverted to his old self again.

I felt relieved. "Course not, but I get the feeling you could arrange it." I threw him a cheeky glance.

He threw me a knowing grin.

As I ran a studious look over my family's humble abode, I sensed a fresh rumble of anxiety.

"Do you want to do this alone?" Saul asked.

My answer was an instant no. It signified a weakness. I knew that. But it also wasn't the time to indulge in some petty self-analysis. Saul provided a momentary strength that I needed but severely lacked. I grabbed my bag and the first photo album.

And then we both slipped out of the car.

***

My ever-predictable brother was fumbling in the kitchen for anything edible. I called out his name and before I knew it, I was in his arms. He smelt of spices, warm and rich, so like my Nate, and his heartbeat was solid and comforting. "Damn it, Clauds," he whispered, "been so worried. You haven't answered any of my messages."

"Sorry, but couldn't bear to turn on my phone, not after the last time." I was referring to the non-stop calls after Alice.

Nate pulled away and began scanning me. "You look like shit."

"So you keep telling me."

He grabbed my hands. For the first time, I noticed how abnormally grubby they were and the black, gritty dirt caking my semi-long nails. Nate flipped them over once, twice. "What have you been doing? Digging your way into a hiding spot?"

I pulled my fingers away. "Very funny."

It was then that Nate noticed Saul standing by the kitchen's entrance. He instantly stiffened. "Who is _he_?" His manner was oddly unsociable.

Saul stepped forward, introduced himself and then held out his hand. My brother narrowed his eyes, his only response.

"Please, Nate," I said, "Saul is just trying to help. Don't make this harder than it already is."

Nate paused, then took Saul's hand and gave it two brisk shakes. "I'm not sure how you can help, but just look after her."

"She does a pretty good job of looking after herself." There was something different, something undetectable in Saul's voice as he said it.

Turning to Nate, I was aware of his curious expression. I ignored it and instead asked him where our parents were.

"Out the back. Why?"

For once, I actually _felt_ the older sibling. "I have to talk to them about something important." I gave Nate a small, apologetic grin. "But it's not going to be pleasant."

Nate glanced at Saul then back at me. "What's going on?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out." I then took my brother's hand and walked out of the house.

My parents were lounging in their thickly padded chairs around a smoky glass table. The smell of traditional Turkish coffee was strong, wafting from two tiny, white cups. Not a single breeze relieved the hot, dank air.

Papa saw me first, slowly mouthed each syllable of my name as if it were something to savor. I then stared into the face that I had cherished for my entire existence, or at least the existence I remembered, the same face that had forever cherished me back with such love, such unequivocal support. It was difficult to imagine that he had lied to me, not just once, but possibly many times. The immense sorrow I felt almost split me in two.

This was my Papa and I, his Carina.

It's a funny thing whenever I try to do something unpleasant, when I actually face that particular situation instead of _running and hiding._ Any rehearsed plan I had, automatically seems to wither amongst my fear of hurting someone, of falsely blaming them....

Of losing their love.

It was happening now. My flagging legs began to falter and I seriously questioned what I'd come to do. As if on cue, Saul's hand pressed against the small of my back. I felt his strength shoot through me like a concrete dose of adrenalin. I soaked it up, took in a solid breath and laid the pink book, containing the first year of my life, between my parents.

I then waited.

My mother was the first to respond. Her gasp was loud, loud with terror, as were her murky, stretched out eyes.

And she hadn't even opened the album.

My father's reaction was the opposite. He slumped back into his chair soundless, resigned, as if he had expected it. "Where did you get this?" he murmured.

As if it mattered.

My anger awakened, reinforced by my father's cool, hard stare and unexpectedly, gave me all the strength I needed to continue. "Look at the pictures, Papa. There are so many." I turned a few pages and pointed to one where a jubilant Alice was encouraging me to take my first steps. "Look at this one. I look so cute, don't you think? Your little Carina...."

I picked up the album and shoved it closer to his grim, hardened face. In one sharp movement, he turned away. "What about you, Mama," I hissed. To her credit, she at least skimmed over several of the photos. Tears welled as she did.

"Stop it," my father demanded with a fury I had rarely seen.

Nate grabbed the album and began sifting through it. He grimaced. "I thought all your photos were...."

"Destroyed? You and me both, brother."

"Who is this woman with you?"

I was holding nothing back and told him.

My brother froze, instantly dropping the album as if it was somehow diseased. Perhaps it was. "Why would Alice Polinski be with you? And where are Mama and Papa?"

I turned to my parents. My mother's behavior was all about sad, anxious eyes and trickling tears. My father's, however, was all about cold, hard, analytical control. So opposite to how each of them would normally react.

I pushed away the peculiar incongruence, took another deep breath and said, "I want the truth, Papa....

... _Today, I want the absolute truth._ "

# Chapter 16

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

5:25 pm

MY PAPA AVOIDED me, instead looked at my mother. "Adeline," he mouthed, stretching out his hand to her.

She tapped his hand briefly, then scraped back her chair and stood, pained and jerky-like. Her eyes were dark and cheerless; her hands trembled as they barely cupped my face. "Whatever you find out, Claudia," she said in a soft, frail voice, "remember I love you." She then walked away and into the house, soundless, except for the sharp, rusty squeak of the old, screen door closing behind her.

I turned to Saul. He was leaning against a nearby patio post, his arms crossed, quiet, watchful, his expression unreadable. As if just aware of his presence, my father beckoned him to sit down. Saul refused. I, on the other hand, collapsed into the nearest seat. Nate sat next to Papa.

"I presume you're Saul Reardon," my father said, narrowing his eyes. "Under normal circumstances, it would be a pleasure to meet you."

"Under normal circumstances, there'd be no need for you to meet me."

My father bobbed his head. "You are absolutely right." But it was devoid of any respectable cordiality. "Are you looking after my daughter?"

"She's looking after herself just fine." I noticed it again, that slight, discernible tone in Saul's voice. "What your daughter really needs are some honest answers."

My father fingered through the first few pages of the album and then slammed it shut. "Alice Polinski," he began. "What do you want to know?"

That seemed a wasted question. "Everything," I said.

"Ah... everything. Sometimes the truth can do more harm than good."

He was kidding, right? Two dead people and a host of family skeleton-revealing photos? And he's talking about harm being done? "Sometimes, Papa, the truth is the only thing that's left."

My father glanced at the album with visible disdain. He then took a huge breath, stared at me with wide, emotionless eyes and whispered, "Alice Polinski became obsessed with you, Carina."

And there it was, just like that.

The final acknowledgement from my Papa's own mouth.

And at that precise moment, I realized something more. I realized that a small part of me still foolishly hoped that my suspicions about Alice were wrong, hoped that Sister Iglesias - heaven bless her - was right and all this was nothing more than my _febrile_ imagination.

Time to grow up, Claudia.

I swallowed hard and steeled myself. "Why, Papa?"

Darkness settled upon him. His wide shoulders rounded, his head drooped and his dark, thick brows melded together, creating dim shadows over his already muddy eyes. It was as if he was aging right before me. My heart bore the customary ache it always did when I felt accountable for his anguish.

"This is difficult to talk about. It was all so long ago and we chose to forget it as best as we could."

I said nothing and waited.

Papa flicked a saddened, sorrowful look at Nate and then he began. "There was a period of time before you were born, Carina, when your Mama and I had, well... difficulties."

"What difficulties?"

For a small moment, Papa's shoulders straightened. "Please, for your Mama's sake, there are some things I _will_ not share with you." His voice was harsh and I recoiled. "It is enough to say that we had personal troubles."

That was difficult to imagine. Nowadays, my parents were the epitome of married bliss, the absolute envy of our friends and family.

Papa heaved a long, heavy sigh and then continued. "The constant strain of our troubles weighed deeply upon us. When your mother became accidentally pregnant with you...."

Accidentally?

"...we did not think that she would have the strength to carry you full term."

"But she did."

"Not quite. You were born six weeks premature and placed in a humidicrib where you stayed for nearly two weeks. By then your mother and I were leading separate lives. She became extremely depressed; doctors called it post-natal depression, but I knew it was more than that." Straining to maintain any solid eye contact, he looked away.

"So what happened, Papa?"

His next words were faint; I could barely hear them. "She left. She took Milo and disappeared."

Nate was the first to react. He inhaled sharply; his eyes flew wide and unblinking. "I don't believe this, Papa."

Sadly, I could. A miserable coldness latched onto me. I was in part, thankful for it. It allowed me to carry on with some semblance of control. Nonetheless, Saul's decision to sit next to me didn't go unappreciated. I pressed on. "And me... she left me in the hospital?"

My father nodded.

It went a long way in explaining the often-emotionless relationship my mother and I shared. "And you, Papa, what did you do?"

He grabbed both my hands from across the table and secured them firmly in his large ones. His skin felt uncommonly cool and moist. "Please understand, Carina, that I love you more than anything imaginable. When the hospital released you, I desperately tried to care for you, but I had too many issues of my own and I couldn't."

"Issues? What issues?" asked Nate. His complexion had paled considerably and his forehead abnormally puckered. Papa lifted his hand, and pressed the air between them. To me, it wasn't an unfriendly gesture. Simply a clear indication that, as before, Papa didn't wish to talk about the more private matters. Nate glanced at me with troubled eyes. I was sure my own mirrored his.

"Trust me, Carina," Papa went on. "At the time I really did not have the ability to care for you, not properly, not in the way you deserved."

"Enter Alice Polinski," I said.

"Yes, she was a friend of a friend who recommended her highly, no strings attached. Or so I had thought." He let out a small mocking laugh before going on. "As long as I paid her well, she was content to care for you until I returned. You see, I would visit you regularly and each time I would vow that I would get better."

Get better from what exactly?

"That I would get your mother back and then come for you."

"And you did."

"It took a long time but as I neared full recovery, I searched for your mother and Milo. Finding them was the easy part; convincing your mother to take me back, that was altogether different. However, in time, she did. I began to believe that good fortune was finally on my side."

I couldn't even imagine what my Papa had done, the man who glowed with a natural, spirited warmth and kind-heartedness, to warrant my mother leaving. Still, I wasn't about to question it, not after his earlier rebuke.

"A small time passed and she became pregnant with you, Nathaniel." Papa said it with much love, but it did little to dispel the visible discomfit on Nate's face. "That's when I returned to retrieve you, Carina. What I was not prepared for was Alice's reluctance to let you go. She saw you as her own child. But, you were not... _you were ours._ "

Papa took a long, steady breath before carrying on. "I reminded Alice of our initial deal. It was not as if I had led her to believe anything different. She knew I would be back. Under the circumstances, your mother and I concluded that a clean break was best, not just for Alice's sake, but for yours as well. We advised her not to come and see you again."

My father wiped his beading brow with the back of his hand. "Alice was racked with grief. She ignored our requests and began turning up on our doorstep, pleading with us to see you." Papa stopped, shook his head and groaned. "It was so pitiful."

I recalled the heart-warming Alice when we had first met, tried to connect her with this sad, obsessive woman. Compassion for her filled me.

"I wasn't proud of all that happened," Papa said, "but here I was, given this unexpected miracle to start afresh, to rebuild our family. I could not allow Alice to be a part of it. She would have been a regular reminder of a time we desperately needed to forget. Naturally, Alice did not take it well. She began stalking us, called on our phone many, many times, even sat at our front door banging and banging and banging."

"So how did you stop her, Papa?"

My father clenched his hands into a tight, knotted fist. "I had a restraining order filed against her. I hated doing it, but I had no other option." Papa stopped, looked at me. "Please believe me, Carina, I did care for Alice, quite a lot. But I cared for our family more."

Strangely, I did believe him. His voice, his expression both appeared genuinely regretful.

"A few days later, Alice turned up, yet again. I had just returned home from work. When I got out of the car, there she was, standing across the road. I was annoyed. I hurried over to her, threatened her with the police. She pleaded for me not to call them; swore on _your_ life, that she would never contact any one of us again, if she could at least say one last goodbye to you."

"And did she, say goodbye, I mean?" As with everything from that era, I had no memory of it.

"Only from a distance; that was all I would allow. You needed no further upsets and I didn't want your Mama to know. The next day, I took you to a large nearby park. I spotted Alice in the shadows of an old oak tree. From there she watched you for almost an hour. After that, she turned and walked away. We never saw or heard from Alice Polinski again, until of course...."

"She got shot at my complex."

My father nodded.

"And the figures that you insisted were my imagination. Could they have been Alice?"

"There was no-one there, Carina. Your Mama and I were naturally concerned when you first started talking about them but we never saw anyone. We decided it was most likely a leftover memory from when Alice did stalk you in Sydney."

No, Papa, they've never been leftover memories.

"In time," Papa went on, "we knew if we were to ever escape the past, we had to leave Sydney. We then moved here, to Nankari Bay, where your Uncle Al and Aunty Lia were living. Al gave me a job at his demolition car yard. And little by little, our life got back to some normality."

I sat speechless for a time, absorbing. Certain events were at last beginning to make sense. Even though, there were still more questions to ask. I noticed my weary-looking father, his head buried in both hands. I noticed Nate looking as shell-shocked as a war ruin and I noticed the very soundless, very unobtrusive Saul staring at me with... what was it exactly... admiration?

I cast all three from my buzzing head and began my next round of questions. "When did you actually give me to Alice?"

My father looked up. "I will never forget the day... _December 3_."

The exact day I received Alice's birthday cards each year. "Did all the family know about this?"

"Not me," piped in Nate.

I forced a smile. All this had to be far worse for Nate than it was for me. At least, I had been semi-prepared for some of it.

"Of course," my father said.

"And they kept it secret all this time?"

Papa shifted positions, some of his old self-pride returning in the noticeable firmness of his voice. "It is the Cabriati blood, Claudia. We stand by each other no matter what." And more distinctly, " _We look after our own._ "

There was something strong and honest in Papa's last words.

Yet, highly disturbing.

"And Mama? Did she not once come to see me?"

Papa sighed heavily. "You are not to be angry with her. She had her own problems and as expected, she thought you were safe with me. She didn't even know about Alice Polinski, not until much later."

Perhaps Papa was right, but it didn't appease the growing hurt I felt. Lethargy, disappointment, whatever, took a rapid hold over me, and I slumped back. I knew there were more questions. But the ability to remain focused was becoming more and more difficult.

Thankfully, Saul intervened. "Sir, I have a few questions."

My father considered Saul with a clear, hostile expression.

I stepped in immediately. "Saul is helping me, Papa, and I trust him, please."

Papa wasn't so accepting. "What can he do for you that we cannot?" he snapped.

"Not lie to me, for one," I snapped back.

Papa scoffed, casting his head aside. "Men like him will only cause you more harm."

Men like him?

"You belong here where we can keep you safe."

"I can keep her safe also," Saul announced, seemingly unruffled by my father's harsh appraisal. "But Claudia's safety is contingent on us getting to the truth. If she is your primary concern, then you would be encouraging me, as well as Claudia, to find the answers."

For a weird, brief second, I saw Papa as a father lion fiercely protecting his cherished litter, all stiff, intimidating bristles and thunderous snarls, ready to pounce.

"You have answers," he growled.

"And a lot more questions. Need I remind you that there are two dead bodies associated with your daughter? It's important we find out why and who is responsible, before anyone else gets hurt."

An unusual fusion of fear and displeasure crossed my father's face as he ordered Saul to ask his questions.

Saul bent forward. "Where did Alice and Claudia live?"

My father shifted again. This time it was an awkward, prickly shift. "They lived in a few places."

"Such as?"

"I don't know exactly. It was a very long time ago. Once in Parramatta, Cronulla perhaps."

"Always in Sydney?"

"Yes, I think so."

Think so, Papa? Did you not always know where your so-called precious Carina was?

"But you knew where Claudia was when you regularly visited her, when you returned to retrieve her."

The two men stared at each other without blinking, appearing as if they were still conversing. I closed my eyes, seriously questioning how much more of this ridiculous U-turn in my life I could bear.

"You said you moved to Nankari because of Alice Polinski. What year was that?"

A distinct, but short pause from my father. "1990. Claudia was almost eight."

"And that was how long after you collected her from Alice?"

"About five months."

"And you were absolutely sure that Alice wouldn't have contacted Claudia, even after the restraining order ran out?"

"Ah, the English peoples," Papa mocked.

What did Papa mean by that?

Saul remained quiet, watching him.

"Alice Polinski was Italian." Papa said it as one speaking to a fool. "When we swear on our family, or on someone we love, _we mean it_. Call it respect, honor, superstition if you want. But I knew Alice. She swore on Claudia's life. She would never break that promise."

"And yet she did," Saul pointed out. "Just recently."

"Then there would have been a good reason."

"Know what that reason is?"

Papa shook his head. "I have already said that I had not seen Alice."

"Did you know she was living just outside of Nambour?"

"Not until the police informed me. We were all rather surprised."

"Did you inform the police that you knew Alice?"

"No."

No? My Papa lying to the police also?

"Didn't you think they'd find out eventually?"

I saw Papa's face screw tightly. "I have my family to protect."

Was that even a rational answer?

Saul rubbed his chin. "Any idea who could have shot Alice Polinski?"

My father half-laughed. "Of course not."

"Did you know an Anthony Iacovelli? Also went by the name of Colt?"

"The man found dead in Claudia's car? No."

"No idea why he was at your daughter's complex?"

"I think I have answered that question."

"You must have some thoughts on the matter?"

My father glared at Saul, livid and surly-like. "Of course I have some thoughts on the matter. A crazed lunatic out there has targeted my daughter. This is precisely why I want her home."

Nate took a strong hold of Papa's arm. "Papa, calm down."

But Saul, with his systematic composure, was relentless. "One more question, Mr. Cabriati. What is it that Claudia is _not_ to remember?"

The consequence of the question was rapid. My father's large body jerked violently.

"Papa," Nate yelled. "What's wrong?"

"Papa?" I parroted.

However, my father only had eyes for Saul, eyes saturated with pure contempt. Using the sturdy, metal armrests as an advantage, he stood, his trembling body arrowed to the source of his rage. "Mr. Reardon, I would like you to leave _now_."

Saul slowly raised himself from his seat. "Very well, Mr. Cabriati, but just remember, this is your daughter's life and whether you dismiss the issue or not, there is someone out there, very cold, very calculating and very smart, who is not playing games. Good afternoon to you both."

I stood up.

"You're to stay here," my father demanded.

I knew that now to be impossible. "How can I feel safe amongst people who can't speak the truth?"

"I swear, Claudia." Papa had pitched his voice very low. "I swear if you leave today, if you continue this madness with this man, I will...." His words froze.

"You will what, Papa? Disown me?"

His blatant lack of denial struck me with vigor so powerful I mentally curled up. Was this man my Papa, the one who for so long devoted much of his existence to loving me? And yet the same man who had easily discarded me for many years? I felt the first rumble of overdue tears, the sickening spasms in my chest. " _You would disown me again_?"

He said nothing, his hurt clearly visible on his face.

My hurt simply smothered me. "Goodbye, Papa," I barely breathed. And with that, Saul and I left.

Before reaching the car, Nate had caught up to me. "What the hell is going on?" he said.

"I'm not sure." I glanced towards Saul, who had the passenger door open. "But I guess we'll find out."

"Put your phone on at least, so I can text you... call you."

I threw my arms around my gorgeous brother. I tried to recall a time when life seemed less problematic, when the only concerns we had were which one of us would fess up to our latest prank on Milo.

A thought then crossed my mind. I pulled free from Nate. "If you see or talk to Milo before I do, can you get him to call me immediately?" Privacy was everything with our anti-social brother.

Nate screwed up his face. "Why would you want to?"

"I need to talk to him. He knows something of great importance."

_Of that I was now certain_.

# Chapter 17

# Araneya Estate

1988

" _PAPA," THE LITTLE girl screamed. Her hair flounced in all directions as she scampered down the cobbled driveway._

He had just driven through the ironclad gates. He pulled his station wagon to a halt, flung the car door open and in a flash, ran along the same pathway into the arms of his daughter. "Carina," he murmured. She was all warmth and giggles. How he loved her, that oval face beaming at him, those wide, glimmering eyes that mirrored his adoration. Why had he taken so long to see her this time? What was wrong with him? He knew all too well the frailty of the future. He was, at times, beyond redemption.

" _Papa, I missed you."_

If it was at all possible for a body to be severed and still survive, then that was his pain at that moment. "Oh my Carina, I missed you too. Your Papa has not been well." His excuse was pathetic but it gave her the solace she deserved.

" _Are you feeling better now?" Her eyes brimmed with optimism. He savored the moment with his daughter and thought if innocence in its purest form could be captured in something so corporeal, then she was that thing._

" _I am getting better," he said. The words sounded like truth to a child's ears. "I just need a little more time and then we will be together."_

" _All of us," she sang, clapping her hands in rhythm with her words._

" _Of course, Carina, all of us." He held out a parcel wrapped in silver and surrendered it into her eager hands. "I have a present for you."_

She drew it close to her chest and held it there, taking pleasure in its existence. A mixture of joy and shame quickly hit him. "Where is Alice?"

She grabbed her Papa's hand and while humming and skipping, led him back along the meandering path, past the lions and the fountain and over the rise to the little cottage.

The white stoned dwelling was a page from a children's storybook. Vibrantly colored gardens fenced it. A tall, wired archway entwined with emerald ivy, served as an entrance. Once through, the little girl hurried up the pathway to the open wooden doorway. "Alice," she screamed, "Alice, quick, Papa's here."

A young, waiflike woman appeared at the door, hastily fingering her fair hair into place, then smoothing the wrinkles from her midnight blue dress. Her pretty face searched for the person in question and once seeing him, smiled happily.

The man ventured closer, his eyes now fixed to the woman. No words were necessary to explain his lengthy absence; no presents to nullify the guilt. He simply drew Alice into his arms and kissed her. After a moment, he pulled back. Then in one brisk movement, he scooped up his daughter and entered the house.

" _See, Alice?" the girl said. "I told you he would come soon."_

Alice reached over to her and gave her hand a loving squeeze. "You were right, my little one, you were right."

# Chapter 18

# Claudia

December 26, 2010

6:25 pm

I WAS SILENT for the entire trip back to Saul's house. When we pulled up in his driveway, he asked me if I was all right.

I wasn't sure if I was. I wasn't even sure if I was reacting the way I was supposed to, you know, like the way normal people would–those who weren't associated with two murders, three if you included Simon–when discovering their birth was an accident, that not only had they been given to someone else as a result, but for _seven whole years._

I felt frozen, disconnected, completely burnt out.

Perhaps _that_ was normal.

"I'm okay. Tired, but okay."

Once indoors, I promptly excused myself and went to my bedroom. I retrieved my phone from my bag and turned it on. Ignoring the many texts and missed calls, I tried to ring Milo. His phone was off. No surprises there. I quickly fingered a request to call me as soon as possible. I then set about making myself appear a little less like _shit._

The shower was perfect, cool and refreshing. It loosened my stiff muscles, helped dampen the persistent, dull throb in my head. Even the sweet smell of orange body wash was surprisingly uplifting. I stayed immersed beneath the powerful water jets, until my fingers wrinkled, until I felt strong enough to continue with my absurd life.

Once dried and dressed, I pocketed the phone into my stonewashed shorts and returned to the living area. I found Saul on the outdoor deck reclining on one of two sun-loungers. An opened bottle of white wine, two glasses, one almost full, the other empty, stood on a wooden table attached to the side of his lounge.

The sun was setting to the rear of us. Its rich, shimmering hues commanded the skies, stretching across the lush vegetation to the dark blue of the ocean. And the only sounds were those of the abundant wildlife.

I didn't refuse the offer of a drink or the occasion to unwind alongside of Saul. I nestled into the other sun-lounger, felt its soft fabric brush the skin of my legs and laid my head against the thick headrest. I sighed and tried to compartmentalize much of the day. I needed time to center, if only for a moment.

Saul passed a glass of wine to me. "Are they always like that?"

I placed the wine on my own attached side table and then swatted a ravenous insect on my arm. "Who?"

"Your family."

"Deceiving, over emotional, demanding... what part?"

"Hmmm... more like over-protective." Saul set about lighting several large potted candles. Within seconds, the tangy smell of citronella suffused the air.

"You noticed!" I said with some derision. Then in kinder tones. "They just worry."

Saul was quiet.

"I guess I've always given them so much to worry about. And when things went wrong, I, well... would fall apart and allow them to step in."

"You didn't do that today."

"Which, fall apart or let them step in?"

"Both. I thought you were quite self-controlled, considering. I was impressed."

In retrospect, I had surprised myself how well I had stood up to my unusually angry father whether my reasons were legitimate or not.

"How do you feel?"

"Angry, hurt...."

"Pretty normal reactions, I'd imagine."

"A little guilt, as well." I sipped my wine. It was dry, oaky, just how I liked it.

"Guilt?" Saul raised his eyebrow. "For what?"

I pictured my father's enraged expression; my mother's tear-ridden face, my brother's shaken, bewildered one. All because of me. I explained this to Saul.

He settled his gaze upon the striking, dimming skyline. "Guilt is nothing more than a useless, destructive emotion."

It sounded like a well-rehearsed mantra.

Saul finished off his wine and reached for a refill. In a more genial tone, he added, "Besides, you have nothing to feel guilty about."

Perhaps he was right, but I couldn't shake off the feeling completely. "You know, I thought I knew my family. I thought I knew my Papa."

Saul shrugged. "Don't judge them too soon."

"How can I not?"

"Because, you've only heard one part of the story. You haven't even heard your mother's version. Your parents love you, particularly your father. Whatever the reason for their behavior, it has to be good one."

"I want to believe you."

"Then believe it." Saul straightened and anchored his body closer. "You want to know what else I see?"

I could almost touch the soft, tranquil breath of his words.

"I see someone who, at present, is feeling betrayed by the one person she has trusted and loved her entire life. A very understandable reaction. However, I also see a man whose prime motivation for existing is his family, to protect them and support them, no matter what it takes. That's a pretty special person to look up to in your life." He caught a wisp of my breeze-blown hair and fingered it behind my ear. "I certainly wouldn't be giving up on him just yet."

In spite of how outraged and wounded I felt, I still loved my father. I had no wish to believe anything bad of him. "You almost sound as if you admire him."

Saul leaned back into his chair. "I do. Think about it. He was determined at any cost to reconstruct a family that he had loved and lost and he did exactly that. It wouldn't have been easy. What he achieved is a credit to him."

"But when you were talking with him you were so...."

"Heartless? I'm simply doing my job. However, it doesn't affect what I see."

I analyzed the man near me. During much of the day, he had soothed me out of one ridiculous state after another, supporting me whenever he saw the need. "How do you do it?" I asked him.

"Do what?"

"Remain so calm when everyone else around you isn't."

Again, he projected that look I had seen earlier, that darkness dirtying those crystal blues. It seemed to speak a century of words that, at present, were foreign to me. A language I had yet to learn. "I don't always do it," he said, barely audible.

The unmistakable humming of a car brought the curious mood to a standstill. A set of high-beamed headlights sped up Saul's lengthy driveway and disappeared somewhere beneath the house.

Saul shook his head. "Ah, shit! Trouble!" But he was grinning in a knowing, roguish way. "I probably should've prepared you for this."

Before I could ask what he meant, a door slammed somewhere in the distance, and then footsteps followed, growing louder on the timber floorboards.

A high-spirited voice called out from the kitchen. "Hey, buddy. Have I got some fascinating shit to share with you." I heard a fridge door slam, a clink of glassware and before long, a man stepped out onto the deck.

"We drinking the good stuff, mate? Celebrating something?"

My mouth slammed shut.

It was Muscle Man from The Local.

***

I watched Muscle Man, aka Ethan Sloane as he talked to Saul.

But I wasn't listening. I was still trying to comprehend his presence. I mean really, what sort of freakish coincidence was this? I could just picture Mel's annoying smirk, hear her say, _Fate, Claudia, it's just bloody fate and about bloody time_.

I groaned, too loud for my liking.

"You okay?" It was Ethan. He was leaning forward in a wicker chair that he'd dragged from further up the deck. Both hands held his half-empty glass of wine. His eyes made me think of conifer trees, dark emerald with tiny sprinkles of brown. They shone wide as he looked at me.

I cleared my throat. "All good," I said, with a dismissing wave of my hand.

His grin was as wide as a playground full of unruly children and equally as mischievous. He turned back to Saul. I instead shriveled back into my sun-lounger.

"So, what's this 'fascinating shit' of yours?" Saul asked.

Ethan's grin appeared permanently etched. "Firstly, mate, you were right, this whole case _is_ bloody huge... love it!"

"Fortuitous for some," I mumbled.

Ethan winked at me. Unexpectedly, it didn't appear a brazen wink, more like a reassuring one. Maybe I was wrong, but I couldn't help but smile, small and tentative as it was.

He smiled back and then continued with his findings. "Iacovelli, aka Colt, the man in Claudia's car, so happens he knows three other people. A Ruger, Remington and Wesson."

Saul half-laughed. "You serious?"

_Weren't they all types of guns?_ I said as much.

"Revolvers to be exact." Saul straightened, planted his feet on either side of the sun-lounger and began rubbing his temple. "So they're aliases, but for what exactly? An organization of some sort?"

"A boys with toys club? Not sure, mate."

Ethan then related how, after securing Colt/Iacovelli's mobile, he encountered the three names, and _only_ those three names, in the phone's address book. The inbox and outbox were all empty. Upon calling each of the listed numbers, one failed to answer, one hung up when hearing Ethan's voice and the third was silent for a time before also hanging up.

"Where's the phone now?" Saul asked.

"Back in Iacovelli's shirt pocket where I found it. The coppers can make of it what they will."

"This group could be all rather innocuous."

"Could be, my friend, but I figure the actual dead body thing puts a dampener on their monthly meetings." Ethan took a small pause. "One more intriguing little fact, Colt/Iacovelli was shot with just that, a Colt Hammerless."

"A 32?"

"Yep, same caliber as Alice Polinski."

_What did that mean? That Iacovelli was responsible for Alice?_ I began to ask, but Saul cut me off.

"Ballistics will be testing for skid marks. See if the same gun was used in both crimes. Be interesting to get our hands on that bit of info."

"Not more jailbait shit."

_More jailbait shit?_ Again, I tried to ask but only got an 'um' past my lips. Saul overrode me. Once more.

"Gut tells me it won't be the same gun," Saul said, still rubbing his temple.

"Gut tells me you're right."

My gut just wanted to scream.

"You know Wesson, Ruger and Remington all come in 32 calibers."

Saul acknowledged this. "So, any one of them could've shot Alice."

Ethan shrugged. "Or none of them. As for the wound, single bullet, close range, through the back of Colt/Iacovelli's head, weapon left in the back seat. Nasty shit."

_So someone stepped into the back of my car_ _and just shot him_. I shuddered.

"His wallet carried the general items," Ethan continued, "driver's license, cards, some cash but nothing else of importance. The whole area was pretty clean. I doubt the police will even get prints."

"And it definitely happened in the car?"

"Brain matter spatters communicate all, buddy."

_Was he talking about those congealed lumps on the window? Ah, shit!_ Something made an unhealthy flip in my tummy.

"Any idea when?" Saul again.

"Judging by the state of rigor mortis, perhaps about five to seven hours previous."

"Putting it somewhere between two and four a.m." Saul frowned heavily causing his eyes to squint. "No outward sign how they got in? Claudia insists that she always locks her car."

Claudia? As in third person?

"None. Doesn't mean that the lock wasn't tampered with, though."

I caught my dizzying head oscillating between the two as they bounced off each other like a pair of overzealous ping-pong balls. I growled softly, if that was at all possible. I mean, really, what was this? Testosterone on heat?

I instantly took advantage of a short gap in their conversation. "Umm... pardon me for interrupting." Two heads spun my way. "How did you find all this out with the prying Zephyr sightseers on watch?"

"Haven't you told her?" Ethan asked Saul.

"Hasn't really come up in conversation," was Saul's reply.

They were doing it again. A flame took light in me, materializing in the form of my subsequent grouchy tone. "Will you two stop talking about me as if I'm not here? I am still alive the last I checked."

"Ooo... feisty mate," Ethan said. "Got to be that Italian pedigree."

I bit back my sharpening tongue and turned to Saul. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, appearing as if he were nipping back a grin. He then gave me a sideways glance and apologized. "It's the way Ethan and I work, a long-time habit. We didn't mean to leave you out."

He sounded sincere and I accepted the apology but my _Italian pedigree_ had yet to cool down. He then went on to answer my question. "It was because of Tony Braga."

"As in Tony, our caretaker?"

_I was the one who rang him,_ Tony had said to me. And I immediately rebuked myself for not questioning Tony's role earlier.

"He owed me a favor," Saul said. "I've had him keep an eye on your place since the Polinski incident. When he found Iacovelli, he rang me immediately. Gave us the time we needed."

I tried to take it in. Any available room in my head was fast becoming scarce.

"Tony waited until the last minute possible before he rang the cops," Ethan added. "Saul figured the last thing you needed was a re-run of the Polinski drama and was hoping to get you out of there before they arrived."

I was beginning to wonder just how many guardian angels I actually had. "Do you think someone is trying to frame me?" It was a valid question. After all, why was Iacovelli in my car?

But, Saul had already considered it and dismissed it. "If they are, they're doing a pretty lousy job. For one, no weapon was found following Alice's murder, hardly the thing to do if you're trying to frame someone. Secondly, with Iacovelli, they should have, at the very least, made sure you were home at the time of the shooting."

I silently thanked my Papa for encouraging me to stay.

"But, whoever they are," Saul said, "they're certainly going to a lot of trouble to make you the central pivot."

It sounded too crazy. I didn't see myself as anyone that important, or so I had once thought.

"If all this is to stop Claudia summoning up some past, diabolical memory," Ethan said, "why not just shoot her?"

I let out a short, sharp breath.

Ethan spun to me. "Just making a point. I find it strange that other people are being shot to make sure you don't remember!"

"Unless, it's someone who doesn't want her hurt, someone who wants to protect her." Saul's expression towards me was clearly sympathetic.

"Like a person in my family." I groaned a deeper, louder one. The fact that it kept ricocheting back to them was justifiably disturbing.

"So connecting her to a couple of dead bodies in the place where she lives is their way of protecting her? I could think of better ways." Ethan emptied his glass, then said, "What's for dinner, mate? I'm bloody starving."

***

We ate dinner on the deck. It became the ideal opportunity to continue the discussions. It also allowed me time to consider Saul, his luxurious home, his live-in housekeeper, his obvious wealth. I then reflected upon his so-called occupation.

_I don't do it for the money,_ he had said _._

Then for what? I couldn't imagine it was something one did for the fun of it.

At times, I caught Saul looking at me. The expression he wore appeared deeply troubled, coupled with that unsettling darkness I noticed earlier that day. Other times he smiled, exposing nothing more than what I sensed was a gracious, caring sincerity.

He certainly was an enigma.

Ethan on the other hand was easy to interpret. There was something very natural, very playful about him. Furthermore, he had the ability to ease the sometimes-leaden atmosphere with his roguish banter. Both men seemed to be of a similar age, but Ethan was such a boy in comparison. In addition, it wasn't difficult to recognize that the two men were very close.

Yin and yang.

When dinner was over, Ethan collected his almost lick-clean plate and stood. "I'm buggered. Don't mind my crashing over, mate?"

Saul placed his own empty plate on the side table. "You've never asked before."

"In case you haven't noticed, we have a lady present and I'm trying to show her my sensitive side."

Saul coughed into his fisted hand. "She's not interested, remember?"

"Not in my vocab. Hey, Claudia, do you like French toast for breakfast? I make the best."

"When he's not burning the house down."

I grinned. "French toast sounds good."

"It's a date then. You can join us if you wish Saul, but don't feel you have to. See your beautiful face in the morning, Angel."

_Angel?_ I returned the good night and watched Ethan disappear into the house. Saul had made his way to the perimeter of the deck by then, resting both arms along the top of the railings. I joined him.

"Again, I apologize for my friend," he said in a seemingly good-humored way. "Your turning him down at The Local is only going to make him all the more persistent! Be prepared."

"He's certainly very charming."

Saul laughed. "Charming yes and incorrigibly brazen."

"I like him," I whispered.

"So do I," he whispered back.

We both stood there for a time side-by-side gazing out towards the vastness. It was so tranquil, so ghostly quiet, except for the melodious songs of the crickets and frogs. It was difficult to conceive that amongst the soothing lights of the coast, amongst the tiny cluster that is Nankari, amongst the highly protected grounds of Zephyr, chaos and fear were reigning. Here, by Saul's side it felt anything but.

I was very aware of his presence, his every movement, however slight. I could hear his breathing, shallow and even; his sheer physicality at times so overriding, I could sense something strong rock within me. As for that woody cologne of his, it superseded the waning citronella and the normally enticing scents of the natural, night-time bush.

I cut the long silence. "Where exactly along the Blackall Ranges are we?"

Saul hooked a thumb over his left shoulder. "That way to Montville." He then repeated the identical gesture over his right. "And that to Maleny."

I explored the surrounding area for a while. "This place is so beautiful. I feel safe here and for a while, it actually makes me forget."

"An illusion for now, Claudia. Granted it's not an easy place to find. We're pretty well tucked away into the hills and forests here and the track to the house is quite convoluted. However, it isn't infallible. Anyone who wants to find it will."

I tried not to reflect on that last remark. "Thank you for everything you're doing for me."

Saul rotated towards me, that shadowy look swelling again. "Thank me when you're safe, when all this is over."

I nodded. Saul returned to the night. His mood had changed. It was complex to describe, but it was there, visible in his entire demeanor. Shoulders hunched, head down and a heavy frown lining his brow, his eyes were as murky and as sinister as the blackness before him.

_His_ _night eyes_ _._

I didn't know what precipitated these unforeseen shifts. Whether it was something said or done, but I developed the strongest inkling it was time to go.

I said goodnight and left Saul alone to his thoughts.

# Chapter 19

# Saul

December 26, 2010

11:45 pm

I FEEL SAFE.

Claudia's words ran endless laps in Reardon's head.

He tried to drown them out by concentrating on the messages he was tapping on his laptop, messages to specific contacts that could provide him with the information he needed.

But it was useless.

Exasperated, he groaned, forcing himself from his desk and closing his eyes. Not being able to concentrate wasn't like him.

Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps the complexity of Claudia's case, the stature of people involved, was such that it required more from him.

And perhaps his 'perhapses' were nothing but bullshit.

He stood, poured himself a nightcap and leaned hard against the bar.

I feel safe.

It was precisely how Reardon wanted her to feel. The mental and physical well-being of all those he helped was important to him. But with Claudia, it was somehow different, her safety more urgent.

Maybe it was nothing more than guilt nudging him, reminding him that he only took her on because of her possible connection with Charles Smith and Thomas Bellante. Maybe he thought that by keeping her from harm's way, it would justify his own selfish motives, redeem himself just a little. A plausible enough explanation, except for the fact that Reardon rarely subscribed to guilt.

So then, what the hell was this?

He strode back to his desk and sat down. He then searched his laptop until he found a particular on-the-scene news clip. It showed Claudia leaving the hospital some time after Simon Struthers' death. Her long, dark hair shielded much of her downcast face. Numerous reporters flashed cameras from every angle.

He thought, as he always did when playing it, how extraordinarily beautiful she was, and yet how extraordinarily tragic she appeared. Then came that split second when she lifted her face to the world.

When she displayed _that_ look.

Her eyes, huge, like onyx, dark, cold and glassy but not sufficient to hide what else he could see.

Guilt, failure and the lack of desire to live.

A swift chill had numbed him when he first saw it, when he realized he could've been staring at himself.

Staring at the same dead eyes that had once haunted his own mirror.

_I have been there_ , he had said to her.

_So have I,_ she had said.

And he believed her.

Reardon rubbed his temple until he sensed the skin there tingle. He couldn't deny the odd connection he felt with her every time he watched the clip. They had shared a similar past, a similar form of grief. Maybe this explained his unusual obsession for her safety. He leaned back in his chair and crooked his finger across the top of his lip.

Guilt, failure and the lack of desire to live.

He knew why he had suffered such feelings. But why had she? What was it that she had felt guilty about, had felt a failure with? As far as Reardon had established, Simon Struthers' death was beyond her control. Or had it been? Was there still something she hadn't shared with him?

I feel safe.

Those words struck him again. He swore, scraped his fingers through his hair, long and hard. He had to get his shit together.

He stood, left the study and loitered amongst the corridors until the only surviving light was of his own accord. He then made his way along the hallway, out the back door and down a series of timber stairs to a section beneath the rear of the dwelling.

Although the front of Reardon's home was set high on colossal hardwood poles, the back section was not. Instead, it aligned with the steep incline of a hill. There amongst the incline was a solid, steel door. Hidden by large spans of concrete that appeared nothing more than an addition to the house, the door was virtually undetectable by any person appearing from the front or the sides.

Situated at the top right hand corner of the door, was a keypad. Reardon keyed in a sequence of numbers and then scanned his thumbprint across the small, square-shaped sensor to its right. Once done, a quiet click indicated the door operable. Reardon gripped the slim handle and yanked it outwards. He stepped in and promptly pulled the door closed behind him.

The room was the size of a small bedroom. No windows, no outlets existed except for the entry he had just used. Air was ducted in via a large vent. The walls were constructed of steel, several inches thick as was the ceiling and flooring. It was designed as a place of concealment in the event of intruders or other threats.

He named it the SUB.

It accommodated enough provisions such as foodstuffs, medication, clothes and personal toiletries for up to a half-dozen people to survive for many days. It possessed an emergency phone link, as well as security cameras to certain divisions of the house and its adjoining grounds. It was fireproof, bombproof and waterproof. It was totally solid, totally secure and totally safe.

But here in this underground crypt, Reardon could allow his ironclad layers to peel away, discharge any needless emotions and recharge himself with the real objective for his existence, his real motive for living.

He ventured to the back wall, barely acknowledging the other possessions in the room, a rather sizable filing cabinet, a small single settee, a desk and a wide screen monitor, surrounded by six smaller ones, placed strategically above a built in control panel.

Situated parallel to the wall, on stainless steel castors, stood an electronic whiteboard. Methodically placed upon it, were photographs. Reardon drew nearer, feeling his heart leaden with each grueling step. He could sense the watchful eyes of the photos' inhabitants descend upon him as he did.

He briefly scanned their images, recapturing their personalities with every telling smile, every affable gesture, and every overt movement. Reardon breathed deeply in preparation for the ritual he would soon perform, one that he hadn't done in some time. He reached out and touched the face of the girl.

_Issie_.

The waves of her short, blonde hair framed her excited face. Her small stature was clearly emphasized by the much bigger present she was unwrapping, a present that Saul knew she would never use. His eyes stayed with hers, frozen forever in a dreamlike time, long ago. He mouthed words of love, desperately wishing she could mouth some in return.

Next, his fingers traveled to the child nearby, a boy slightly older. He sported the same blonde hair, the same eager, innocent face. He was perched on his first real bike, full of pride at his inborn ability in mastering it. Reardon's chest stiffened, his breathing slowed to an almost standstill, but it didn't get in the way of his routine.

His fingers then crept to the image of the young woman, tracing her glorious ivory-skinned face. She was using both of her slender hands to restrain her wild, fair hair into place. His heart died, as it did every time he looked upon her.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, a rite of apology he had carried out many times. What he would give for her to reply just once.

He scanned the images of four more adults and two more children, all of whom Reardon knew and all of whom he loved. All gone. Because of him.

_They hadn't_ _been safe._

It had been seven years. Time had released him from much of the painful burden he had suffered in the early days. Time had also reduced the initial compulsion to visit them constantly.

Nonetheless, he could never allow himself the luxury of forgetting. There was still too much to do.

He had promised them.

Reardon remained for a while in his private darkness, allowing their memory to reinforce his resolution. Once he felt re-armed again, he left, locking the images in their coffer and in a secluded cubicle buried in the deepest hollow of his mind.

***

Laughter chimed from the direction of the kitchen snapping Reardon from his laptop.

Claudia's laughter.

It was magical.

However, with every chime of it, with every thought of her well-being, he could feel the armor he had strengthened the previous night begin to crack.

What the hell?

"Hey, mate, what's up?" It was Ethan.

Reardon sat upright, returned to his keyboard and said nothing.

Ethan took up his usual, horizontal spot along the sofa. "You know I was only joking about not coming to breakfast."

"Not really hungry."

"The French toast was my best ever; the adorable Claudia loved it and, you'll be proud of me, I even failed to upset your beloved Shirley Svenson. Quite unfortunate really."

Reardon continued mulling over the computer screen. "Are you all set?" He was referring to Ethan's task for the day, interviewing as many Zephyr residents as possible.

"Got my charisma plus ready to allure the 'inallurable'. Claudia's also going to give me a rundown on some of the people she already knows."

"Sounds good." Reardon clicked his mouse a few more times. "Hello, what's this?"

Ethan was by Reardon's side in an instant. "Something back from one of your computer inhabiting spies?"

"Looks like the names of the other players in this supposed gun clan." Reardon scanned the list, caught one particular name and swore beneath his breath. He fell back into his chair, and began rubbing his brow.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ethan said, as he took over the mouse. A silent minute passed. "Shit, Saul, you need to see the rest of this."

Reardon sensed Ethan's eagerness and the noticeable lack of his own. Normally when presented with information such as this, the two would act like wide-eyed kids in a candy store, hungrily contemplating all the various possibilities.

"When are you going to tell Claudia?"

"After Weatherly." _One bloody thing at a time._

Ethan turned and stared at Reardon. "Okay, so what's really bothering you?"

"Just got a lot on my mind."

"Crap. I've hardly ever seen you this agitated."

Reardon was quiet.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ethan close the study door, circle back, and then seat himself on Reardon's desk. "Why are you on my desk?" He wasn't sure if he was in the mood for any of Ethan's 'Ethan-ness.'

"Easy, so I can be higher than you and therefore in a more superior position."

"Sometimes, you talk such crap."

"I very much disagree with that statement, my friend. Most of the time I talk crap. But not this time. Talk to me Saul, what's wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Absolute shit."

Reardon rolled his eyes.

"I know when something's not right. I also know you visited your underground vault of memories last night, and if I'm not mistaken, it's something you haven't done in a while."

"Do I have any privacy?"

"With everyone else, yes. With me, definitely not." Ethan paused. Reardon remained tight-lipped. "So what's with the visit?"

Reardon began massaging his temples again. Didn't they have more important things to discuss, like the e-mail he just received? He stood and moved towards the glass doors, anchored his hands firmly on his hips. The gold of the early morning sun was cutting an arresting image against the blue, distant backdrop. Reardon felt its soothing heat smolder upon his skin. Experiencing this would normally stabilize him.

But not today.

Ethan slid behind him. "You look totally off-centered, Saul. I don't like it."

"I feel off-centered."

"That much is obvious but why?"

Reardon remained stationary. "I thought I knew but...."

"Try."

And say what exactly? That he fast doubted his ability to manage this case correctly? It sounded almost ludicrous but there it was. After enough pressure from Ethan, Reardon recounted as much.

"Can I ask why the doubt?"

"Because I'm not completely convinced I can protect her."

"You're making no sense."

Reardon sighed and turned to face him. "What if I make a poor judgment call?"

"Since when have you ever made a poor judgment call?"

"Seven years ago I did." He said this with marked bitterness.

"What?" Ethan stepped back, took his time to respond. "That was a long time ago and something very different. So what's really going on? And no half-arsed bullshit."

"There's something different about this one."

"Well, bugger me. Tell me news I don't already know. Come on, mate, spit it out... _all of it_."

As a rule, Reardon didn't bare his soul to people. But on the rare occasion, when he had no other choice, Ethan was the exception. Parsimonious with his choice of words, he explained the connection he felt with Claudia's past, his uncharacteristic need to keep her safe and the negative impact it was having on his ability to focus. He told of his attempt to reinforce himself, hence the trip to the SUB.

"Last night, I thought I had righted it, but this morning, I'm not so sure. It bothers me. Losing control, even for a second, bothers me. I don't lose control, Ethan."

And he didn't. He, Saul Reardon, was all about control. It was how he survived an event that few people would have. That same event had provided him with the emotional license to do as he saw fit; to apply his own set of rules in the name of helping others, using the skills he now possessed and the protection from a higher authority.

And he was damn good at it.

Ethan returned to Reardon's desk and grabbed the magical snow globe. He shook the globe and watched it with unusual silence. A whirlpool of white tumbled aimlessly until it eventually settled into a thick, lush carpet. Ethan then studied Saul, wearing an expression that, in Reardon's eyes, was surprisingly humorless. "Issie was three when she gave you this, wasn't she?" he asked, lifting the globe.

Reardon slumped back into his chair, stretched out his legs and nodded. It had been the last thing Issie had ever given him. Something cold and razor-sharp sliced his heart, and he was desperate to drop the topic. "You think this sudden self-doubt is crazy, right?"

Ethan replaced the globe. "On the contrary, not at all. I'm guessing it's because 'this one,' as you like to term Claudia, actually means something to you. You've become involved. And I'm not just talking about your whole connecting with her nasty history thing."

"They all mean something to me," Reardon said. "I get involved with all those I help."

"I know, but you've already admitted, not like this."

Reardon didn't much care for where this conversation was heading. He said nothing. It was probably safer.

"Come on man, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"You just might have to." _What the hell had possessed him to open up to Ethan in the first place?_ "In fact, don't... don't say another word."

Reardon stretched the back of his neck, tried to relieve some of its swelling tightness. "Why does everything in your life have to involve sex?"

Ethan grinned. "Nah, this isn't about sex, mate. This is about you being, well... you being... smitten."

Reardon widened his eyes and half-laughed. Ethan remained staring at him with crooked eyebrows, and a large, smug, very irritating grin.

"You're actually serious, aren't you? Shit! And I thought my head was screwed this morning. For one, I don't get 'smitten.' Remember? And two, need I remind you that I only met her yesterday?"

"Need I remind you that your involvement with her began almost two weeks ago? Something triggered back then, something that's grown over time. You call it 'different'; I call it being drawn to her. You call it 'connection'; I call it falling for her. You can play any linguistic game you wish but at the end of the day, it means the same fricking thing. You... are... smitten."

Ethan leaned closer to Reardon as if sharing a private joke. "I'll let you in on something else. When I walked in last night, there was enough fricking electricity generating between the pair of you to power the entire Sunshine Coast!" Ethan sighed. "You know, it's been so bloody long you can't even see it for what it is. You, whose instincts are often borderline inhuman and you can't see this. Hell, if it wasn't so sad, it'd be funny."

Reardon groaned, pulled himself up and stood once more before the outdoor panorama. Crossing his arms, his body fell into a deep stillness; his mind was anything but.

Of course, he found Claudia attractive. What man wouldn't? But at the most, any attraction could only be sexual, as it had been with every other woman he'd been with in the past six years. He would hardly categorize that as _smitten_.

But he also couldn't deny that Ethan knew him better than anyone else did. Or the fact that it would readily explain his out of character behavior.

Claudia.

He thought of her with fresh eyes.

And something warm took light in his chest.

As simple as that.

His unsettledness had now ballooned to downright aggravation. How the hell did this happen? He stole several more moments in an effort to regain some of his former control, even though it seemed to be deserting him faster than his logic. He turned to Ethan. "Just say you're right."

Ethan shrugged. "I am right."

"Well, whatever. You know what it would mean."

"That we're right back to square one, you doubting your ability to protect her."

"It's not doubt, Ethan. It would then be a certainty. It would jeopardize the way I operate; it would jeopardize her safety. And if I can't control that then I would have to take myself off this case. And the sooner the better."

At the very least, Reardon knew this much to be true.

"I know," Ethan said, "that's the bummer."

They were both silent for a while.

"Mate, I'm not going to lecture you, me of all people. What you do is your decision, but I just want you to consider something. You said yourself, this is one very intricate, one very nasty case." He flicked his head in the laptop's direction. "Especially in light of that new info you've just received. Who then would help her if not you? Whom would she go to? Her father? Weatherly? At the moment her faith in people has been shot, but she trusts you."

"And if my supposed emotions get in the way, and I make the wrong decision, who does she trust then?"

"Saul, even at your worst, you're still the best. And I don't say that lightly."

Reardon flinched.

"Listen, a very wise man once told me you can't control _everything_ in life. You can't control whom you meet or when you meet them, how you may feel about them or what may happen to them. You just have to do the best you can with what you have, when you have it. Sound familiar?"

Of course it did. Reardon grunted and ran his hand slowly over his face. His palm was warm and moist.

"As harsh as this may sound," Ethan went on, "sometimes you need to practice what you preach."

"This is truly messed up," was all Reardon could say.

"Yep."

"More so because sometimes your crap can actually make sense."

"I know; scary isn't it?"

Reardon thought some more, although he doubted whether his head was even in a rational place. "If I stay with this, promise me something."

"Anything."

"If I react inappropriately or make a decision that you think is wrong, in any way, you'll tell me."

"I'd do that anyway."

"And if I want out, I do it without your ongoing condemnations."

Ethan gritted his teeth, mumbled numerous words beneath his breath before promising to do so. Reardon knew he could trust Ethan. His current issue was whether he could trust himself.

"I'll tell you one more thing," Ethan said. "I reckon you've seen something in her that you want, and I'm not talking about that gorgeously curved body of hers or that she may inadvertently have some answers for your own personal agenda."

"Like what?"

"Who do you think I am? Bloody Freud? You work it out." He jumped off the desk and began making his way towards the door. "Time to get your arse back into gear, mate. Weatherly is arriving soon and Claudia is packing death over it. She needs you and frankly so do I. Can't stand the man. I swear just once I'm going to stick it where he'll feel it for a very long time."

Reardon's thoughts exactly. "I'll be straight out, just need to go through this latest material first." As his friend was about to exit, he thanked him.

"No sweat, mate. Just don't make it a habit. I prefer it when you're the strong one." And Ethan chuckled as he left.

# Chapter 20

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

7:55 am

I SAT ALONE on one of the two white lounges, the one nearest to the softly whirring air conditioner. I felt flushed. I wiped the moisture from my hairline and then locked my clammy hands together. In my stomach, a fresh kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered madly.

Detective Inspector Weatherly pulled up the knees of his long, navy pants and sat opposite on the other lounge. He readjusted his matching jacket, straightened his pinstripe tie with one methodical flick of his wrist then casually crossed one leg over the other. With several light sweeps, he brushed questionable fluff from his pants and settled his rigid, hostile gaze upon me.

He was as I had remembered.

Two male constables stood directly behind him, one with a note pad and pen, the other with his hands crossed behind his back. Saul and Ethan stationed themselves at the breakfast bar, mere yards away.

"Are you ready?" Weatherly asked.

There were no initial greetings or even questions as to how I was. I shouldn't have been surprised, but it irked me just the same. I gave him a small nod.

"Can you then begin by leading me through the events that occurred to you on the twenty-sixth of this month?"

I did, step by horrifying step.

Once recounted, a series of typical questions followed; questions about my knowledge of the victim; my whereabouts at the time of Iacovelli's murder and so on, all of which I answered in complete honesty. My car was held as evidence. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no desire for its return.

"Do you keep your car locked?" Weatherly again.

"Always."

He semi-grinned, if that was at all possible for the man. "Are you certain?"

Of course I was. These days, security and I were intimate friends.

"It's just there was no evidence to suggest the locks had been tampered with."

What did that mean exactly? That I had left the car unlocked? Impossible. I shot a glance at Saul. He wore a small, encouraging smile. I turned back to Weatherly. "I don't know what to say. I always lock it."

"And the spare key?"

That was easy. "My brother, Nate has it."

Weatherly glanced at the note-taking constable to his rear, who was writing furiously. He caught Weatherly's eye and gave him a firm thumbs-up.

I sat mortified. "Surely you don't think Nate had anything to do with...." And I stopped. The idea was simply too ridiculous.

But Weatherly didn't answer. Instead, he studied me beneath heavily hooded eyes. "Who else knows about your brother having the key?"

I wasn't sure and told Weatherly so. "My family, I guess. It's not as if it's a life-threatening secret." And I cringed at the unintended pun.

Weatherly studied me some more. It was fast becoming irritating. "I'm going to ask you again. Miss Cabriati, did you know Alice Polinski?"

"No, Detective, as far as I know, I _did_ not."

There was no mistaking the imperious smirk on Weatherly's face.

"However, my parents did." And I related my recent conversation with my father.

Weatherly's smirk collapsed. He shifted and squirmed just enough to be noticeable, and I semi-grinned.

"It's just that previously you denied all knowledge of Alice Polinski. But I've just received new information that suggests otherwise."

I asked about the new information.

"In her will, Alice Polinski left you everything."

I was stunned, but in light of recent discoveries, it was hardly surprising. I said as much to the detective who could do nothing more but agree. With his trump card clearly obliterated, he finished by asking if I had any further knowledge that could support their investigation.

That I surely did.

The boxes in the bedroom illustrating my early life, the recorded conversations with Senator Macey and Colt/Iacovelli; the idea that there existed a group of covert, gun fanatics. I again glanced at Saul, recalling our earlier conversation.

" _How much do I tell Weatherly," I ask him only minutes before the Detective Inspector arrives. "What do I say or don't say?"_

Saul is sitting on a kitchen barstool next to me, his Nike clad feet hitched onto the stool's footrest. He is wearing a white loosely hung shirt and blue jeans. I think how hot the combination is on him. Today I notice a changed quality in his eyes, but I can't quite make out what it is.

" _Whatever you feel is right," he says in his usual placid manner. "Be truthful. Then again, if you decide not to disclose something, then that's your choice."_

" _But...."_

But what?

There are scores of those frustrating buts, not one of which I now have time to follow through. Ethan has just stepped into the room.

" _Time to arm yourselves," he announces, "the manic little boy in blue has arrived."_

My heartbeat hiccups as I look to Saul. He jumps off the stool, grips onto my upper arms and says, "Just follow your instincts." He smiles, then strides confidently into the adjacent hallway and to the front door.

Follow your instincts.

I stole several thinking moments. I then looked at the disagreeable man before me and said, "No, Detective Inspector, not a thing. But if anything comes up, I'll certainly give you a call."

Weatherly threw me a look full of clear cunning. "You do realize, Miss Cabriati, that your parents lied to me about knowing Alice Polinski."

"They were protecting me," I said.

"They were hindering a murder investigation," he said back, "an indictable offense."

Was he serious?

Any past tension I had, quickly mutated into anger. I heard a minor shuffle to my left. Saul had straightened, leveling a solid, threatening glare at Weatherly. And I recall another earlier conversation, this time between Saul and Weatherly.

" _I don't know who it is you know, Reardon," says the newly arrived Detective Inspector, "but I don't like any of this." His voice is typically cold and smarmy._

" _Not my concern," Saul replies. "But Claudia is. So, you are to question her in a respectable manner. It's not to resemble the inexcusable tactics you used on her last time."_

" _Inexcusable tactics?" Weatherly groans out a non-humorous laugh. "I swear one day...."_

" _Is that clear?"_

A very disgruntled 'yes' follows.

I immediately motioned Saul to stay put. I clutched onto the lounge tightly with both hands and arrowed towards the insidious little man. "You know how difficult any indictment would be for my parents?"

Weatherly glanced at Saul. His lips curled but it was an unmistakably callous curl, almost bordering on a true smile. "Not my concern," he parroted Saul's earlier words. "I'm here to do a job."

"Your job?" I laughed. It came out a little too hysterical but I didn't care. My so-called _Italian pedigree_ had now ballooned beyond normal proportions. "Isn't it your job to find out who is responsible for these crimes? Have you _any_ leads yet as to who killed Alice Polinski?"

The detective's expression soured. "No, I haven't."

"And isn't it your job to protect the innocent victims. That is what I teach my students," I said with an added flavor of sarcasm.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Am I not the victim here?"

Weatherly didn't answer. I didn't wait for one.

"Then tell me, what steps have you taken to protect me? You come here with all your well-planned questions, all in some twisted attempt to throw me off balance, but, not once, have you suggested any precautions I should take, or even sound concerned for my well-being. Don't you find that odd for someone in your position?"

His eyes could have sliced cement. "What would you like me to do?"

My eyes sliced back. "Not a thing now."

With one sharp, disdainful glare at Saul and Ethan, Weatherly murmured, "Be careful, Miss Cabriati, very careful."

He then stood... quite abruptly. And with a flippant click of his fingers, he and his posse left.

***

"You did well today," Saul said, obviously referring to Weatherly's interview.

We had just refilled our coffee mugs and were entering my room. I had spent the early hours of the morning rifling through the boxes. They sat against the wall, lined up like disheveled soldiers. On the shag-pile rug next to the bed, laid eight, pink photo albums. Beneath them, methodically arranged, were scores of selected photographs.

I wasn't sure about having done well. Really, I had just rebuked an officer of the law and held back vital information. _An indictable offense_ , as Weatherly had so fiercely put it. I should've felt appalled, remorseful, anxious even.

But, I didn't.

I felt incredibly... _okay_.

"Ethan certainly thought so," I said, recalling his boisterous reaction.

He had taken me by complete surprise, grabbed me by the waist and lifted me high, like I was nothing more than a soft toy with no stuffing. The extreme swiftness of it made me squeal. Ethan laughed. Then he mumbled something about Weatherly's crimson face, about his agitated expression, about the uncomfortable way he wriggled, and it being the best show Ethan had witnessed in a long time.

One more squeal saw me back on my feet. I recalled searching for Saul. He was still leaning against the bar, appearing extraordinarily distant. He winked at me and then grinned. It lit up his entire face. I sighed, strangely wishing it had been he, not Ethan, who had lifted me with such exuberance.

Yin and yang.

"Ethan's never been one to hold back his feelings," Saul said.

Was that a trace of envy I detected?

"And he does it with such natural ease, damn amazing really."

I wanted to say there was nothing _damn amazing_ about it. I wanted to say, _so could you._ But I remained silent as I slipped onto the floor beside my forgotten memories.

Saul smoothed in next to me, curling his back against the bed frame. "Nothing from Milo?"

I shook my head. I recalled how disillusioned I felt at not hearing from Milo. Nate was also having difficulties reaching him. This wasn't uncommon behavior for Milo, but, after his Christmas episode, I found it strange that he hadn't contacted me, particularly in light of the recent Iacovelli incident.

"He's probably off spreading some Christmas cheer, totally oblivious to what's happened."

If it was an attempt to console me, it was a poor one. We both knew it would've been impossible to escape any news regarding Iacovelli. It was drawing space in just about every viable form of media. Whatever Milo was involved in, it was becoming more of a mystery by the minute.

"How about Nate? Get through to him?"

I had. It was crucial that I warned him and our parents of Weatherly's threats. "My spare car key is on his keychain," I told Saul. "Has been there since I gave it to him. And I know Nate. He worships his car. His keychain would always be somewhere close to him." I smiled wistfully recalling Nate's brave attempt to sound unafraid of Weatherly, of how he would protect our parents.

"It won't happen." Saul was looking at me as one reading my thoughts. "The whole indictment thing. I'll make sure of it." He sounded genuinely confident and I had to wonder, like Weatherly, just whom did Saul know?

I tucked my legs to one side and pulled down my flared-out mini-skirt. All of a sudden, I felt oddly conscious of its extra short length. In the distance, I heard the unbroken whirring of a vacuum. I steadied my breathing along with the vacuum's fluid rhythms and then pressed forward.

"All these boxes," I began, "are full of clothes I apparently wore, toys I played with, books and more importantly, photos."

I pointed to several images of me pictured with different people. The only person I readily recognized was Alice Polinski, except for the young man holding me in some of the snapshots. "That, I'm sure is my father."

"So he spoke the truth when he said he visited you."

I recalled how delighted I was to discover that fact. At least Papa hadn't totally deserted me. "You'd think I would've remembered those visits, especially in the last couple of years." I shook my head. "Anyway, this photo disturbs me the most." I collected it from the age four section and handed it to Saul.

It showed the central part of a large mansion, foregrounded by a giant fountain. Two noble lions posed on either side. I was sitting on the ground near one of the massive beasts, smiling broadly. My legs were crossed, my head straight and high, my long hair spilling down over my upright shoulders.

"You were pretty cute," Saul commented.

The little girl in the photo was, but I was still having difficulty connecting her with me. I moved on. "I've seen this house before." I picked up the small, wooden box that Mel had brought and pulled it opened. On the top, was a pile of neatly stacked cards. I pulled them out and passed several to Saul. "Firstly, these are the cards I got every year on December 3."

"Celebrating the day that you were given to Alice."

"Yes. You'll notice each one has a similar message."

Saul flipped through them. "How old were you when you got the first one?"

I had been eight, found it under my pillow and had thought it strange. My birthday had been just over five weeks earlier. I thought that maybe someone was playing a joke. So I raced to show my parents. My mother had flown into a wild rage, seized the card and shredded it into a mass of tiny pieces.

"I had never seen her so angry, never seen it since," I told Saul. "I remembered escaping to my bedroom, hiding beneath my doona and wondering what I had done that was so wrong. Papa soon joined me, said it wasn't my fault. But I was upset about it for a long time." I sighed. "Every year the cards appeared beneath my pillow. I collected them first in an old shoe box, then later in this."

"No idea how they got there?"

"Not particularly. But during the same day of the first card, Milo saw me. He said that I obviously had a secret admirer and maybe I should keep it just that... a secret. After that I did. I didn't think too much of it, but later I thought that maybe Milo knew more about them than he was letting on."

Saul handed the cards back to me. "Did you ever ask him?"

"When I was twelve or thirteen. He was so annoyed that I'd brought it up. Milo isn't the easiest person to get along with." I packed up the cards and put them back in the box. "He threatened to tell Mama, so I never mentioned them again."

"And as far as your parents were concerned, they just assumed you never received anymore."

"I guess so."

"So, what happened when you left home to live with Simon in Sydney?"

I shot an instant look at Saul and again, silently questioned how he knew so much about me. "Slipped into our letterbox."

"And when you returned here, back under your pillow?"

"The first one, yes. The second, as you know, Alice delivered in person."

In one fluid movement, Saul crossed his arms. The short sleeves of his shirt pulled tight, accentuating his corded biceps. They actually rippled like....

I swore beneath my breath and told myself to get a grip. That checking him out, yet again, was acting like some woeful, pubescent teenager with a hormonal crush on her gym teacher. I moved on, concentrating on the happy snaps of Alice, instead. It wasn't easy.

"You know, I can't stop thinking about her. Can you imagine what it must've been like for her; to be forced to give up a child she had reared for so long?"

"I don't think she ever really did," Saul said. "The birthday cards, the house in Summit Road; she bought that house in 1990."

"The year we moved here."

"Alice was always near you. The year you moved to Sydney, I believe she moved there also, returning here when you did. Naturally, she had to be careful that no one recognized her. But as the years passed, as she aged, she would've felt safer, more comfortable to be seen in public. And always in the knowledge that as long as she didn't talk to you, she never broke her promise."

I shook my head. "It's almost too fantastic to believe. My own guardian angel, her whole life... for me."

"She loved you very much, Claudia."

"Love or obsession? I'm not sure, but the sad part is that I don't even remember her. I never even got to know her." Something twinged hard in my heart. "It all seems such a waste."

Saul stooped forward and caught my gaze. "You really believe that?"

"Don't you?"

"Not at all. I don't believe loving someone is ever a waste. No matter how long or how short it lasts, or how it presents itself. It's only a waste if it's abused. To Alice, her love for you was paramount, so she did what she felt she had to do to be near you. That was her choice, and in some unconventional way it probably made her happy."

I wanted to believe Saul, but it still seemed all too crazy. "The more I think about it, the more I believe that the person watching me all those years, and at The Local, was Alice."

Saul straightened back against the bed. "It'd certainly fit. Except that it doesn't explain why you felt the figure had changed when you returned to Nankari. Anyway, you still haven't told me about the house. Where have you seen it?"

This next part was difficult.

From beneath the birthday cards in the box, I plucked a pile of photographs, secured by a gold, elasticized ribbon. I pulled at the ribbon with jittery fingers, knowing that many included my Simon, ones that I hadn't set eyes upon in over fourteen months.

It amazed me how the human mind functioned. To be able to lock away a cast of memories behind a solid wall of willpower, memories that included not only those best forgotten but also those that were cherished and priceless.

In the top photo, Simon's eyes adored me just as they had in real life. Sharp, swift pain stabbed my chest and I struggled for breath.

"Claudia...." Saul reached out to me, but I gently nudged his hand away. I scanned the pile and found what I was after. I then gathered the remaining photos and returned them to where they belonged, deep in the box and even deeper into my mind.

As I pulled myself together, I slipped seven photos into Saul's hand. Six of them were photographs of me at varying ages from birth to seven years old. But it was the seventh one that was the most intriguing. It was identical to the one I had already shown Saul before.

The one of the house with me sitting at the foot of the lion.

Saul alternated his gaze between the photo and me. "If Alice was the only one who had photos of you during your first seven years, where did these come from?"

Precisely what I'd thought. "These photos were a part of a surprise wedding gift from Simon," I explained. "He was putting together an album of our life journey together. From what I can gather, he had gotten many of the photos from my family. When I discovered these particular ones...." I pointed to the early photos of me in Saul's hand. "Well, after Simon was...." I balked. My heartbeat balked with me but I pressed on. "Well, afterwards, I was as surprised as you were. I knew my family didn't have any. So where did Simon get these? Especially the one of the house."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure, but what if someone in my family did have photos after all, and in light of what we now know about the birthday cards, it could've only been someone who, for whatever reasons, kept contact with Alice."

Saul fell silent, rubbing the side of his forehead. "Makes sense. But then one has to wonder how Simon found out about this person."

Of course. And that's where my slapdash theory smacked bang into the proverbial brick wall. "I don't know if any of this is even significant, but I get to thinking why did Alice choose, after all these years, to finally come out into the open? After all this cloak and dagger stuff, what was so important? And the house? I'm beginning to remember it. Those lions, for example, I remember playing around them, playing hide and seek, I think. And that fountain, I remember the jets of water spouting really high. I also get a strong sense that this is where I lived."

Saul studied the photo in silence.

"You think this could be the place in my dream?"

"Very likely."

I fell back against the bed and took a long, deep breath. Saul had begun fingering the photographs on the floor. He selected a few, spending a short time absorbed by them. He appeared detached, contemplative. When he turned to me, I spotted the clear discomfort on his face.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said half-heartedly, "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad and if it is, I'll be okay. That was our agreement, remember?"

"It's not pleasant," he warned.

What was these days?

He collected one of the photos and placed it in my hand. "That man there is Danny Souza." The change in his voice bothered me. It was lower, more solemn. "I could ask if the name is familiar to you but I seriously doubt it."

He was right. I had never heard of him. Saul placed another photo on top of the previous one. It included two men; grins stretched wide, arms wrapped loosely around each other's shoulder. "The one on the right is Johnny Hercolani, the other Ricky Taccone."

Again, I hadn't heard of them.

Saul repeated the same procedure with another photo. "That man there is none other than our Senator Macey, except his name then was Macanetti. He shortened it when he joined politics."

Macey? Macanetti? What the....

"This one," Saul said, tapping on yet another figure, "is Iacovelli."

All Italian names.

My muscles tensed. My breathing became shallow.

"There were six altogether," Saul muttered.

Six? Was this the supposed gun club?

Saul paused.

_Why the pause?_ _That was only five._

I searched for the elusive sixth individual amongst the remainder of the photographs, but they failed to produce any such person. I began to rummage through them with more ferocity, desperately struggling against the sickening idea now taking shape in my head. "The sixth one...," I whispered.

"Claudia...." I heard it in Saul's voice. No doubt, I'd see it in his face if I had the gumption to look.

He knew who it was. And unfortunately, now, so did I.

_Friend of a friend,_ he had said when explaining Alice Polinski.

My father.

Shit.

I shot up and began pacing. So many thoughts swarmed my brain. It was difficult to focus on any one thing. Saul was beside me, silent, but there. I tried to process.

But process what exactly?

That my father had lied to me yet again? That he not only knew Iacovelli, but also was involved with some overzealous gun buffs? None of it seemed real, as did a larger, more startling prospect.

Unless it's someone who doesn't want her hurt, someone who wants to protect her.

I stopped pacing and swung around to Saul. "Please, tell me my father didn't kill Alice and Iacovelli."

Saul looked into my eyes, strong and unblinking. "I can't tell you that Claudia, because I don't know for certain."

I groaned and promptly made my way to the bed. I eyed off the stack of pillows blaring unconditional comfort. It was so tempting to crawl beneath them, to lie there for an eternity. I slumped myself on the edge of the bed, and threw my head in my hands. I _was_ going to deal with this. I had said so.

Eventually Saul joined me. He wriggled something in my face. When I focused, I realized it was a pink musk stick. I laughed, fragile sounding as it was. I took the stick and nibbled. It was perfect as always. "Don't know how you put up with me the way you do."

"What?"

"Most of the time, I'm nothing more than an emotional rollercoaster, leaving bits of me wherever I land."

Saul laughed and sidled up nearer, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. The mere closeness of him, that damn earthy scent of his and his chocolate-coated voice caused something warmly pleasant to take light in me.

"Don't be so tough on yourself," he said. "Look at the way you handled yesterday with your father and then today with Weatherly."

I thought of Weatherly. I tried not to think of my father. "It's only because of you," I reminded him.

"No, I may have kick started it, but you took over and did the rest. You always had the ability. You just needed a little shove in the right direction."

I looked at him. "Is this what you do? Shove people in the right direction?"

He tilted his head. "I help people solve their problems."

"No, it's more than that, isn't it." It was all becoming clearer now. The reason for Saul's bid to find the answers together. It was how he helped people to combat their own weaknesses. It was what he was doing with me. "So you think I need to stand up for myself more."

"Is that what you believe?"

"Don't give me the whole answering a question with a question thing. I want to know what you think."

He waited a while before replying. "With some people, yes."

I sat quiet.

"Look, Claudia, you're smart, and I'm sure you're aware of much of this already. You also must know you have the capabilities to make your own decisions, to look after yourself quite competently. You just need the confidence and the opportunities to do so... _and to lose the guilt_."

Easier said and _all that jazz._

His eye caught something on my bedside table. It was a rag doll. It had long hair and large eyes the same color as mine and it wore the cutest green and white dress.

"Interesting," he said.

I gazed at the doll and then back at Saul. "What is?"

"The fact that you've singled it out."

I had?

"By putting it there. You haven't done that with anything else."

"I don't know. I guess there's something special about it."

"Can't remember what?"

I shook my head. The whole memory thing was, at times, very annoying. "I only know its name is Dolly." I then changed the subject. "You really meant what you said before. About me being able to do all that."

His smile was my answer. Watching the way his lips curled at the corners, I wondered what it'd feel like to touch them, just for a moment. The thought made my heart race. Then a part of me felt horribly ashamed, even deceitful, that I was even thinking such thoughts. Wasn't Simon still a part of me?

Fortunately, my mobile signaled a message, hauling me back to reality. I flicked open my phone and felt immediately relieved. "It's Milo. He wants to meet with me."

"Where?"

"My place."

"Not a good choice. Can't he meet you someplace else, even here?"

I texted the suggestion to Milo. I certainly wasn't in any hurry to return home. Seconds later, a reply bleated. I curved my shoulders. "No, he seems adamant. He says it's really important." I sighed. "He's always so difficult. I have to go. I keep getting this feeling."

"You're not going alone." Saul hastily grabbed the photo of the house with the lions. "Just let me send this off to a few people first and we'll go together."

# Chapter 21

# Araneya Estate

1989

" _ARE WE READY?" one of the men questioned,_ _as he returned his shiny handgun to its velvet-lined case. His voice was especially gruff, his manner obnoxiously officious._

Others surrounded him, clutching similar boxes, housing similar possessions. Each man expressed his readiness either verbally or with a slight nod of his head.

" _Then let's get moving," the gruff man ordered. He carefully secured his box into a khaki rucksack and heaved the entire bag onto his broad back._

The afternoon sun, hidden behind a screen of darkening clouds, did little to pacify the winter chill. Perched on top of a nearby concrete fence, various children watched the detailed preparations.

" _Do you think it will rain?" asked the taller man._

The gruff man's laugh was full and hardy. "So what if it does? A little water isn't going to kill us, is it?"

The taller man appeared hesitant. "Might reduce the visibility, that's all."

" _What, you getting chicken in your old age?" scoffed one of the others._

The taller man narrowed his eyes, sent unfriendly shots in the other's direction.

" _Papa," the little girl said, running to the tall man. "Where are you going?"_

The tall man knelt on one knee and caught her. Then he held both of her blue-gloved hands in his large ones. "I am just going into the forest for a few days, Carina."

Her voice quivered, her mouth curled downwards. "Why do you always go there?"

Her father hung his head low. To relive our own private hell, he thought.

" _To do what we do best," crooned one of the others. Loud, animated exclamations followed._

The girl frowned. That wasn't what Alice had told her. "This is something your Papa needs to do, little one," Alice had explained, "to help him get better." But the girl still didn't understand.

" _Can I come too?"_

" _Where we go is not a place for children," he whispered in sad but kind tones. Their journey, he well knew, included more than simply the physical._

" _But, Papa, I want to be with you. I promise I'll be very grown up."_

Laughter erupted from behind him. "Yes, so grown up," mocked one. "Maybe you should teach your 'grown up' daughter about the realities of what we do."

" _Yeah... maybe you should teach her how to use one of these little babies," voiced another, tapping the inside of his own rucksack. "That would be_ _very_ _grown up."_

A different man with thick, fair hair spoke for the first time. "Leave him alone."

The girl's face lit up with fresh hope. "Yes, Papa, please teach me. I can learn anything. I'm so smart. My teacher, Sister Paul says so. And then I could go with you."

Such innocence, such unconditional faith in her Papa. The father lowered his eyes. Shame spread through him, fast and thick.

" _You should," the gruff man sniggered. "I'm already teaching my young ones."_

The father swung to him, feeling a sudden repugnance burn his insides. "You have what?"

The gruff man's smile was wicked, sarcastic. "If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for them. Besides, what can it hurt? It may even save their lives one day."

" _They are innocent children. Why would you bring them into a life like ours?"_

The fair-haired man agreed with the father, objecting just as strongly. The other three remained silent.

The gruff man swore, and then swung sharply in the direction of the gates. "You can all stay and discuss the merits of this boring subject, but I'm off to do what I'm here for." He began to march off. One by one, the others streamed after him.

All except the father and the fair-haired man, who quickly moved to the father's side. "Come on, my friend, let's get going."

The father reluctantly complied. He gave his precious girl one last hug. He stood, turned and with long strides followed the path of the others, ignoring the painful cries from his daughter.

By the time he entered the forest, he had discarded all images of her from his mind.

He was now prepared.

# Chapter 22

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

10:55 am

I NO LONGER saw Zephyr as a safe haven.

Not after being the ugly backcloth for two brutal crimes.

But as soon as I set eyes on my spacious lounge room, the crumpled but well-loved pillow laden sofa, the equally loved collection of books, the many family photographs and the glittering Nankari waters, I could sense a small part of me longing to return. "It feels so strange. Like I sort of belong but don't."

There was no response from Saul. In fact, he was oddly quiet. I yanked the cap from my head, fingered my hair into place and then turned to look at him. With sunglasses shifted to the top of his head, he scanned the space. He then moved forward, pausing at some of the photographs on the walls, but eventually stopping before the bookshelves.

In comparison to Saul's collection, my own seemed slight, but it still managed to dominate the room. Saul studied the books, touching some along the way, now and again glancing back at me. I watched him, curious about his behavior.

"I didn't know," he said.

I frowned.

"Your love of books."

How could he not? The man knew just about everything else.

"It's good to know I can still surprise you." I placed my bag and sunglasses on the glass coffee table.

He continued to peruse the books. "You have some great authors here."

I moved closer to see which authors he was favoring. "And," he said, shaking his head, "they're all in alphabetical order."

I widened my eyes. "So were yours the last I checked."

"Yeah, but I didn't think anyone else would be that crazy."

"Well, surprise again!" A rush of emotion washed through me, warm, settling ones. It brought up images of toasty days on the beach.

I ventured towards the double sliders, a little surprised to find them already open. Perhaps Mel had decided the unit needed a well-deserved airing. I stepped out onto the balcony. It immediately unbolted a glorious sensory experience; the hypnotizing sight of the azure sea, the unmistakable smell and taste of its salty fragrance and the entrancing sound of its waves, however small, crashing their weights upon the water's edge. This spot had been my place of tranquility, many times. I gradually approached the railings semi-circling the balcony, knowing that Saul wasn't far behind.

"This is brilliant," he said.

"Yep." I sighed, inhaling the brackish scent that I had missed. I turned to him. His eyes had changed; hooded and dark they were, staring at me. I stood spellbound by them, by him, not wanting to touch him, to make any unsolicited movement for fear of the moment evaporating. But to me, the silent whispers, the unspoken gestures were more provocative than anything I had ever experienced.

It was then, I realized. This wasn't any schoolgirl crush.

I wanted him.

But as quickly as the moment began, it ended. Saul severed his look from me and instead spun towards the ocean.

Shit.

My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. I cleared my throat and returned indoors. Confusion was still my enemy or perhaps, in this case, it was my friend, protecting me from making an absolute fool of myself. I heard a shuffling movement behind me, but I resisted the temptation to glance his way.

"Milo should be here soon," I said, looking at my watch. "Want a coffee while we wait?"

Saul accepted, and I headed to the kitchen. As I entered it, I froze.

"What's wrong?" Saul asked.

"My kitchen, it's, well, it's... tidy."

"And that's unusual?"

I recalled the last time I was in it, Christmas morning, when Nate had come to collect me. I recalled Nate's shaken look because of its abysmal state, and my unease at his 'shaken-ness.' Now, before me, was something altogether different.

For starters, the sink was empty; that in itself was conspicuous. But, the bench tops, the stainless steel surfaces of the oven, the microwave, dishwasher, fridge were so spotless, I could practically see my reflection in them. As for the floor, it glistened with the noticeable scent of lavender. My kitchen hadn't just been tidied; it had been cleaned, meticulously so. I explained this to the man near me.

"Could Nate have cleaned it for you?"

I looked at Saul and laughed. "Are you kidding? Nate has trouble making a bed. In my family, the male species aren't trained in menial house duties." I looked around again. "No, Nate didn't do this. And I know he wouldn't have said anything to my parents."

"Someone else then? Mel perhaps."

I recalled Mel's phone conversation earlier and her derogatory comments regarding the condition of the unit. She had collected my belongings and was as mortified as Nate was. I also knew there was a better chance of Mel succumbing to a tooth extraction than housework. If she had done something so selfless, there was no way she could've kept it to herself. I shook my head.

I strolled down the short hallway and entered the bathroom. Like the kitchen, it shimmered with an aroma of purity and orderliness. The sink, the bath, the toilet, faultless. Two teal-blue towels hung from the polished rails, impeccably folded, each aligned with the other. Nearby, a matching face cloth, arranged in one of those origami-style flower shapes, ornamented the vanity. Even the large-beveled edge mirror was completely smudge-free, displaying the perplexity on my face.

A horrifying sense of _deja vu_ quickly hit me, disturbing images of overly cleansed kitchens and mirrors and floors.

Of Simon.

"Saul, this is really freaky," I murmured, not sure if he could hear my low, scratchy sounding voice.

Thankfully, he did. "We're leaving, just until I get this place checked over."

I couldn't have been happier.

But what if....

Trancelike, my head slowly spun to the right. I looked past the office and the spare bedroom until I reached my own bedroom. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing outwardly sinister.

Except, unlike all the other rooms, _the door was closed._

Call it some twisted curiosity of mine or some bizarre need to prove my ridiculous suspicions wrong. But I began taking small, unhurried steps towards my room. Saul called out to me. I stopped but not because of Saul. I breathed in once... then gasped... breathed several more times to be sure. The strong disinfectant, the open sliders, the closed bedroom door.

All needed...

... to stifle _that_ smell.

A thin film of moisture prickled my skin. And the continuous thud in my ears was deafening - Saul's voice becoming nothing more than a perpetual, distorted drone.

Simon.

I sprinted to the door and with one quick turn of the knob, shoved it open.

And there he was. On my bed.

I wasn't sure when the mental part of the shock actually connected with the physical. But for a split second, I was able to take in the entire scenario, the horizontal position of the body, the limbs, the head and the rose petals, scores of the crimson red shapes framing his figure. "Simon," I whispered, before falling into the long-awaiting shadows. "Simon," I repeated with more urgency.

And in that precise instant, just as the hungry darkness overtook, I actually imagined he answered.

***

How can darkness be so malevolent, so menacing, when even there, beauty can exist.

Here I was in the nucleus of its ethereal gloom, staring directly into the eyes of beauty.

The eyes of Simon.

He had risen from the richly shaded bed of flowers, looking as impressive as the first rays of sunshine after a series of overcast days. He glided towards me and once there, stood directly opposite. His face glistened with inimitable joy, his expression tender, empathetic, his bright, hazel eyes brimming with love.

He was as I had always remembered him.

Tears pricked my eyes as I fought to adjust to what I was witnessing. There was no rational explanation to describe it, only that I was staring into the man I had loved for many years, the man to whom I was willing to commit myself.

The man I also knew to be dead.

How could this be even possible? "Simon," I whispered. "Is that really you?" I was afraid of his answer.

He smiled that smile I knew so well, the one I would've touched and kissed many times. I reached out to him but he fast shifted back into the shadows, signaling for me to keep my distance. My heart stumbled. To smell his familiar scent, to feel his arms around me once again, was all I thirsted for. Why would he move away?

"Clauds," he said. "Don't cry. I hate it when you're sad."

I choked at the sound of his voice. I hadn't heard it in such a long time. It was like hearing fine music when there had been none. "Sad?" I half-laughed. "How could I be sad with you here?" Again, I stepped forward. Again, Simon told me not to. "Why can't I touch you?"

His eyes saddened. "It's just not possible. And... and I can't stay."

Something strong rocked me and I almost lost balance. "What... what are you talking about?"

"I can't stay," he said again, this time with more firmness.

My stomach began convulsing. I clutched it hard. "I don't understand."

But he stood there motionless, speechless; an indescribable look spread across his face.

"Why are you here then?" I spluttered.

Long, free strands of hair suspended over one of his eyebrows as it always had, but unlike before, he did little to sweep it away. Instead, he watched me, somber now, unsmiling. "Ask the question, Clauds," he said in soft, slow rhythms.

Question? What question?

I asked Simon; not that I cared. I didn't want to be bothered with any question. I didn't want to be bothered with anything that didn't concern him or us. I was being selfish, I know, but I only wanted him. Fresh tears found a bottomless well and I furiously brushed them away.

"Ask the question," Simon repeated, in the same, deliberate manner.

"Why?"

His head swayed to one side. The gentility of the movement melted what little remained of my heart. "Because the answer will give you something important... _something just for you_."

I shook my head with an unexpected ferocity. "You are what's important."

"And that's why you need to do this and because I want you to be happy."

Was he serious? "I can't ever be happy without you."

His luminous smile lit the bleak shadows, furnishing him with an almost spectral appearance. It was beguiling, his smile. His eyelids opened and fell almost in slow motion. "You will be happy," he said, "And it's okay, Clauds, it's very okay."

I watched his face beam with love. What could I say or even do to prevent the inevitable from happening. "I love you, Simon," I whispered the only thing I knew. But it wasn't enough. With all the wonders that love could do, it still had its immovable boundaries.

Love couldn't return life to the lifeless.

He reached out to me, but no sooner than he did, he withdrew. His brow tightened into a painful grimace. My heart ached to an unbearable level. I would've been happy to remain there, just Simon and me, simply existing in this fathomless, unworldly darkness for an indefinite period.

But Simon had to go.

I didn't think I could endure it again. I searched his face for a little latitude, but there was none. "Where... how?"

"I'll be fine," he replied. "I just need to know that you will be. Do what I ask, promise me, Clauds."

And in the end, I had no other choice but to agree. For a short while, he existed there, until he smiled for one last time. I watched him slide away into the dismal shadows, return to the floral laden bed and to his previous pose.

It all seemed surreal as he methodically locked his two hands, one over the other and fixed them above his heart. He fastened his gaze upon mine. "Always yours," he mouthed and before another second passed, he closed his eyes and became rigid once more.

"No," I yelled, but the word remained stuck in my head. I tried to move but I seemed incarcerated. Panic fed my determination, engineered my persistence to keep crying out his name, to awaken him from this eternal sleep.

An ear-splitting silence reigned instead. But, I couldn't give in.

With one final, momentous pool of energy, I screamed.

# Chapter 23

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

11:25 am

I JERKED AWAKE.

My head was dizzy, muddled and the sudden light intrusive. I groaned, threw my arm over my eyes and shut out the world _._

What the shit was happening?

"Just give yourself time," a male voice said. "You've had quite a nasty shock."

I had?

"But you will be fine."

Fine? I didn't feel fine at all. Who was this man?

I peeked beneath my wrist. Although slightly better, everything was still oddly off-balanced. When I finally stopped blinking, it was to see a familiar face. "Dr. Camparo? What are you doing here?"

I took a moment to establish where _here_ was. Further peeks informed me in my unit, stretched out on my back along my sofa, my bare feet raised unceremoniously on the sofa's armrest. Something soft and grey was strapped to my arm, beginning to balloon.

"Making sure you're okay, my dear girl. Otherwise, Mrs. Camparo would have my head on one of her horribly menacing chopping blocks." I felt his broad laugh ripple through his short, chubby body and into the sofa.

The Camparos, both retired, both Italian, lived in the upstairs unit. Since I had moved into Zephyr, almost a year ago, they had treated me like their surrogate daughter, often spoiling me with home cooked meals.

Dr. Camparo ripped the monitor free from my arm. "Your blood-pressure is back to normal," he said. "We were worried about you. You were out for a good fifteen minutes."

I tried to straighten up. It was challenging. "I don't remember what happened." I was suddenly aware of the constant drone of voices behind me. Who were they and what were they doing in my home?

Dr. Camparo held my half-raised head and tilted a glass of water to my mouth. I sipped. It felt good. I sipped some more. Before long, I was sitting upright, still a little woozy, but feeling a lot less like a child's spinning toy.

Centered on the far wall, directly opposite, was a large, striking profile shot of Papa and me, taken on my twenty-first birthday. Our foreheads were just touching, our eyes locked with the other. Categorical and unconditional love poured from every single living pixel.

Below was a quote I had stolen from a poster:

The reason why daughters love their Dads the most, is....

That there is at least one man in the world who will never hurt her.

A series of horrible shivers worked through my body.

"If it helps any," Dr. Camparo began and then stopped. He rolled up the monitor, unclipped a nearby, heavy-duty black bag and slipped the monitor into it.

"If it helps any," I echoed.

He side-glanced me and sighed, long and heavy. "You kept calling out his name, _Simon's name._ "

Simon?

I spun in the direction of the unbroken babble and caught sight of blue uniforms and white coats. Police. There were police in my home.

Simon.

Shit.

Using the side armrest as support, I stood. My legs were rickety but it didn't stop me. I thieved a second or two to steady them, and allowed the sharp shot of adrenaline to carry me forward. I ignored the repetitive concerns from Dr. Camparo, the loud admonitions from the law enforcement, and the unfriendly hands blocking my way.

I had only one thing in mind.

Simon.

Simon and the bed of flowers.

As I neared my bedroom, a large hand grabbed my arm. I tried to shake it off but it was too powerful. "Angel, don't...."

"Ethan," I said, half-crazed, still lunging forward. "It's Simon."

"What?" Ethan's grasp weakened. And I immediately broke free.

Somewhere in the distance, an angered voice yelled, "Get her out of there!" There was no mistaking that greasy, autocratic tone.

Weatherly.

Regardless, I pumped on, that chronic sense of _deja vu_ , that repugnant odor of death once more haunting me. When I reached the doorjamb, I grabbed it and then gazed numbly at the man on my bed. "Simon...," I whispered.

But the man on the bed was not Simon.

I shrank back. The man was elderly, perhaps sixtyish, grey-haired, his drawn face heavily stubbled. I buckled over and clasped my now, cramping stomach. Where was Simon? Nausea rose.

I dashed to the bathroom. I threw my head over the sink and dry retched several times before finally throwing up. I didn't even notice Ethan until I spotted his mystified reflection in the mirror. He was abnormally lost for words. Adrenaline was fast deserting me along with my sanity. Ethan helped me to the bath where I balanced precariously on its ceramic edging.

Within seconds, Weatherly appeared. His skin was like one who had accidentally fallen asleep in an overlooked solarium. "What do you think you're doing traipsing all over the crime scene?"

Ethan strapped his arms around me. I could make out a low growl inside his chest. "Piss off, you bastard."

Weatherly huffed and twitched, looked sideways a few times, then back at us. "Watch yourself, Sloane. Don't think just because you sit under Reardon's umbrella, that that'll protect you, forever." He grinned that malicious grin of his and then stormed off.

Ethan brushed my long fringe off my face. "You could've just told me you didn't like French toast." He looked at the once sanitized bowl where my breakfast remains were most likely still evident. If I didn't feel so wretched, I would've smiled. "Where's Saul?" I asked instead.

"Right here." Saul stood where Weatherly had been seconds earlier. He sounded strangely irritated. But, I had no time for it. I pulled myself up. "It's Simon."

Saul glanced at Ethan, then back at me. "Are you talking about the man in the bedroom? That man isn't Simon. His name is Danny Souza."

I bit my lip. One of the supposed gun clan? Of course. And, so this ridiculous pattern continues.

Except that is, for Simon.

Anxiety gnawed at me. "You have to listen, Saul. It's the same as Simon, the whole position of the body, the colored flowers, the distinctive tilting of the head...."

I choked on the last words as I recalled the unearthly experience I had while passed out, as I recalled Simon's loving words, the absolute finality of his closing eyes. I pressed my messed-up head into my hands.

Had Simon really existed? If only for a moment? Or had it been nothing more than my subconscious working overtime.

It had certainly felt real.

And our love more than.

I recalled my absurd, embryonic feelings for Saul. And just as quickly, I sensed a massive disloyalty to Simon. The bathroom walls began closing in on me, shrinking the space I needed to function. I was suffocating, smothering under my own rising mania.

I had to get out of there.

"What do you mean?" Saul asked me.

My voice was less urgent. In fact, with each retreating step, numbness began to spread throughout me. "Check the police records. And you'll see; it's the same."

"But that was almost fifteen months ago," Ethan piped in. "Why would anyone go to so much trouble to copy that particular crime?"

Saul was doing the whole, frantic rubbing of his brow thing. "I don't know," he said, in a un-Saul like edginess. "Maybe, maybe someone who really wants to tilt Claudia over the edge."

Well, touché.

"I have to sit outside." I didn't wait for a reply from either man. I steered my way past the disparaging-looking police, collected my leather ballet flats and pulled them on. I then stepped onto the patio and slumped into one of the chairs. I tried to focus on the ocean but somewhere in the past hour, its beauty had subsided and its ability to pacify had waned.

"You okay for a while?" It was Saul. "I've a few more things to do and then I'll take you home."

"Home?" I laughed. It came out more as a cough. "Saul, I _am_ home." But even as those words left my lips, I knew that that would never be the case again.

Saul said nothing.

"Did Milo ever turn up?" I asked.

Saul's _no_ was emphatic.

"Then why ask to meet me here?"

Unless....

"You don't think he would've known about this?" Even suspecting such a thing appalled me.

Saul stepped closer. "I've already thought of that."

"But that's not him, Saul. And you know what Weatherly will think."

"Weatherly doesn't know. I haven't told him, not until we find out the truth."

I felt immediate relief. However, unpleasant Milo was, I didn't believe he could be accountable for something so horrible. So where was he? "You called Weatherly." It was almost an accusation.

"There's a dead body laboriously laid out in your bedroom. Even I'm not so far above the law that I can conceal that. But Ethan gave it his once over before Weatherly arrived."

"So where were you?"

Saul looked offended. "Where do you think? With you of course. You had passed out. I couldn't wake you. Tony immediately got Dr. Camparo."

I felt annoyed but I didn't know why. "Seems to be becoming a habit, this constant rescuing me from dead bodies."

Saul winced, landed his hands on his hips, paced a bit. I swallowed hard, felt a dull throbbing in my hands, looked down and saw my contorted fingers. An errant salt-tinged breeze rushed past, hot with impatience.

"One more thing before I go," Saul muttered, already half-turned. "You said Nate had keys to your car."

Saul knew this already.

"So who had keys to this place? Nate again?"

Of course, he did. But then so did my parents, as did Mel. I passed this onto Saul, fully twigging onto his question. Like my car, there were no signs of a break-in. Someone had to have the keys to both the car and the unit. I stared blankly at Saul. Either one or more people in my family had to be involved.

I felt nothing. Maybe the wind swept all my feelings away. Saul gave me a sad, lingering look and then disappeared through the slider. I wallowed for a while in my semi-state of nothingness. Until I could bear it no longer. I then forced my thoughts on my anti-social brother.

Why would he text me and then not show up? Was he the involved family member? Or at the very least, one of them? My instincts said no. Milo wouldn't hurt me... not intentionally at least.

_Trust your instincts_ , both Saul and Papa had said.

_I'm trying_ , I mouthed to the empty, friendless balcony.

What about Papa? Papa knew most aspects of Simon's murder scene. It wouldn't have been complicated to duplicate it. But to do so, would be unimaginable. The suffering I had endured following Simon's death was indescribable. If it were at all possible, the pain my father suffered watching me, would've almost equaled it.

No, Papa couldn't have done this.

No one who loved me would.

I visualized Danny Souza in my bedroom. A clan member of long ago. Did that then mean my father could be next? I wrapped my arms around me as if I were cold. Perhaps, I was. Perhaps, I was simply trying to hold on to what little reality I had left.

I thought of Simon, to those precious, few minutes I had with him. Whether he had been real, or just a fleeting apparition, he was trying to tell me something.

Ask the question.

I tried to recall Simon's casual, loving face, that husky voice of his, both still so achingly familiar. But the pain became too intense, too frightening. I immediately pulled up the well-rehearsed barriers from the last year and stopped.

And sighed. And decided I was tired of the same old fight.

It was time to end it.

I bolted upright and searched for Saul. He was bent over on the kitchen bench, with his forearms crossed, talking to Ethan. He caught my eye and threw me a long, wan look. I searched the room for an undetectable route but found none. I recognized my bag containing my wallet and phone on the table where the police stood nearby. I decided the importance of them was inconsequential.

I turned, spanned the small balcony and found my opportunity. I glanced at Saul. He was now speaking on his mobile. Ethan was nowhere in sight. I double-checked that everyone else, including Weatherly, was attending to something other than me. I only needed a few short minutes.

I made my way to the front end of the balcony. A concrete rendered wall, tapering lower towards the balcony end, bordered my neighbor, Mr. O'Flanaghan. It was only a few feet tall and quite climbable. Once over, I hurried to the slider. I tapped on the door several times before a baffled Mr. O'Flanaghan appeared.

He slid the door open. "Claudia," he remarked. "What is going on?"

"I need your help," I pleaded. "I need it now."

# Chapter 24

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

12:15 pm

ONCE I HIT the back street, I ran.

Not caring in which direction I went.

I ran without pausing, allowing the tepid breezes to cool my hot, moist skin, allowing every rhythmic beat of my feet to take me further and further away from Zephyr. In time, a throb began to ravage my calves but I didn't stop. Pain began to seep into my over-taxed lungs but still I ran. It felt liberating, cleansing, damn good.

Eventually, after much time, my doggedness began to subside; my lungs were screaming for stillness and my legs crying for rest. I stopped, bent over, my hands on my knees and concentrated on several, long deep breaths. When I straightened, I slugged water from the bottle that Mr. O'Flanaghan had given me. I then inspected my surroundings.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been running, or the exact distance I'd covered, but judging by the small, weatherworn houses, an older, less expensive section of the township, it was clear I'd traveled a fair way.

I trekked past the almost identical homes, many appearing as if they hadn't seen a paintbrush in decades. Rusty old cars laced the makeshift driveways along with other discarded items. Dogs barked, children squealed, all looking as unkempt as the dispirited fences surrounding them.

In one such place, a man, burly, brusque, beer in hand roared to the playing children to keep the noise down. He caught sight of me staring. He waved his arms around and bellowed, "What are you looking at, bitch?"

I dropped my head and pressed forward until any dwellings thinned to near non-existence, until I stumbled upon a section of overgrown shrubbery. In the distance, I spotted a tiny wooden building. As I approached it, I noticed it was abandoned, and judging by its pitiable condition, I was guessing for some time.

Nearby, a neglected bench sat beneath some less than healthy bougainvillea. However, the shade the plant created was more than adequate. I sat down cautiously at first, in case the bench collapsed. I took another sip of the now warmed water and breathed a deep sigh.

I took a moment to bathe in the faint, earthy smells of the dry bushland, the charming songs of the magpies and the peaceful sights of solitude. It felt so good, I began second-guessing what I had really come to do.

To let go of Simon... _finally_.

The terror of unleashing those long-sealed memories of him began to weigh heavily on me. And I could sense my itching feet prepare to run again.

_We could uncover some pretty unpleasant things_ , Saul had said. _So you need to deal with it_... _no running, no hiding_.

Just the thought of Saul conjured up many pleasant, long forgotten feelings in me. I wasn't stupid, though. Those feelings could've been nothing more than my confused reactions to someone providing an empathetic ear during a troubled period. Combine it with a body that for so long had lacked a man's touch and the science was simple. Whatever it was, I knew I didn't want to disappoint him.

No running, no hiding... no more.

Before fear could change my mind, I quickly drew up my legs and wrapped my arms around them, resting my chin on my knees. I shoved aside the nagging panic and closed my eyes. I then traveled back to the surreal scene I had with Simon in my unit. In doing so, I allowed the darkness of him, the part closeted deep within my conscious to break free.

A thousand repressed images scattered through my head. Visions of our first kiss, our first fight, the first time we made love, each one vying for a spot that had been off limits for over fourteen months. It was so hard, so painful. Many times, my survival instincts threatened to kick in... to re-draw those barriers yet again. But I kicked back.

This time, I had to.

Through it all, I wept. I stopped. I wept some more.

And there in those isolated ruins, in the wilderness of my own desolate mind, there was no one to hear me, no one to comfort me, no one to take my pain as their own. I felt it, I bore it, I held it.

Alone.

Time passed. Much time. Until my tears ran dry, my throat felt scalded and I was left feeling spent, almost crushed. I slumped back, my eyes still sealed, drawing in the countrified air.

Healing _._

I wasn't so naïve as to think that freeing up some imprisoned memories, shedding some tears was automatically going to make everything better. The residual pain was huge. But to my surprise, I discovered it to be bearable. I began opening my eyes.

I had once heard that a person could be born many times in their life, not just their initial physical birth, but also a mental resurgence, a resurrection of a life half-dead. Whilst I was never one to examine such philosophies, as I saw my new world for the first time, I silently gave merit to some of its less extremist ideas.

The world facing me appeared different, sharper, more vibrant. And extraordinarily, so did I. It was as if someone had just changed my normal screen setting to high definition. I laughed, either at the wonder of it, or at the fact that I had at last reached the frontier of my insanity.

Either way, I felt this remarkable sense of altered calm. It was as if a white flag had been drawn, declaring one battle over _._

I wasn't sure how long I would feel this way, but not wanting to tempt fate, I immediately set to work. I honed in on Simon once more, and was pleased to discover that this time I could so without sinking into a quivering mess.

_Ask the question,_ he kept repeating.

But what question? I grimaced at the thought of separating one question from the amount that plagued me on a daily basis. But my mind whirred on, eventually wondering what had generated the whole Simon experience in the first place.

I went back to when Saul and I had first arrived at Zephyr. We had entered the unit. I failed to notice its orderly state. My attention was on Saul. He was admiring my home. I, in turn, was admiring him. There was that brief interlude where I thought we had exchanged something, something more intimate. But he had moved away.

Did the question lie there?

I could certainly think of many, but none that would warrant Simon's urgency.

I pressed on.

I had noticed the unusual cleanliness of the kitchen, the bathroom. For a second, it reminded me of a movie I'd once seen where the psychopathic husband arranged things, like towels, in perfect order. I shuddered that someone similar to him could be at work here. I then wondered why anyone would go to so much effort to duplicate a scene from so long ago. Was Saul right when he assumed it was designed to send me over the edge? Did someone hate me that much?

Naturally, it disturbed me. What disturbed me more was the sheer accuracy of the crime, right down to the exact color of the rose petals, the lateral position of the body, the uplifted arms and the overlapping hands _._

And that's when it hit me.

The question.

A question that had only one answer.

I leaned back, stunned, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. More importantly, if my theory was right then the implications were enormous.

Shit.

I had to tell Saul. I stood up and collected the water bottle off the ground. I scanned the mangled scrub beyond, to the cloudless sky above. A faint breeze appeared, brushing my skin, its feather like touch lingering for a time, whispering noiseless words. It could've just been the mental zone I was in, but I had a strong sense that it was Simon.

I used the opportunity to make a promise to my invisible guest, a very important promise. One that I was determined to keep no matter what.

"Thank you," I whispered.

The extraordinary presence hovered for a while before eventually vanishing amidst the playful gusts. I heaved a soulful sigh, knowing I had one more thing to do.

I wriggled my spread out fingers, allowed the white diamond on my engagement ring to seize the light for the last time. Fiery sparkles exploded from it and I smiled. It was so striking, so perfect. With a tight lump in my throat, I pulled it off. I carefully placed the ring into the back pocket of my skirt and zipped it closed.

I was now ready to return.

***

I made my way out of the bougainvillea enclosure and back onto the road.

With sudden dread, I realized I was a long way from nowhere; no mobile phone; no wallet, nothing to help me with a quick return. At this stage, there was little else to do except walk.

I glanced at my watch, something I hadn't done since I had left. I was shocked to discover that it was almost four-thirty. I had been gone for well over four hours. With the sun beating a kinder heat, I hiked down the empty road. Just as I approached the outskirts of civilization, an aged utility appeared, headed in my direction. It pulled up beside me.

A thickly bearded man called out to me from his down-turned window. He was wearing a grubby looking cap twisted sideways on his head. His crinkled skin depicted someone who spent long, unprotected hours in the sun. "Are yer Claudia Cabriati?" he asked, in a deep, abrasive voice.

Naturally, I had no idea who the man was or how to respond. He must have spotted my indecision.

"I's bin lookin' for yer, or should I say Saul Reardon has. He's bin mighty worried, lady."

I squinted, still reluctant to venture too close. "I guess he would've been a little concerned."

The man scoffed. "A little concerned? Hell, lady, he has had at least a half dozen folks on the streets scoutin' for yer."

I was puzzled and rightly so. "Why would Saul have done that? I just needed some time out."

"Beats me, lady. I's just doin' what I's been asked. Now are yer gettin' in so I can get yer back?" He stretched his bulky body over to the passenger side, grabbed the handle and flung open the door. Once again, I hesitated. Once again, the man noticed.

"Listen, lady, I's not hangin' here all day while yer makes up yer mind. Alls I know is I's instructions, find yer, get yer back. I mean, if it weren't for that fella back there, who told me he saw some chick wanderin' up this way several hours ago, I wouldn't even have come this far."

I bet I knew which _fella_ he was referring to.

The man paused as if considering something. "I tells yer what; I'll just give Reardon a call and put it on speaker. So yer can hears the conversation, okay?"

Seemed a fair compromise. I watched him finger a number into his car phone. Before long, I heard the voice I had come to know so well, a voice that clearly indicated stress.

"Reardon."

"Hey, mate, its Jacko. I haves her."

"Is she okay?"

Jacko's eyes rolled over me once. "Looks pretty good to me."

Silence... then, "Did she say what happened?"

"Yeah, somethin' about needin' time out."

More silence, and then a modified tone; not a good one.

"Ok, Jacko, we're still parked behind Zephyr. Just bring her there. And can't thank you enough, really appreciate it."

Jacko gave me a sideways glance, "No worries. For yer anytime." And with that, he signaled off. His head turned towards me, brows raised, a sneer hanging of the corner of his mouth. "Well, lady, yer gettin' in now? Or ifs yer prefer yer can sits in the back."

It took only a cursory peek to make out the disheveled rummage in the rear of the truck; crab pots, buckets, fishing lines and a pungent, very off fish odor. I returned to Jacko, heaved my body into the huge vehicle and strapped myself in. Jacko U-turned and began heading back.

"Were you serious about the people looking for me?" I was trying to make conversation.

Jacko grunted, pulled a lone cigarette from the pocket of his shirt. He sloped to one side, grabbed the car lighter and lit it. "Don't jokes about things like that. Lots of them good people, yer know, spendin' their afternoon, lookin' for yer."

I shook my head in dismay. Jacko had his smoking arm leaning on the opened window, the breeze sending a constant stream of cooling air and nicotine into the vehicle. I tried not to cough.

He threw me a fleeting look. "From what I can gather, lady, he must have bin pretty worried to do it. He don't ask this from us for no good reason. Whatever yer cause for yer 'time out,' I's hoping it's a jolly good one."

I had thought so. Now I wasn't so certain. I studied Jacko. I was curious as to his commitment... their commitment. "Do you do this because Saul Reardon has done something for you in the past?"

Jacko laughed, sucked in a long drawl of his cigarette. "Done somethin'? Mores than just done somethin'. But in answer to yer question, of course, we all do. There's nothin' too big or too small. If I's do this for the rest of my years, I still wouldn't feel I's repaid him." His eyes darted from the road to me several times. "It's his... I don't know how to put it into words... his compassion... yer know?"

I was beginning to.

"And he keeps his promise to helps yer, sticks with yer until it's sorted." He cast me a glance. If I wasn't mistaken, quite a derogatory one. "As long as yer sticks with him back."

"I had to have some time on my own," I said, annoyed that I felt the need to re-explain myself to this relative stranger.

He watched me for a time. "Lady, what yer did was your business, not mine to judge. But that man don't need the unnecessary grief. He makes the likes of us his sorta personal project, gives it his all, if yer know what I mean."

I did.

"Alls yer needed to do was to let him know. It was the least he deserved."

I knew Jacko was right. But, at the time, I hadn't considered the consequences. Now, I just felt plain wretched for causing the entire ruckus.

We traveled in silence the rest of the way. I thought about Jacko's comment about the _likes of us_ being Saul's _personal project_. I couldn't help wondering if that's all I was to Saul. A project, where any warm feelings I sensed from him were nothing more than his legendary compassion.

As we verged onto the back street of Zephyr, I spotted Saul stretched over the side of a flashy, black sports car, face down, hands clasped together above the roof. Ethan was alongside him in the reverse mode, his back to the vehicle, his arms crossed. The car could've only belonged to Ethan. It exuded charisma.

"Nice car," I commented to the man beside me.

"Huh," Jacko jeered, "that's Ethan's chick magnet. A Porsche no less."

Of course, it was.

At the distinctive sound of the rickety truck pulling in, both men straightened up. I felt a bulge in my throat as I caught glimpses of their faces. The next few minutes, I conceded, would not be pleasant.

"Good luck." Jacko sounded sincere. I unbuckled myself from the seat and thanked him.

I then jumped out of the vehicle.

# Chapter 25

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

4:48 pm

ETHAN APPROACHED ME.

Saul disregarded me. He strode over to Jacko.

I was afraid to look in Saul's direction, afraid of what I'd see. Instead, I focused on the more convivial Ethan who instantly pressed me to him. He smelled of lime and woody smoke, and his chest was like a lightly padded concrete block. Oddly enough, I found it all somewhat comforting.

"Shit, Angel, you had us bloody worried." There was no typical Ethan humor in his voice.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my apology partly drowned out by Jacko's old utility rumbling away. "I just needed my own space. I honestly had no idea."

Ethan stiffened. When I pulled back, I noticed he was staring over my shoulder wearing an uneasy expression.

Saul was back.

My heart began beating a little too fast. I bit my lip and turned. Saul was standing perhaps a yard away. His feet were slightly apart; his hands gripped his hips, crumpling the sides of his white shirt. I didn't know what shook me more; his hostile stance, the expressionless way he was glaring at me, or his notably eerie silence.

Thirty seconds felt like an hour.

I fought back the growing tremors in my legs and stepped towards him. But he gestured me to stop. "Not now, Claudia," he said, in a measured voice. And in a cold, dismissive fashion, he spun and began striding away.

I could sense my customary fear and guilt perpetually hanging onto to me like ravenous leeches. But, I could also sense my annoyance. "Don't walk away from me. Not until I explain."

Saul stopped, took his time to turn around. Again, he leveled that icy stare straight at me. "I felt a responsibility to get you back safe. I have done that. And, yes, for now, I will walk away."

What did he mean by that exactly? That he wasn't helping me any longer? Why? Because for a few hours, I didn't _sticks with him back_? Injustice, anger and yes, good old fear caused my cheeks to burn and tears to stab my eyes. "That's not fair," I hissed.

Saul dropped his head and shook it. When he straightened it again, it came with a very disturbing smile. This man, I decided, had the potential to be highly worrying.

"Fair? You want to talk about fair?" Again, his hands gripped his hips; I could swear the tips of his fingers appeared bluish. "Did you, just for one self-indulgent minute, consider how your sudden disappearance looked to us, the endless possibilities that ran through our heads, knowing there's some sadistic 'nutter' out there targeting you, getting closer? Then after finding your bag, your wallet, your phone still in your unit and you... simply gone." His voice lowered, but still with the same biting resentment. "Do you have any idea what we thought?"

Shit.

I had never thought of that. The impulse to run had been foremost. I cursed again.

" _That_ was what wasn't fair." Saul stepped closer until I could feel his red-hot breath burn down on my skin. "You went without one word. Was that your inability to cope playing out again? Couldn't you have trusted someone, trusted Ethan or perhaps even me?"

I wanted to say it wasn't like that. But a large, swelling bulge in my throat stopped me.

"Well, I hope your so-called bloody time to yourself was worth it; that your little 'run and hide' act possessed enough importance to offset your lack of courtesy."

Saul stopped and studied me, as one would when sizing the worth of an outcast heifer at a saleyard. "You know, for a moment there, I actually thought you were growing up!"

I felt like a dozen enraged wasps had just stung me. I gasped and stumbled back. Is that what Saul thought of me? Anger took another nasty circuit around my insides. I pulled up the flagging spaghetti strap of my lightweight top, straightened my shoulders and prepared to fire back.

But Ethan got there first. "That, mate, was totally out of line."

"Butt out, Ethan," Saul growled. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"On the contrary, you did, remember? So I'm telling you... _now_."

Their eyes locked solid; silent words flew between them. I was unsure what it all meant, but whatever happened, it worked. Still edgy, but softer, Saul said, "Get her home, before I say or do anything else I regret." And with that, he jumped into his car and thundered off, the wheels screeching their irritation along with him.

I stood motionless, gazing at the flurrying dust, smelling the strong, putrid odor of burning rubber, feeling my life race away. I had finally sorted a part of my screwed-up self only to have enraged the very person I least wanted to.

"Come on, Angel," Ethan whispered, guiding me to his car, "Let's get you back."

Back? To Saul's house? Was that now even an option?

Once in Ethan's car, I fumbled with the seat belt. Ethan glided the unwilling clasps together for me. That's when a jackhammer drew its first breath in my head. I massaged my temples but the ongoing pain was stubborn. I closed my eyes but all I saw was Saul's hard, emotionless face.

Ethan jumped into the driver's seat. "Are you all right?"

Of course I wasn't. Blood vessels were bubbling out of control, punishing me. "I never wanted to cause all this. I had so much on my mind."

"Yeah, I get that," Ethan said. "Saul will too. Just give him time to calm down."

Ethan appeared a little anxious, as if he were tussling with a dilemma of his own. He started the car, backed out of the empty parkway and rocketed off. The air-conditioning relaxed the hot, strained atmosphere. I breathed a little easier. And in time, the jackhammering began to subside.

Before long, we were careering along the busy, open highway. If Ethan was at all concerned with traveling above the speed limit, he didn't show it. I lounged back and allowed the rapid speed to loosen my tense body further.

"Feeling better?" Ethan asked, as we took a quick, sharp right off the thoroughfare. Driving with Ethan, I decided, was comparable to an intensive joyride.

"Mmmm...," I answered and spun to him. "You're not mad with me are you?"

"No, Angel, just relieved you're okay."

"I really messed up today, didn't I?"

Ethan remained fixed on the black strip before him. "No, not exactly, and there's no harm in wanting time to yourself. But things are escalating, quite quickly, and well, Saul feels a certain obligation to keep you safe. If anyone had taken you, then Saul would've lost control of that safety and the chances of finding you wouldn't have been good."

Again, the thought never crossed my mind.

"Your need to escape today," Ethan said.

"Battling my damn demons in the wilderness." I sounded annoyed. Not about the _demon battling_. It had been, I believed, a monumental achievement for me. I was annoyed with my failure in not considering the impact my selfish act had on others. I had this sudden, crazy urge to scream. But I was mindful of the small space I was in and in particular, of the driver.

"These demons. Anything to do with this Simon fellow?"

I nodded.

"Want to tell me about him?"

From Ethan shone this rare, encouraging glow. How tempting it was for me to succumb and spill out all that had caused my ill-timed meltdown. But instinct told me to wait. "One day, Ethan. Right now, I have to tell _him_ first, that's of course if he'll listen."

Ethan had one hand on the steering wheel, effortlessly guiding it to suit the many twists in the road. The other hand gripped the gear stick. "I'm sure he will."

I wasn't so sure and told Ethan so. "I've never seen Saul so angry. I didn't think it was even possible."

"To be perfectly honest, neither did I."

"Are you telling me only I have caused this?"

Ethan flipped me a blatant, smug look. "Singlehandedly."

I couldn't believe it. "Great, I'll go down in history as the only woman who, with a flick of an insane moment, ruffled the 'unrufferable' Saul Reardon."

Ethan laughed. Then his expression changed to something more serious. "Listen, if it helps any, Saul was worried about you today."

"I already gathered that."

"No, I mean really, really worried."

"I'm sure he worries about all his so called 'personal projects,'" I said with mild sarcasm.

Ethan frowned but pressed on. "Yeah, he does feel a certain commitment to those he helps, if that's what you're talking about. But this? This is different."

I asked him what he meant. He scraped his hair; his chiseled face looked a little more jumpy than normal.

"You're making me nervous," I said.

"I'm making myself nervous. Not a situation I find pleasant." He swerved off the main road and sped down a gravel section that soon would join the long, dirt track to Saul's house. "Ah, hell. How do I put this without being totally skinned alive?" He flicked me an exasperated expression before finally conceding. "Saul has a history. It's not a good one."

"An issue with anger or something?"

"No, nothing like that. Saul is the person you see. The proverbial cool, calm and collected. The absolute epitome of control. It's quite sickly really."

"Except, when I come along."

"Precisely."

"Ethan, you're making no sense." We were fast approaching the turn off onto the track. Concealed by overgrown shrubbery it would have been impossible to find if one didn't know its exact location. "Stop the car," I ordered.

Ethan slung a look at me that clearly stated, _As if._

"Please."

He looked at me once, twice and then with a maddened groan promptly skidded to an abrupt halt. Both his arms collapsed on the steering wheel; his head lowered, but tilted towards me. "You, my dear Claudia, can be quite taxing at times."

"I've been told that before. What history?"

He sighed deeply. "It's not my story to tell."

"Tell me anyway."

"No, I won't, but if you ever hear it, you'll understand his unnatural obsession with keeping you safe. That and of course...." He shrugged his shoulders in that overly dramatic Ethan way. "The other thing."

_The other thing?_ Who was being taxing now? "What are you talking about?"

His hands continued clinging onto the steering wheel; his knuckles were whitening. "Saul feels some sort of connection with you. In his words, you unsettle him."

I rolled my eyes. Great! Not only did I boast the capabilities to _ruffle_ Saul Reardon but I could now add _unsettling_ to the list. The day was only improving. "I suppose there's no point in asking why."

"Oh, I'm pretty certain I know why. But Saul? Well, let's just say as incredibly smart as he is, he just hasn't figured it all out... _yet_."

I gave Ethan a strange look, one that he deserved. If he was about to mumble in riddles then his timing was off. "Ethan, just tell me."

"Claudia, just work it out. I'm attempting to stay loyal to Saul."

Somewhere in my cluttered head, little pieces were jig-sawing together. "Is he normally this obsessed?"

"Not at all."

"So, why me?"

A flagrant roll of his eyes. "I think you know the answer to that."

The final jigsaw piece locked itself into place.

The other thing.

I hadn't imagined it after all. I smiled, a slow euphoria replacing the previous leaden sensation in my head. "That certainly explains a lot."

"Thought it might."

I half-laughed and half-choked as the full implication hit me.

"I've been struggling to figure out if I should tell you. To try to explain his odd behavior."

I placed a hand on Ethan's knee. "I'm glad you did."

"No worries, except as of now I most likely don't have a best friend. But, I keep reassuring myself that you could possibly be good... _for him_."

He looked across at me and smiled that roguish smile of his. "Even though it will crush my heart into a zillion pieces, tell me that I'm not wrong in assuming that Saul's 'unsettled' feelings are just a tiny bit reciprocated. Otherwise, I'm on a slow boat out of here to build walls with the Chinese."

I laughed and shook my head. "You're not wrong."

His smile grew wider. "I'm glad. Slow boats aren't my thing. I'm built for speed." He reached for the keys in the ignition. "Speaking of which, I assume that I'm now allowed to drive us home."

"You assume correctly."

"Because, my sweet lady, this one and a half mile track up to Saul's house is by far my favorite."

Before starting the car, Ethan paused. "There's one more thing, since I'm in this all revealing mode, and my loyalty is just about shot. Saul has this ridiculous idea that his 'unsettledness' will affect his judgment and therefore, will put you in harm's way. He actually believed that everything that happened to you today was his fault."

I recalled Saul's unnatural aloofness when the police were present. "There's no way Saul could've predicted what happened today."

"I told him that already, but when you disappeared it only made him more convinced of his supposed incompetence. If you returned, he was taking himself off the case."

It's amazing how quickly euphoria could evaporate. Just one simple statement and it's as if it had never existed. "He can't do that."

"Told him."

"I have to talk to him... as soon as possible."

"My thoughts exactly. And please sort it out because I'm really over all this soppy heart-to-heart shit. It's severely impacting on my image." Ethan revved the car into action and sped onto the weather-beaten track. A swath of dust flared behind him.

"Settle back for the ride, Angel."

And with that, Ethan bulleted up the hill.

# Chapter 26

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

5:45 pm

WE FOUND SAUL'S empty Jeep parked beneath his house.

I raced up the steps to the front door only to discover it locked. Slightly mystified, but impatient, I scanned the wide decks on either side for signs of life. There were none.

Ethan soon joined me and was equally perplexed. He searched his keys, of which there were many. I noticed each key bore a name, all individually scripted and all, with the odd exception, female. On the flip side were - or what appeared to be - phone numbers.

Ethan spotted me staring at them and grinned boyishly. "Let's just call it - _my_ _little black book of keys._ "

Why I was amazed, I didn't know. Just as he was about to secure a key in place, the door opened and there stood Shirley Svenson with a large bag in hand.

"The day improves," mumbled a less than enthused Ethan.

He read my _not now_ expression and then propped himself against the railing crossing his arms. I wasted no time on formalities or on Shirley's disdainful huffing and puffing at Ethan. "Have you seen Saul?"

She turned to me. "Why of course not, dear. Mr. Reardon hasn't been home all day. In fact, I've just left him a short note explaining that I'm going out tonight with my cousin."

"That sounds nice, Shirley. But it's just that we've noticed Saul's car here. Are you sure? It's really important."

"He could've gone for a run. Mr. Reardon loves his runs."

I looked across the densely populated property. "Do you know where?"

"No, dear, that's none of my business." She announced it with an obvious air of pride.

I thanked her, feeling weighed down by a fresh dispiritedness. Shirley said goodnight, gave Ethan one last obnoxious glare and hurried off down the steps.

"I've a good idea where he might be," Ethan said. He grabbed my hand, escorted me down the stairs and to the right-hand side of the house. He then gazed in the direction of the western sun. "See that hill?" He pointed upwards. I shielded my eyes from the weakening rays and looked. "It's one of his favorite places, something about all that oneness with nature crap."

I searched for a way through the heavy scrub and eventually spotted a narrow, dirt track. "Is that the way up?"

"Takes you straight to the top. It's a bit of a hike, quite steep in parts but when you reach it, it levels out to a clearing. To your right is a rocky outcrop." He looked back to me. "I only hope he's there."

So did I.

"Just go knock some sense into him, will you?"

I gave Ethan a brief hug, and when I pulled back, there was a placid look in his eyes. "You never told me what you thought about my car."

"Your car?" I laughed. "It's well... great."

"But?"

I was bewildered as to where this was going. "But nothing; it's a terrific car."

He sighed. "You'd better get moving."

I turned to begin my trek and then stopped. "Ethan," I said, spinning back, "if all you had was a rusty, old pushy, I'd still think you pretty cool."

Ethan appeared startled, a sad startled if that was possible. He dropped his shaking head; a large grin stretched across his face. "Go and make sure you tell that crazy friend of mine what a lucky bastard he is." And with that, he turned and strode off.

Ethan was right about the hill. The swell of it was quite sharp. Already shattered by my previous spurt, it took some perseverance to complete the climb. I was tired, mentally and physically but I was also determined. The memory of Saul's distant eyes and the sound of his harsh words urged me forward.

As I reached the top, I crossed to the center of the clearing. What I saw was nothing short of magic. Various shades of hilly green rose and fell for what seemed like forever. Propped against the stark oranges and reds of the fast setting sun and the glistening turquoise of the snaking river, it formed one very striking combination. White cockatoos laughed and bustled from the tall gum trees, heralding the end of day. Others, mainly small grey ducks and brilliantly colored lorikeets, took flight, swarming the sky.

No wonder this was Saul's favorite place.

I woke from my temporary paralysis and searched to the right. Still unable to see Saul, I ventured further until I spotted the rocky outcrop. That's when I saw him standing on the precipice of a huge boulder, fingers crooked in the front pocket of his jeans, eyes locked to the view. I felt relief first and then a slow, mushrooming angst took over.

How was he going to react to me being there? Would he be angry at the mere sight of me? This was after all, his special place.

I stole a few more breaths of the pure, gentle atmosphere and drove on, regardless. As I loomed nearer, my natural instincts divided. One told me to get out of there; the other advised me to keep going. I went with the _other_ and soon climbed onto the large, flat rocky plane. Edging up next to Saul, I faced the glorious panorama. Saul remained stationary.

After what seemed like eons, his hand reached for mine. I decided the magic of the mountains was working.

I searched for his eyes, those impossible ones that had fascinated me since the first time I had seen them. They were kinder now, displaying that basic gentleness I was more accustomed to. "I have to talk to you," I whispered, afraid to break the spell in this soothing part of the world.

"I know," was all he said. He used the flat of his hand to stroke my cheek. I drew in a harsh breath. My heart was near shutdown. Our eyes bonded and he grinned. He then brought his other hand flat against my other cheek. He slowly lifted my head and before my heart could struggle for one more beat, he locked his lips over mine.

It was so light, yet so hot, hot enough to send every one of my hungry cells into anarchy. He pulled away, his eyes still fixed on me.

"S... Saul...." I could barely string syllables. "I...."

Saul laid a finger on my partly opened lips. "Shh," he said. He placed his palm flush against my heart. It was pulsating wildly. I couldn't imagine what he thought, but his grin only broadened. He bent to my ear and whispered, "That's all I needed to hear."

And with that, he gripped my waist with both hands, lifted me onto my straining toes and kissed me again. There was nothing gentle this time, nothing light. His kiss was hungry, stirring my own dormant appetite. I could smell it amongst his hypnotic scent, hear it amongst his animalistic groans, feel it amongst his tongue plunging with long, swift strokes, deliciously deepening with every breath.

Strong, wanton sensations scorched me and amplified, like an out-of-control fever _._ My hands flew, clenched his hair with considerable force, drew his face closer to mine. He wrenched my body until it fused with his, his mouth now sweeping the sides of my neck, lower still to the top of my breasts. And for a while, I was lost, lost in an amazing, untamed moment, not caring if I ever came out of it alive.

Eventually, much to my frustration, he pulled away, leaving me panting for air and wet from the aching throb between my thighs. He rested his forehead onto mine, breathing heavily. "Shit, Claudia." His voice was faint, ragged. "I swear you're going to drive me crazy."

I didn't care. If this is what crazy was, I was all in for some more. "I hope that's a good crazy."

He chuckled, curled a few wisps of my wayward hair behind my ear. "So what now?" he said with a crooked grin and those damn seductive dimples.

"Oh, I can think of many things." My voice was low, but every bit as wicked as my disordered urges. I grabbed his face and reached for those yummy lips of his.

Saul kissed back, but it was unsatisfyingly short. "You said you had to talk to me. What about?"

_Talk? Did he say talk?_ _There_ _was_ _something. Something very important. But...._

"Later." I inhaled and pulled him to me again. I heard him moan as his arms powered my body, as his lips set hot, frantic flames alight wherever they touched. His hand smoothed down my back, lower still until they reached the bare skin of my leg. My body convulsed at his touch, at his hand sinuously sliding part way beneath my skirt. He clutched my thigh, lifted it and enfolded my leg around his body. I groaned unashamedly, and once again, I became adrift in a world of impulsive delight.

So lost was I in him that I didn't recognize what happened next.

Thankfully, Saul did.

A sound cracked behind us, and then air whizzed past my ear. Saul instantly propelled me onto the rocky surface. Another sound cracked before he joined me. This time, I was alert enough to identify the distinctive sound.

Gunshots.

I froze.

A third, terrifying shot sounded. Saul compressed himself against me and in one crazy, fluid movement spun us off the rock, and onto the ground. We landed with a thud, but unhurt.

Where had he learnt to do that?

"Don't make a sound," he murmured.

My rampantly growing fear made sure of that. I sat up and leaned against the boulder. Terror now replaced our earlier passion, as I began to register the full gravity of the situation. We were defenseless against someone with a gun, with only a boulder between us.

I glanced to the solid shrubbery to my right. It seemed so far away. I glanced to the left. Nothing but a rocky cliff. And to our front, only more open space. We were trapped. "Who?" I murmured.

Saul was semi-kneeling in front of me. He signaled not to say another word. "Keep very still, very quiet. Don't move from here," Saul mouthed.

He pulled his mobile from his back pocket and quickly pressed a key. Within seconds, someone answered. "Ethan, get up here fast," Saul said in a low, muted voice. He then disconnected the call and handed me the phone. "When I tell you to run, that's precisely what I want you to do. Straight into those bushes and down the hill. If you get lost, or anything, press this key and you'll get Ethan; he'll find you."

Panic hit me. "I'm not going without you."

"Claudia, just do this for me. Okay?" He pulled up one leg of his jeans and began ferreting for something strapped to his ankle. He released it and flicked it opened. It was a switchblade, a sizeable one. I now understood the need for his climate challenged clothing.

"Do you know those are illegal in this country?"

He screwed his face. "So is speeding."

Before I could respond to his blasé interpretation of the law, I spotted an ominous red mass developing on the sleeve of Saul's white shirt. He had been shot. My chest tightened and I stumbled out his name.

He looked at his shirt and then back to me. He cupped my chin with his hand. "It's just a graze. Trust me." He then brushed his lips against mine. "Quiet now, I need to listen."

He propped himself up against the rock, switchblade in hand, ears glued. I cringed at the increasing red stain. I wanted to help him. I didn't know how. I could only do what Saul asked.

Time passed in slow motion. Before I could determine what happened next, Saul had whipped himself around the rocky edge. It was difficult to establish the subsequent mixture of sounds, the abrasive movements, the distinct thud of muscle butting muscle, but thankfully, it didn't last long. Silence ruled again.

I feared what I'd see if I looked over the top, but I didn't need to. Saul's voice, anxious but strong, yelled for me to get the hell out of there. Not wanting to abandon him, I hesitated. But a second, more potent roar from him jolted me to my feet. I sprinted as fast as I could, in the direction of the vegetation. Once there, shrouded by the bushes, I stopped and crouched low.

I spotted Saul on his knees. One of his hands gripped a rather dazed, bald man; the other held his menacing switchblade near the man's throat. I struggled for breath, more stunned by the terrifying expression on Saul's face. It was hard, malevolent, leaving me with little doubt that he would slice this man's neck if needed.

"Drop the gun," Saul ordered. The man laughed. Saul brought the blade closer to his neck. The man shrieked and at once released his gun. Saul immediately kicked it away.

"You've cut my fucking throat, you bastard," the bald man sniveled.

"It's a nick, you lowlife. Now, tell me who you are and why you're shooting at us."

I wasn't sure if the man was brave or simply stupid but he laughed again. Saul tightened his grip. The man spluttered, threw up his hand. "It's the girl we're after, not you. You're just collateral."

Who were these people? Why did they now want me dead? I dropped my head to think. An act that proved to be a huge error.

When I looked back up, another man had already materialized from the bend. The mammoth-sized individual wore a tight tank shirt that accentuated the colossal muscles of his body, the rock hard tendons bulging in wave-like contours along his beefy arms. His face was scar-ridden and appeared every bit as hostile as his rifle. He bellowed to Saul to drop his weapon.

Saul didn't move.

The man moved in closer. "I won't say it again, Reardon, drop it."

The tip of the barrel pressed against Saul's back. Saul paused some more, before finally hanging his head. The aimless tumble of his knife signaled defeat.

"On your knees, hands high on your head."

Saul stooped down and locked his fingers flat to the back of his lowered head. He then lifted his eyes. They had changed, sort of like the angry Saul back at Zephyr, but with far more... I don't know... focus. And the way they just latched onto the mammoth's eyes without even the slightest blink, I found positively disturbing.

The old saying _if looks could kill_ came to mind, and I suddenly imagined the mammoth nothing more than a macabre mound of pulverized dust. I shook the thought away and instead returned to Saul facing two armed thugs, defenseless and with the scarlet threat on his shirt widening.

Shit.

I didn't have the first idea what to do.

"I know what you're trying to do, Reardon, eyeballing me like that." The mammoth appeared amused. "But it ain't going to work."

The other man sniggered. "Yeah, we know all about the likes of you, Reardon."

But Saul stayed silent, maintained his chilled fix.

The bald man checked the blood on his throat. "The bastard sliced me," he grumbled.

"It's your own fucking fault," the mammoth said. "What were you doing sneaking up on him anyway? Haven't you learnt anything?" He bent down, pulled at Saul's bloodied sleeve and then groaned. "You shot him? You fucking idiot. Orders were to kill only the girl."

"I didn't think it mattered."

"Of course it bloody matters." The mammoth shook his head. "So where _is_ the girl?"

"Dunno," the bald man answered with a casual shrug. "Reardon told her to run. She could be anywhere by now."

"What? Fucking hell, can't you do nothing right, you moron?"

The bald man mumbled something; the tone suggested nothing savory.

The mammoth ignored him and focused on Saul. "Where is she?"

"Didn't you hear your friend, the moron, here?" Saul's voice projected that same dagger-like detachment as his expression.

One corner of the mammoth's mouth slid upwards. "Ah, Reardon, always the smart arse." And with that, the mammoth's considerable-sized boot, with considerable-sized force smashed into Saul's wound. Saul reeled, but only for several seconds. He straightened back up, returned his hands to his head and resumed his mortal stare.

I felt sick. Instinct told me to dash out to him.

Instinct also ordered me not to. Those animals would have us both, and their job completed.

What to do.

I recalled the clarity of mind I'd summoned in the bougainvillea wilderness and tried to _re_ -summon it. But under the circumstances, it proved impossible. I thought of Ethan and wondered where he was. Perhaps I should use the phone... find out... hurry him along... _something_.

"I'm not fucking stupid," the mammoth continued. "You would've given her instructions. What were they?"

Saul took his time. "You know what females are like, they rarely follow instructions."

There was no humor on the mammoth's face this time. A second, more brutal kick followed. Saul coughed out a loud groan as he doubled over yet again.

I closed my eyes. I didn't know how much longer I could restrain myself without risking my whereabouts. Conversely, Saul was remarkably controlled. He returned to his earlier position and locked in on the monster as before.

What was he doing? Or more the question, why?

"Stalling ain't going to help you. And if you think your boyfriend, Sloane, is coming to your rescue, think again. He's been taken care of."

What? No, not Ethan.

My breath came in short, flimsy wisps, my skin drenched with adrenalized moisture, my feet scraping, tapping, readying for lift off. I mentally paced up and down trying to find another way out, but my mind was too scrambled.

Shit.

"I hear she's a beauty, this little princess of yours," the mammoth droned on. "My friend here and me, bet we could have some real fun with her when we get her."

I knew what the mammoth was doing. And judging by the slight wince on Saul's face, it was working. Saul was probably right in thinking his feelings for me weakened him somehow. The mammoth would eventually wear him down.

I had to do something.

And it had to be something pretty damn good.

# Chapter 27

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

6:35 pm

I TURNED MY back and closed my eyes.

I tried to push away all thoughts from my head, the panic, the fear, even the wonderful passion that Saul and I shared moments ago. I tried to push away the ugly idea of Ethan laying hurt or worse still, dead. I tried to push away Saul's bullet wound.

But again, it wasn't easy.

Shit, shit, shit.

_I know what you're trying to do,_ the mammoth had said _._

Which was what exactly? If it was to fluster the mammoth, it had failed; that much was obvious. I looked back over my shoulder. There was no denying the obsessiveness of Saul's _eyeballing._ So why keep the pretense going if it wasn't working?

Unless....

I studied Saul again, allowed my zany idea to mature.

And liked it.

Saul was waiting. Waiting for an opportunity _,_ where one or both men would be distracted. I weighed up Saul's ability to overcome them. I examined the size of the mammoth. I examined the deepening, rose color of Saul's shirt. At Saul's best, the mammoth looked no easy feat. In Saul's present condition, it could be downright problematic.

His capacity to overpower the two, virtually impossible.

I needed to get one of them away.

I explored the nearby area and took note of the shrubs, dead wood, and rocks. I looked back at Saul. His face was whitening, but his eyes were like solid steel, lodged tightly on his captor.

I hunted for the necessary props to my whacky idea, a large rock and a long, thick piece of wood. Thankfully, due to the incessant drought, the wood was completely dry. I positioned my foot above it and gave it one almighty whack. It split almost in two, its cracking sound echoing throughout the nearby scrubland.

"What was that?" Moron asked, looking in my direction.

The mammoth didn't remove his gaze from Saul. "Why don't you go and find out. The girl could still be in there and this time, don't make any stupid mistakes."

Moron thrust his stubby, middle finger in the air and then turned towards the scrubs.

"Looks like your little princess may have hung around, Reardon," the mammoth mocked. "What, she couldn't leave you? How adoringly sweet, how devotedly stupid."

Saul's assassin-like eyes maintained their position.

The moron, on the other hand, with his gun outstretched appeared nervous.

Not as nervous as me, I bet.

I slowly, quietly collected the rock, raised it above my head... _ready_.

Moron entered the scrub cautiously at first, swinging his weapon from side to side. I waited until he was far enough into the brush, until he was only yards away. I hesitated. What if my plan didn't work; what if all I did was worsen the situation?

Fortunately, for me, two things happened.

Moron, on discovering the snapped branch, bent down to investigate it more closely, making himself a far more accessible target. Another longer, louder groan from Saul pumped a surge of anger-driven adrenaline through me.

I tightened my grip on the rock. And with one gigantic swing, thrust it onto the back of Moron's baldhead. Moron howled and stumbled to his knees. He swayed and rocked for several seconds, then fell face down on the ground.

"What the...." It was the mammoth's snarling voice. He turned in the direction of the scrub.

That was all Saul needed.

Saul straightened swiftly and with his knee bent, crashed his foot between the mammoth's legs. The mammoth roared, dropped his gun. Both hands rolled around his injury.

Saul knotted his own hands in a fist-like shape, and then thrust a colossal blow directly under the mammoth's chin. The mammoth fell backwards, moaning, curling. Saul leapt behind him, grabbed his head and with one small twist, stilled the beast.

I stood stunned.

_Who the hell was this man_?

And to think that only minutes earlier I had questioned if Saul could even take the monster on.

Saul collected his knife and the mammoth's gun. I gathered up the other gun near Moron's still groaning body and then raced out to join Saul. His good arm swung around me, his head laid on mine. "Why is it when I want you to run and hide, you don't."

I laughed.

He kissed the top of my head. "What about the other guy?" I was just about to reply when a familiar voice resonated from the scrubland.

Ethan. "Oh no, you don't," he said. With a sizeable-rifle in his hand, he dragged the now conscious bald man by his shirt collar. Moron was hysterical, wrestling to free himself, screaming something about _getting the bitch_.

I smiled, smugly.

"Get your ugly butt back over here, matey." Ethan threw him on the ground near the mammoth. He then used the stump of his rifle and struck him hard enough to return him to a dazed state. Blood dribbled from Ethan's lip, a reddish bruise had developed on his cheek. Other than that, he appeared okay.

"Tad late," Saul said.

"Been dancing with a gypsy, mate, except he really needed to practice his two-step." Ethan pulled out a set of handcuffs from his small, khaki backpack and chucked them to Saul. Saul used them to secure the mammoth's hands. Ethan slapped a second set on Moron, and then bent to examine Moron's head wound. "Hey, Angel, are you responsible for this?"

My 'yes' was full of pride.

"Sweet," he chuckled.

"A third man?" Saul slumped against the huge rock. His face was pallid. He was still losing blood. I handed Moron's gun to Ethan and knelt down to look at Saul's wound.

"Uh huh," Ethan replied. "And where there are three...."

"There could be four or more."

"Why so many? All they wanted was me." Dried blood had fastened parts of Saul's shirt.

"We obviously have a reputation," Ethan said with a wicked half-grin.

"Got to get out of here, Ethan." Saul grimaced as I took a closer look at his wound.

"No. We have to stop the bleeding first," I said.

Ethan bent closer. "Redecorating your shirt, my friend." He ripped the sleeve apart. It revealed an ugly, black gouge, orbited by purplish swelling. Blood dribbled down a solitary track.

"Thought the shirt made my skin look pale," Saul said. "Anyway, it's only a scratch."

Ethan inspected the wound more closely. "Bit more than a scratch." He dug out a roll of stretch bandage from his pack and flung it to me. "Here, Angel, wrap it firmly. It'll do till we get someone to look at it."

Saul sat watching me as I dressed his wound, occasionally brushing wayward hair from my face. Every now and again, our eyes would catch and I could feel myself blushing. The attention didn't go unnoticed.

"I take it this means we have talked and we're all friends now?" Ethan said.

"No talking yet," I said, "but yes, all friends."

"Talking's overrated, anyhow." Ethan lifted his face and wiped some blood off it.

That's when I noticed a well-worn, but ugly scar running beneath his chin. I pushed the scar to the _later on_ file. Bandage on, I helped Saul up.

"What's the plan?" Ethan asked, still guarding the two semi-unconscious men.

"Signal our guys to get here." Saul returned his switchblade to its rightful place, and then inspected the mammoth's gun for bullets. "And explore the grounds for others. We have no idea how many there are."

"Contacted our buddies already. They should be here soon."

Ethan pulled out a small handgun from his pack and offered it to me. I took it, twisting it back and forth. He wanted to show me how to use it. But there was no need. I mechanically ejected the magazine, checked the bullets and once satisfied, snapped it closed.

Both men appeared thunderstruck.

"What?" I said. "I learned how to use one of these when I was only a...." I stopped and grimaced.

Shit! What was I saying?

Ethan rubbed the back of his head. "Well, of course you did; somewhere between learning to recite the alphabet and counting to twenty. It's certainly going to be my number one priority if I ever have a kid." He looked at Saul. "You've got your hands full here. She's beautiful _and_ dangerous. And you were worried about keeping her safe!"

Saul stepped closer, looking as amazed as I felt. "Who taught you?"

"I don't remember." My brain strained for a memory... any memory. All of a sudden, an enormous wave of repulsion struck me. I loosened my hold on the weapon. It fell to the ground with a clear thud. Had my father taught me? Was there a hidden agenda behind my knowing how to use a gun? And, again, why couldn't I remember?

Saul picked up the gun, placed it in my opened hand. "Hold onto it, just in case." He turned to Ethan. "I'll get Claudia down to the SUB until you give the all clear, and then I need to get her to a safe house."

"Annie's?" I detected a little surprise in Ethan's voice.

Saul shrugged. "Always first choice."

"You sure about that, mate?"

"I trust Annie. What's your problem?"

Unmistakable unease volleyed between them. "I agree, Annie's the best, but... no, forget I said anything."

It was becoming progressively difficult to determine when the pair were serious and when they weren't. "Is there a problem?" I asked.

"It's just Ethan looking for one." That was Saul sounding suspiciously blasé.

"I'll see what information I can get from these two pieces of shit before Scotty takes over," Ethan said. "Then meet you at Annie's with everything we've got." Ethan paused. "You were right, you know."

They eyed each other again, silently communicating. It was becoming extremely annoying.

"What?" I asked. No answer. "Is it possible just once, that you two could speak plain English for us poor unfortunate lay people?"

"Ooo... there's that Italian feistiness again, mate... ouch!"

Saul wrapped his good arm around my neck. "Claudia," his low, creamy voice whispered in my ear. "There are several things I'd like to do with you right now." My gut heaved and crashed. "Bringing you up to speed, being just one of them."

That reminded me of my own _bringing up to speed._

"But my only priority right now, is to get you somewhere safe. Everything else, later. Okay?"

Okay.

Ethan hauled each man alongside the rock. Even the mammoth appeared less menacing next to Ethan. I didn't want to know what Ethan was going to do to them, but frankly, I didn't care. These men almost killed Saul, would've killed me.

The downhill climb proved quick and effortless compared to the uphill jaunt. My concern for Saul, however, was still present. But, considering the injury he'd sustained, Saul's resilience was remarkable. His skin was ashen, his face slightly withered, but his body was otherwise as physically sharp as his switchblade. His eyes sprinted in all directions as we coasted down, examining every close section of bushland.

Maybe this compulsion of his to keep me from harm's way fed his determination and drove his ailing body. I was unsure.

All I knew was that it was damn unnatural.

When we returned to the house, armed men and women patrolled the grounds. I froze. Saul explained he knew them and I eased up. Even so, the whole thing seemed bizarre. All these people here because of me.

A short, solid man clothed in black and clutching a rifle marched over to us. A plum-colored bandana held his shock of red hair in place.

"Nice one, Scotty," Saul said, tapping his own forehead.

"A newbie," the man called Scotty, answered. He flicked a glance at Saul's wound. "You okay?"

"Fine. Where's Jenna?"

"Here," came a strong voice to our rear.

A pretty, elfin-faced woman appeared, also wearing black, also carrying a large rifle. Her stern expression, the rigorous way she held herself made me picture a lethal bullet in high heels.

Saul issued several instructions to them.

Scotty flicked his finger from his narrow forehead. "On it Saul, like a tick on a dog."

And the pair left. Saul then led me to a large, steel door towards the back of the house. "What's this?"

"Somewhere safe for now. Until we can leave." He faltered. Something was clearly troubling him.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Let's just get inside. I'll feel better when you're not out in the open like this."

I watched the compulsive routine to unlock the door. When I entered the room, I was immediately bowled back. It was like a high tech, concrete cellblock.

"Is this the part where you tell me you're some British spy working for the Secret Service or something?"

Saul chuckled as he closed the door with a heavy thud. "No, Claudia, not at all."

"But this room...."

"It's handy at times." He crossed towards what I guessed was a control panel and fingered some buttons. Within seconds, several monitors became alive. On them, I recognized Saul's driveway, certain sections adjoining the house, the start of the long track to Saul's house. It was impressive.

I edged up to him. He had now activated a laptop, situated to one side of him, coding in passwords, maneuvering the mouse, bringing more technology to life. He glanced sideways at me, possibly detected the puzzled expression on my face. He ran a soft finger along my hot cheek, across my opened lips where it lingered for a moment. It sent mad tremors through me.

"What?" he said. He was semi-sitting on the edge of the panel.

" _Who_ are you?"

A soulful flicker of his eyelids. "No one important."

I seriously doubted that.

"Well then... who _were_ you?"

"Someone I want to forget."

I touched his face. "Saul...."

His eyes widened, that unearthly blueness appeared to be swallowed beneath a shadow of despair, looking not towards me, but to somewhere beyond. I turned and spotted an electronic whiteboard positioned at the very back of the room. There were photographs fixed to it... photos of people. The methodical set-up, though, the flawless handwritten script beneath them was the eerie bit, like something I would see on a _CSI_ program.

Saul has a history....

Ethan's words now bothered me.

I looked back at Saul. His pained expression bothered me more. With my chest thudding, I slowly made my way towards the board, all the time wondering if I was doing the right thing. Once there, I skimmed over the smiling faces, young and old, adults and children lined up in some religious order.

I glanced at Saul again. He remained half-seated, one arm folded across his chest, head bowed. He said nothing, as silent and as static as the rigid images before me. The thundering in my chest became almost unbearable.

"Are they missing?" I said.

"No," was his only answer.

"Are they dead?"

"Yes."

"How?"

A slight pause.

"Murdered."

I drew breath.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

I felt those horrible, intuitive prickles scuttle across my skin. "Who are they?"

No answer.

I searched the still faces, optimistically waiting for one of them to communicate to me. I inspected the features of the young woman, so happy, so vibrant, her blonde, flyaway hair framing her pretty face. Below her image, were two children.

The little boy an absolute replica of the woman.

Her son, perhaps.

The girl a replica of....

I shrank back, praying my eyes were playing tricks on me. "She looks like... _you_." I half choked.

"She wanted to _be_ like me."

An unbelievable horror whacked me breathless.

_Saul has a history,_ I heard Ethan's voice again. _It's not a good one_.

Semi-blinded by shock, I searched the other faces, becoming aware of more physical similarities.

More family.

Saul's family.

_My god!_ I struggled for air, struggled for some form of composure.

How does someone survive something like this? _I have been there,_ he had whispered at our first meeting. But not in my wildest imagination could I have expected anything quite like this.

There were no words, nothing I could say to lessen the magnitude of what this man had borne. In a thousand lifetimes, I could never comprehend the degree of anger, the hurt that he must have suffered. I understood what it was to lose, but to lose your wife, your children and I was only guessing, other family members, was incomprehensible. I didn't need explanations; I didn't need any further information from him.

I knew enough.

Hidden here in this underground tomb, lay the true essence of the enigma of Saul Reardon. The true reason for his existence, his obsessive drive, his undying energy, his legitimate compulsion to help those in need, his real motivation.

And although many gaps, many unanswered questions still prowled amongst those four walls, they were his gaps to fill, his questions to answer, and his alone.

One that, someday, I may be honored to hear.

I returned to him and pulled his head down onto my shoulder. I wept silently for his beautiful family, for him, occasionally allowing one or two tears to fall. He wrapped his arm around my waist and held me tight.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"It was a long time ago."

The meticulous mini shrine spoke volumes. It may have been a long time ago, but much remained. "Thank you," I added.

"For what?" He had loosened his hold by then and I noticed his eyes slowly returning to their natural state.

"For allowing me in." And however much I desired to, I didn't kiss him. Not there in that sacred place of lives past, that place of deep-rooted memories. Instead, it was a site to be respected, safeguarded, treasured. Some parts of one's life, some parts of one's most inner core, should always remain sanctioned.

_There was time for us later_.

As if shoving those memories to the back of the room and his mind, Saul returned to his laptop, to the screens above, to the entire unknown, which, like a perpetual shroud of uncertainty, still lay before us.

# Chapter 28

# Araneya Estate

1989

" _I HAVE A present for you, Carina."_

The little girl searched her father's eyes only to find the same disturbing look that had been part of him for the past several months.

She didn't like it. She didn't like the man who had once been her beloved Papa. He had changed.

" _What present?" She lacked the usual enthusiasm that came with any suggestion of a gift. The only present she really wanted was her old Papa back._

He was seated in a cross-legged position on the freshly clipped grass to the rear of Alice's cottage. Ahead the ripples of the wide, meandering river clipped the shore's stony edge. "A very special one," he replied, in a voice that mirrored his new self. He then drew out a small, carved box.

The little girl, also cross-legged, frowned. "What is it, Papa?"

" _Open it and you will see."_

Spurred on by her father's marked impatience, she took the box and tried to pry the lid open. But her fingers were too small and her strength inadequate. The father, clearly irritated, seized the box. In a few short moments, he loosened the stiff restraints, keeping the lid down and then returned it to his watchful daughter. "Now try," he grumbled.

The girl began to pull at the lid, increasingly wary of its contents. The wooden lid lifted. She then stared at the object cushioned amongst the blood-red velvet lining.

It was a gun.

So shiny, she could almost make out her startled face in it.

_She gasped. She knew what guns were, what they could do. What she didn't know was why her Papa would give_ _her_ _one. She raised her confused eyes to him. That look, that not very nice Papa look, had become even more vivid, more severe. She trembled._

" _Take it out, Carina. Hold it, then tell me what you feel."_

The girl obliged, carefully removing it. She was amazed at how heavy it was. It needed both of her hands to hold it. "It feels heavy, Papa."

" _And what else?"_

What else was there? What else was she to feel? Except frightened of it. But she didn't think her Papa would like that answer. The girl forced a cheerful smile and an equally cheerful response. "It feels wonderful." She hoped that her answer would please him.

It didn't.

" _Do you not feel its strength, its might?" He ran his large hand over the weapon as if patting a much-loved pet. "Its... beauty?"_

" _Yes, Papa," she lied. "I can." She placed the weighty object in her lap and began to stroke it also, just as her Papa had done. She didn't want to upset him any further._

Her father sighed, delighted by her more sanguine reaction and then drew her close to him. The alluring comfort of his strong arm and the vague familiar smells of pine trees reminded her of her old Papa, the one she loved, the one she wished a thousand times a day would return.

So he could love her back.

Like he used to.

" _Your Papa is sick, little one," she remembered a sad Alice explaining to her._

" _Will he ever get better?" she had asked._

" _He will. He just needs more time; the doctors need more time."_

How the girl wanted to believe Alice, so very, very much.

" _In the meantime, keep him happy, do what he wants and before you know it he will be better."_

And so she did.

As she was doing now. If lying about the gun would make her loving Papa come back, then she would gladly oblige.

" _I will teach you how to use it, Carina," he said with more seriousness._

The little girl, clearly mystified, asked why.

Her father squeezed her even closer. "For the power, of course, my darling, for the absolute power."

# Chapter 29

# Claudia

December 27, 2010

8:15 pm

I DROVE TO Annie's house.

Surprisingly, there was no argument from Saul. I suspected he was in considerable pain by the concentrated way he gripped his injured arm. Once we left the gravelly road and onto the less bumpy highway, he had noticeably relaxed. I had no knowledge of who Annie was, but Saul assured me she would know what to do.

During the trip, Saul asked what I needed to talk to him about. I noticed his growing pallor, the darkening circles beneath his eyes. "Let's get you mended, first." Again, there was no argument.

Annie lived in a picturesque fishing village about a half hour north of Nankari called Karalee. I knew of it. Its population was small and like its residents, the dwellings were a blend of old with the new.

As soon as I pulled up at Annie's house, I saw it to be one of the old, situated directly on the water. Judging by first impressions, its renovations maintained some of its original old world charm. A graceful woman with wheaten hair and slate grey eyes met us. Introductions aside, she led us indoors and into one of the guest bedrooms.

Saul sat on the edge of the bed and removed his bloodstained shirt. He then slumped against the many pillows. I couldn't help but take in Saul's broad shoulders, his taut chest. But any wanton thoughts I had, quickly dissolved when Annie released the bandage. Both the swelling and the bruising had worsened. I briefly explained to Annie what had happened, including the mammoth's vicious beating.

Annie wasted no time. With the crucial equipment laid out beside her, she set to work. She first injected a strong painkiller into him. One that would coincide with Saul's natural exhaustion and induce him to sleep.

Saul settled further into the pillows, but not before brushing his crooked finger beneath my chin. "See you in a little while." I found it hard to hide my anxiety. "And stop worrying. I'm in good hands." In less than a minute, he drifted off.

Annie worked silently, carefully, unhurried. I sensed a familiarity to her touch with him, or maybe I imagined it. "Do you need me to do anything?" I was crouched beside Saul, my hands wrapped around his.

Annie stared as if just noticing me for the first time. She then glanced at my hands. Her expression was straight, unreadable. "For now, just do what you're doing."

Her voice made me picture silky gossamer floating amongst a soft, leisurely breeze. But then everything about Annie exuded this natural, welcoming quietude. As did her home with its soft, rustic furnishings, its calming, lavender scents, and the tranquil sound of the ocean waves nipping the shorelines.

Once Annie had the wound cleansed, stitched and dressed, she administered an antibiotic shot. "Is he going to be okay?" I asked, watching the restful rhythm of Saul's steady breathing.

"It's just a graze," Annie said. "Only needed a few stitches; he'll be fine. Besides, it takes a lot more than that to get this man down. He just needs to rest for a bit." Annie returned to the paraphernalia beside her. "Help me clean this mess. And then it's time for you to have some care."

Me? I didn't need caring, but I helped clean all the same.

Afterwards, Annie steered me into the bathroom. It had an old style basin, an equally old style bath regally perched on curled feet, and profuse, green ferns tumbling from ceramic pots.

Annie ran the bath water and then sparked life into the nearby candles. She poured a few drops from a brownish capsule into the water. It immediately set off a bubble frenzy and a very enticing vanilla scent. "Rest," she said. "You'll feel so much better for it."

How could I resist? I was aching with weariness.

"Did you bring anything to change into?"

Once Ethan had given the all clear, Saul and I left with some urgency. All I had was my green beaded bag.

"We look to be a similar size even though you're much taller," she said, once I explained that to her. "I'm sure I can find something for you."

Annie left. I undressed and slipped into the sweet scented water. My battered body loosened immediately. I closed my eyes and basked in the many, wondrous sensations. At one stage, Annie entered and just as silently departed. And for a short moment, I dozed off. When I awoke, the water had cooled but I felt more refreshed than I had for some time.

With much reluctance, I stepped from the bath, toweled myself dry and slipped on the clothing Annie had left, a pair of brand new knickers and a turquoise mini-dress. The dress's fabric was soft and light. I pulled the ties at the back and secured them. It was so pretty; I felt pretty in it.

I tidied my hair with an available brush and then collected my phone from my bag. A mountain of missed calls and text messages signaled. Unbelievably, including one from Milo. I immediately clicked on it.

It read:

So sorry for everything, Clauds. If I knew then what I know now, I'd never had given Alice the code for Zephyr. But she wanted to talk to you about something important. I never knew she'd be killed because of it. I'm sorry I didn't meet you in your unit today. I just have to go away for a while. Keep yourself safe, until it's all sorted.

PS – I wasn't the one responsible for what happened... believe me.

I re-read the text several times. Afterwards, I pulled out the major points.

Milo had given Alice my code.

This could only mean that Milo _did_ know Alice. But how, and for how long?

Alice had something important to tell me.

Was this why she decided to break her silence? And what was this important something?

Milo alluded that this 'something' was why Alice was killed.

Was he right? And more significantly, was this why Iacovelli and Souza were killed? Did they know also? Worse still, did Milo know?

_Have to go away for a while_.

Why? Because he feared for his safety?

I felt cold and rubbed my arms. The thought of my own life in danger was scary enough; now to include Milo and my Papa in that equation was damn terrifying.

I text Milo back.

Come home. I know, whatever you've done, it's only with my best interests. We can sort this out together. I have a good man helping me. Please, just come home. And of course, I believe you.

I concluded with:

Luv Claudia.

I stared at the phone for a ridiculous amount of time, as if telepathy would force an immediate response. But of course, nothing happened. I waited a little longer and then rang his phone. It went to message bank as I expected. I left a similar message as the text.

It was all I could do, that and wait.

I checked my other messages. I disregarded the less important ones and instead focused on Mel and Nate. I informed them that I was okay - well, as okay as one could be in my situation. I also let Nate know that I had heard from Milo, and that he was fine. It was in part a lie. I knew that, but a necessary one. My family didn't need to be saddled with extra worry.

I found Saul in the same position, peacefully asleep. I hugged the doorway and stared at his beautiful body, at his ugly wound. I replayed Annie's guarantee that Saul would be okay. And then I left him, alone.

I found Annie in the kitchen. She was now dressed in a long, halter-necked dress, her hair loosely bunched with a wooden clip. She moved with such grace, such fluidity.

"That's better," she said when she saw me enter. "I hope the dress is okay."

"I love it. You may not get it back."

Laughter trickled from her. "Come and help me," she sang, handing over some carrots and shallots.

I found a nearby board and began chopping.

"It's a chicken stir fry," Annie explained as she seared the pieces of chicken in a low pan, "and the chicken is free range, of course." There was a distinctive glimmer in her eye. "I have my sources from a wealth of people in the area who raise their own. I couldn't even imagine eating store bought meat now. We barter, you know, my vegies, their eggs, or in this case, some chicken."

"Sounds perfect," I said. The carrot made incredibly fresh crunching noises as I sliced through it. "Even your house, it's so restful."

"I'm glad to hear it."

We ate on the sea-front porch, on padded swinging seats. Ahead the star-lit ocean rumbled. Throughout it all, Annie and I talked about many topics. I found the more time I spent with her the more I liked her.

I learnt that Annie was a qualified nurse and had worked for numerous years at the large public hospital on the coast. She had become disillusioned with political agendas that, in her opinion, often weren't in the best interests of the patients. So she left. Now, she worked in a clinic that offered alternative therapies.

She blew a few, curly wisps from her brow. "I've never regretted the move," she stated. "Where I work now, it's about the betterment of all patients and it's so wonderfully uplifting."

She placed her empty plate next to her sandal-clad feet. That's when I noticed a striking tattoo on her ankle. I commented on it.

She ran her small, slim fingers across it. "I love it. I love how it signifies the land and the sea. It's so me, don't you think?" Sleek, grey vines, spiraled from a white seashell, spreading to bold, scarlet rosebuds and emerald green leaves. It was definitely her.

At one point, I asked her how long she had known Saul. She went quiet and simply stared ahead. I stared with her, noticing a small, intermittent light flashing along the darkened horizon. And I wondered why the odd silence?

I thought of what Ethan had said earlier, on the hillside, questioning Saul about going to Annie's in the first place. I thought of my own impression that Annie's touch with Saul was a little too familiar. Something green began coloring my judgment. But about what exactly? That Saul and Annie could have once been together? Or that Annie's _karma free_ personality would suit Saul better than my flighty, anxious, emotionally reactive one?

My feet began tapping.

Annie looked at them, looked at me. "Five years," she said, in a soulful, gracious way. "Saul and I have a remarkable friendship and that's all it's ever been, one I would be lost without."

She sounded completely genuine. I scolded my overactive imagination. "I think today has shown he'd be lost without you."

So engrossed was I with our conversation, that I didn't notice how much time had passed. Not until Saul appeared, freshly dressed. I bolted to his side.

"Mmmm," he mumbled, as he buried his face in my hair, "you smell nice."

"It's hard not to, here." But then, so did he. "Shouldn't you be resting?" Some color tinged his cheeks, but the dark shadows beneath his eyes were still there.

"What I've been doing. Thanks to Annie's own little blend of magic."

"The only way to still your mind, Saul," Annie said, "even if just for a short while. And I guess wearing a sling...."

"Is totally unnecessary," Saul answered.

"Of course, it is. What was I thinking?" Annie began collecting our plates. "By the way, Ethan rang a couple of hours ago."

"And?"

"He'll be here around two." She grinned as she balanced the plates on one arm. "And something about whether, if he accidentally, on purpose, failed to tell Shirley that it was unsafe to stay in her home tonight and something actually happened to her, could that be misconstrued as murder?"

Saul dropped his head as did I. Ethan was truly irredeemable.

"I can see things haven't changed." Annie laughed as she stepped indoors.

"Some days I don't know what to do with him," Saul said.

I drew myself closer to him, took in the wondrous scents of Annie's candlelit bathroom on him. "You seem better."

"Only because of you." His voice got lost somewhere between my shoulder blades and the smoking skin of my breasts. Aware that Annie was somewhere near, I grudgingly pulled away. "Aren't you hungry?"

He laughed. "You're not serious with that question, are you?"

Was that lust in his voice?

Saul grabbed my hand. "Come on, we shouldn't be sitting here on such a brilliant night with the beach just yards away."

"You and Ethan aren't planning on working tonight?"

"Yes, we are," he said as he led me onto the beach. We settled on the fine, cool sand, bathing in the light of the near full moon. "Ethan and I work best while things are fresh in our minds."

"I'll help."

"I like that you want to."

"Hey," I said pointing seawards, "look at that."

Scores of tiny waves, capturing the reflection of the fiery-colored moonlight rose. As they did, a rapid succession of flames burst alight upon their crests, extinguishing just as swiftly as the waves broke.

"Don't think I've ever seen that before." Saul seemed similarly fascinated. He turned to me. "Come here," he said. His eyes had hooded and something dangerous appeared in them. "For a moment... this moment, I just want a bit of you."

His words shot searing arrows through me. I coiled around to face him, balancing on my knees. "Are you sure? Your arm...."

But he simply grinned and cupped my chin. And then his mouth found mine, softly at first but with each degree, it became more intense, more predatory, rousing every sexual nerve I had. My fingers gripped his hair and wrenched him closer, careful to avoid bumping his injured arm. The unexpected sound of his moan, deep and sensual, caused the spot between my thighs to constrict in slow, maddening rhythms.

His hand caressed my face, stroked my neck until it reached my breast, the thin dress fabric barely a shield against his fingers. He massaged, he rubbed until he caught my hardened nipple between thumb and finger and squeezed. I whimpered out aloud. Crazy, hot sensations exploded in me causing the pulsations below to strengthen.

Everything was throbbing in me now, pounding, clenching, unclenching and it was all so delicious, and all so mad.

My moans went wild; I felt wild... fiery, wet and wild.

Holy shit.

Saul may have wanted a bit of me, but I now wanted the lot. I drew back, fumbled with the buttons on Saul's shirt and yanked it open. To touch his chest, feel it ripple beneath my fingers, sent fresh swells of excitement through me. Saul used his good arm to support himself as he leaned back. I kissed him, then began slowly skating my mouth downwards, lapping the salty taste of him... his rich, masculine flavors. His heart was riotous, seriously erratic and I loved that it was.

It made me feel powerful, unusually bold.

My mouth slid on until they reached the top of his jeans and there my tongue slipped into slow motion, teasingly slow, as it moved along the inside of the jeans' band. Saul groaned a long, muffled groan. I propped up a little, unfastened the button, began to pull on the zip. His good hand shot to my thigh as he straightened, grabbed the hem of the dress and yanked it to my waist. A million hungry cells shrieked in anticipation of his next move.

And just as his fingers hooked themselves into the band of my knickers, just as I felt them slip inside, he froze.

Shit.

What was he doing?

"Don't, stop," I struggled to say. He dropped his forehead against my own, his breath still steamy. "Saul...." I could barely hear my voice from the thunderous hammering in my ears. His hand was back on my cheek holding it a little stronger than normal, his head still resting on mine, his breathing still frenzied.

Eventually, it slowed until it was almost back to its original pace.

Mine, however, was not. "I want this," I gasped.

Saul lifted his head. "So do I." He was so soft, I could barely make out the words.

"Is it your arm; have I hurt you?"

"My arm is fine."

"I don't understand."

"Not here, and not like this."

Why not, for heaven's sake?

He closed his eyes as if still readjusting. Once he reopened them, I asked him.

He tilted his face, looking a little lost for words. "I don't know. I just get the feeling it needs to be a little less imperfect than this. Not with me winged, you looking exhausted, and Ethan about to turn up."

I wondered if a part of this had to do with Annie, but I shoved the irrational thought from my head. Perhaps he was right. Tonight would be hurried, uncomfortable. Yet, in my uncontrolled blitz of passion, I was willing to sacrifice any such awkwardness. He wasn't. "Are you for real?"

"Probably more crazy, but yes, for real." He bent his head, neared his lips to my ears, and murmured, "I want it to be somewhere special, somewhere perfect, for it to be perfect... _like you_."

Me? Perfect? Was he blind as well as crazy?

"And I want all the time in the world to get to know every beautiful inch of your beautiful body... slowly."

_Shit._ Talk like that wasn't about to settle my frenzied cravings any time soon. My heart brimmed with a different kind of emotion. To him, it _was_ about the place, a place far from this madness, a place of our own, on our own with, much to my delight, plenty of time.

My two hands cupped his concerned face. "You're so beautiful. How on earth did I get so lucky?" I kissed him once more and then nestled up to him, trying to subdue the fires still burning within me. "However, Saul Reardon, your incredible self-discipline, wherever you get it from, well... it's not normal."

Saul chuckled. When he spoke again, it was in a low, serious tone. "Besides, Claudia, not on our first date."

What?

"Thought you'd have more respect for me."

_Was he fricking serious?_ I looked up at him.

A sly, wicked grin spread across his face, answering my question. I thumped him, fortunately for him, on his good arm. "And I would hardly call this a date," I said.

Saul laughed.

I used the next few minutes to reflect, about how much had happened between us, about just how little I knew him. "Do you realize we only met like two days ago, if that?"

"Yes."

"I feel as if I've known you...."

"Much longer? I guess in one way I already have."

He was referring to the whole Charles Smith thing. "No, you knew of me. Not the same."

He said nothing, and I wondered if there was something more. "It's still unusual, don't you think?"

"Nothing about the last two days has been usual. We've spent just about every waking second together and have gone through some pretty intense times."

I took my time before asking my next question. "What do you think is happening between us?" It seemed inappropriate to ask, but I knew what I meant, and I had the peculiar feeling that Saul would too.

He tightened his arm around me. "I'm not entirely sure."

"Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

"Extremely. And you?"

"The same."

More quiet followed.

"I don't want any of this to interfere with my ability to help you, but I can't see how it won't," Saul said.

I watched him randomly scan the horizon. He was struggling with the thought - that much was apparent. "I have faith in you." And I meant it.

But he didn't appear convinced. "Just before you arrived on the hill today, I'd decided to give up on trying to understand it all and instead just run with it, run with whatever I felt for you and take it from there, that was of course if you felt the same. It was amazing how easy it became after that decision."

I was a whole lot grateful for _that decision._

"Besides, you know what Annie would say. That we were old souls."

_Old souls_. In Annie's unconventional slant of the world, I could hear her saying just that. Saul pulled me nearer and for a while, we were quiet, luxuriating in our closeness.

Even with the knowledge that there was still so much ahead.

# Chapter 30

# Claudia

December 28, 2010

1:15 am

"WAS SIMON THE reason you needed to escape, today?" Saul was studying my bare ring finger, wearing a heavy frown.

I tucked my sand-coated legs to one side and began rubbing the whitish skin where the ring once occupied. I sensed my heart crack just a little. "It was time to put the poor man to rest."

"I get the feeling it's more complicated than that."

I sighed deeply and nodded. I then went on to explain everything from the whole, strange Simon episode to my lost, painful hours battling my so-called demons. As before, I found talking to Saul easy. And as before, he listened with the upmost absorption.

"I'm sorry for being so angry," he whispered after I finished.

I pulled back immediately. "No, Saul. It's me who should be sorry. Not telling you today was wrong."

"But...."

"But nothing. It may now seem understandable, but it doesn't excuse it. I caused so much trouble, not just for you and Ethan but also for all those people searching for me. You were right, I need to grow up."

"I was being too harsh."

"You were being correct." I knew this now. "I love how you don't treat me like a child, overprotect me like so many others do. You're always honest. You don't bullshit me or pretend that everything is okay when it's not. You encourage me to handle things on my own. You treat me like an equal. And all I want to do now... is to grow up so I can be your equal. You were one of my biggest motivations to sort myself out today. You and of course, Simon."

Saul lightly stroked his thumb across my bottom lip. My stomach flipped and I groaned quietly. "I'm really proud of you, you know that."

"I do."

"What you did today, wouldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't."

He drew me back to him, began affectionately playing with my hair. It felt nice, calming. "I was so worried. You never go anywhere without that bloody green bag of yours or your bloody musk sticks. I overreacted."

"Ethan told me why you did, how you felt."

"Sometimes Ethan talks too much."

"He thinks you'll be upset with him, for being disloyal."

Saul chuckled. "His loyalty to me is exactly why he told you in the first place. Sometimes, I think he knows me better than I do."

I had never thought of that. I wondered if Ethan had.

"This question that Simon wanted you to ask, have you figured it out yet?"

I had. But first, I needed to talk about Simon. I told Saul this.

Saul skimmed my forehead with light kisses. "Then tell me about him, Claudia. Tell me about that day."

My chest tightened at the thought of that day _... the day I found Simon._ "I've never told anyone the whole story before... ever."

"Do you want to?"

"I want to tell you."

Saul waited with remarkable patience. I used it to draw upon my new strength. "The break-in to our Sydney unit was my fault."

My voice was trembling. I think my body was too. I waited for Saul to respond but he didn't.

"We had two locks for the door. A normal, everyday 'knob lock'; not the most secure but still dependable. And a Smartcode deadbolt that Simon had installed. Being an investigative journalist, he had to travel a lot with his work and was concerned about my safety." The irony of it was plain ridiculous... _my safety_.

I remembered how much Simon loved his job, in particular that _aha_ moment when his investigations would fall into that perfect, place of answers.

" _You should've been a detective," I would often joke._

" _Nah," he would joke back. "I could get hurt... worse killed."_

I swallowed hard, watched my fidgety fingers knot.

"The day after Simon had left for one of his longer trips, the Smartcode began beeping and wouldn't lock. I replaced the battery, did everything the troubleshooting guide told me to do. But nothing worked."

I remembered how annoyed I was. I would often come home exhausted from the high demands of my teaching job, too exhausted to play with disobedient locks.

"So what did you do then?" Saul asked.

"I rang the company. They said it sounded like the lock wasn't aligned properly, something to do with movement in the door. A common problem but easily fixable. They gave me the name of their nearest repairer but...."

I stopped, lifted my face, sucked in the marvelous, coastal air. How I loved it, its saltiness so incredibly sweet. And the stars; like thousands of lit-up mobile phones at a packed rock concert.

"But what?"

I closed my eyes and breathed in.

"Claudia?"

"I didn't ring the repairer."

Saul went quiet; his rigid muscles said enough.

"I was so tired and cranky."

The excuse sounded pathetic, even worse when said aloud.

"I was on a deadline with report cards; it was that time of year. They were due in three days and I was still marking major assessments. On top of that, I was studying my part-time master's degree. I had an assignment due, a small one but still due. Time at home was increasingly precious. The last thing I needed was someone banging away inside my unit. It was another four days before I finally rang the repairer."

"I don't get it," Saul said, "fear has governed you most of your life."

Fear still did. But a lifetime of inexplicable dreams, of nameless watchers that no one believed existed, was what had generated it. Or so I had thought.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know how to explain it. In Sydney, my dreams and the watchers had lessened, quite a lot. After an entire, blessed year of it, I had actually begun relaxing. Besides, we lived in a pretty upmarket area. Break-ins were rare. Our block of units, old as they were? Non-existent. And I still had a perfectly functioning lock. I guess I never really believed anything would happen."

"And when you finally rang the repairer?"

I shook my head and groaned. "He couldn't come out for another week. _That if I had rung a few days earlier_...."

"What did Simon say?"

That was the hard part.

"I told him about the lock the first night he rang me."

"And?"

Simon's voice is anxious. "When's the locksmith coming out?"

I am silent, wondering what to say.

" _Clauds?"_

" _I haven't rung him yet."_

He swears, asks me why.

" _I came home late. I'll call him tomorrow morning."_

" _First thing?"_

" _First thing."_

" _Promise me."_

I promise him but he is still not satisfied. The unease I hear in his voice is peculiarly strong, making me question why.

" _Clauds, this is important. Promise me and mean it, promise me on my life."_

" _Simon...."_

" _Promise me, damn it."_

And I do.

I recounted the conversation to Saul. He cupped my chin, tilted my face up to him and stared solidly at me. "Claudia, just because you promised on his life, doesn't mean that's why...."

"I know," I interrupted, staring right back at him. "But the way he sounded, really edgy, almost scared."

Saul's eyes narrowed. "You think he knew something, knew that your lives were in danger?"

Again, I shrugged. "At the time, I brushed it off to my imagination but afterwards?" I sighed, broke away, searched for the moonlit waters. "Well... afterwards...."

"You don't know he'd been threatened for certain."

"What other explanation was there? I should've trusted my first instincts."

Hindsight, what an amazing attribute, one that richly fertilized blame and guilt like nothing else.

"The line between natural instincts and imagination is a very fine one, Claudia. Sometimes barely visible."

I had learned that, was still learning it. "Whatever, the fact remains that I didn't keep my promise. One thing, only one thing Simon asked me to do. And I didn't. Not right away as he wanted. But at the time, the urgency didn't seem as important to me as getting everything else finished. I figured the lock would be fixed before Simon got home and he wouldn't have been any the wiser."

"But he was early."

Five days early.

I began drawing haphazard shapes in the cool, moist sand, wanting to avoid Saul's gaze. "That day" I continued, "I had come home in high spirits. I had just gone food shopping. Simon would be back on the weekend and I wanted to surprise him with his favorite meal. Our wedding plans were in full swing, we both had great jobs, and we absolutely loved Sydney. Life was just sweet." My heart began pounding a little too fast, too loud and my muscles tightened. "As soon as I opened the door to our unit, I could smell it, that stench."

"Death," Saul whispered.

I closed my eyes and trembled. It all started flooding back to me, my automatic reluctance to go in the unit, Shamus, Clinton, as brave as they were. And my old fears returning in torrents.

The stars suddenly dulled, the salty air soured. I gripped onto Saul's hand, suppressed the angry, biting tears and ordered myself to keep going. I then painfully recounted the rest. "Shamus eventually called the police."

I pictured the normally exuberant and colorful Shamus, pale and badly shaken. Many months later, I had contacted him. He was polite but unexpectedly standoffish. Now, the only time I heard from him was a generic _Happy New Year_ text. It hurt, naturally. But, in some ways, I understood.

"The police said the 'knob lock' had been tampered with; that and the freakish positioning of the body, the rose petals, the obsessive cleanliness, all spelt a ritualistic/gang-like killing and most likely something Simon was involved in."

"But no link was found."

"None."

"And you blamed yourself."

"Of course, I blamed myself. If the Smartcode had been working, if I had it repaired earlier as promised...." I sat up straight, cradled my tired, throbbing head. "Can you imagine what Simon must've thought when he came home and found the lock still broken? Worse still, that I hadn't taken my promise more seriously?"

"Claudia, guilt is...."

"Very destructive? Yeah, you've said that already. And you're right, it was."

I was hissing but not at Saul, at myself.

"At first, it was like I was floating in this other world or parts of me were, the parts that responded to my family and friends. But without any emotion, you know, like a pre-programmed robot. What I didn't understand was everyone's compassion. Even Simon's parents, they were so sympathetic. How could they be? _I_ _was responsible_."

I could still, even now, recall my increasing repulsion for them. "I found the more empathetic they were, the angrier I got. And this anger just festered like the sick thing it was, until it ripened to a very silent, very twisted rage."

I stared ahead and saw only black nothingness, felt myself partially disengage from my body. "Soon I didn't want to hear their annoying, reassuring words or see their disturbing, kind faces. I just wanted them to go away. And they did. And I retreated into my home, all alone. And, well... Simon...." My voice was indistinct, scratchy. " _Simon wasn't there._ "

The memories of my first night back in the Sydney unit hit me with all the impact of a heavy-duty, industrial sledgehammer, the stark, in-your-face emptiness, the vivid, bloodstained bed, the sudden uninvited reality of what had happened, the crippling mental shock that followed.

I labored for air, felt as if I was going to be sick. But, again, I ordered myself to move on.

"I would call out to him, to Simon, a thousand times a day telling him how sorry I was, telling him I would get that fricking lock fixed now if he would just please come home. But he didn't, Saul. He didn't come home."

My chest was exploding and hot tears began spilling uncontrollably. I tried to swipe them away, but I was too shaky, too uncoordinated.

Saul grabbed my arm. There was nothing gentle about it or in the way he spoke. "Claudia, stop; don't do this."

I shook my head. "I have to."

"No, you don't," he bellowed. And for one brief, weird second, my thoughts digressed and I wondered if I had unintentionally ruffled him again. I battled off the next round of fresh tears. "Saul, I've come this far, so please... yes I do."

He grimaced and then slackened his hold. I broke away and continued.

"Soon I imagined that everything was turning black, the walls, the furniture, even the air around me, until I became black along with it. I remember willing it to swallow me whole and then I remembered nothing.

About a week later, my Aunt Lia turned up. My family was worried. And rightly so. They hadn't heard from me and I lived so far away. The rest? I only know through Lia. She found me sprawled on the bloodstained bed, wrapped in Simon's already worn clothes, cuddling them, smelling them, muttering his name over and over. _I didn't even recognize Lia_."

Saul shot up fast. "Fuck this, Claudia. Give yourself a break, even if just for a minute?"

My aching, miserable body was ordering the same. Saul cradled me and I wept freely. It felt so good; my constricted chest loosened, my stiff muscles relaxed. And when I stopped, I noticed that once again, I managed to mascara-stain another of Saul's shirts. "This is becoming one very nasty habit," I joked.

"One I can live with," Saul said, seriously. "So, how did Lia help you?"

"She called for an ambulance and escorted me to the nearest hospital. I was treated for everything from dehydration to severe depression. When I was semi-back on my feet, medicated to the hilt, Lia convinced me to return home. That's when I went under the care of Dr. Cruikshank."

"And your dreams returned along with your watchers."

"Yes, very much so. I understood that many of my symptoms, at the time, were classic Post Traumatic Stress, but as I told you already, I couldn't convince Cruikshank that the dreams weren't, that I'd had them since childhood, nor the fact that I wasn't paranoid; that I did have watchers. He just tacked them with my other symptoms.

In time, I went along with whatever he said. I was just too weak to fight it. Anyway, it was Mel and Lia, who encouraged me to get off the meds and return to teaching. Once I had, they helped me get a place of my own... my Zephyr unit."

"So, seeing Simon today or thinking you saw him must have been...."

"Gut wrenching. He seemed so real; the whole thing seemed real. I don't understand what I experienced. But, he kept insisting that I ask this question, and that the answer would give me something important."

And it had.

"You see, much about Simon's death was kept from the media, you know regarding the flowers and stuff."

"Makes sense. So you're wondering how was today's killer aware of such detail? Sadly, Claudia, it's possible. If someone really wanted the details of that crime, they could get it. It's not difficult. I've done it many times."

"But how did they know about the hands?"

Saul pulled back, held me at arm's length. "What are you talking about?"

"That was the question; the one Simon wanted me to ask. It was staring at me the entire time. How could whoever did that today, have known about the hands? They were crossed, right over left, directly above the heart." I copied the exact movements with my own hands.

"Same as Simon."

"Yes, but you see, _only I could've known that._ "

I didn't wait for Saul's why.

"I was the one who opened Simon's arms wanting to lie close to him. That's how the police found me. I never told them about the original position of his hands; I've never told anyone; you're the first."

Saul's fingers flew to his forehead and began rubbing. Several seconds passed. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Of course, I did. "That Simon's murderer and the person responsible for Souza is the same person, most likely responsible for Alice and Iacovelli as well. That it wasn't some ritual killing but something much bigger, something to do with me, my past."

I closed my eyes, felt as if I had just lost a mass of unwanted weight. Guilt hung on, though, not as strong, not as tenacious but enough to make its weighty presence felt. After all, broken lock or not, Simon was still killed because of me.

Silence reigned; I could almost hear Saul's brain connecting the dots. In time, he dropped his head and caught my eyes. "None of this is your fault, Claudia. If someone was that determined to get to Simon, he'd have found a way. And from what you have told me about Simon, the last thing he would've wanted is you blaming yourself."

I knew that now, especially after today and told Saul so. With a freshly cleansed soul, exhaustion swept through me. I fell into Saul like an old, 'stringless' puppet.

"Come on... bed," he said.

"I want to help you... Ethan...." I could scarcely thread my words together.

"Want to really help me? Then get a good night's sleep. Be strong for tomorrow."

We both stood but I still had one more thing to tell him.

Milo's message.

I gave Saul a brief account of it.

"Still on your phone?"

I released an almighty yawn and nodded.

"We'll study it later." He guided me along the soft, sandy trail, towards Annie's dimly lit cottage and through its welcoming back door. As we did, I told Saul that I had made Simon a promise, one that this time I was determined to keep.

"What promise was that?" he asked.

"That we'll find whoever did this to him."

"Of that I'm certain. It's my promise to you."

We entered a bedroom at the far end of the house. I lay down on the bed, falling into the countless soft pillows, drawing in the calming aromas. "Stay," I said.

Saul stretched out next to me. I nuzzled into him and began to fall into that precious place of slumber that I so desperately needed.

But not before hearing Saul whisper, "I'll be here when you wake up, my beautiful lady."

# Chapter 31

# Saul

December 28, 2010

2:12 am

"YOUR BOYS IN cyber space have been busy," Ethan said, swinging on the back legs of Annie's dining chair. Fortunately, for Annie and the chair, it was constructed from strong, reclaimed timber.

Reardon readjusted the chair's cushion before sitting next to Ethan and wondered if the cushion originated from something recyclable as well. It certainly wouldn't have surprised him.

He rested his injured arm on his lap; his foot on his alternate knee and leaned back. Dimmed, recessed lighting illuminated much of the open living area and, similar to the rest of Annie's charming house, it smelt of endless tranquility. Reardon absorbed it, along with the air's salty taste and the steady, rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan above. "So, what did you find out?"

Ethan scraped his chair softly against the timber flooring as he shuffled towards the table. On it sat Reardon's sleeping laptop, a ceramic bowl full of fresh white and yellow frangipanis and two mugs of hot coffee. "Quite a lot, in fact. Spent some serious hours getting this shit together while you were busy playing Romeo and the unfortunate, winged hero."

Reardon knew Ethan would've loved every information-gathering, puzzle-solving second of it. "I appreciate it," he said.

"Yeah, you better, mate. Gave up one hot, one very exclusive chick tonight." He slowly shook his wrist and whistled. "Francesca. Her name alone brings unhealthy pictures... makes me want to...."

"Got the idea, Ethan. Now, can we move on?"

Ethan tossed Reardon a sharp salute. He then jiggled the computer back to life. "Shit, one clipped wing and you become a seriously pushy bastard."

Reardon grinned, studied the light-colored wall directly opposite him while he waited. It was bare except for a set of five, antique prints. Each depicted various botanical wildflowers, their intense, sun-drenched colors so typical of Annie. _Love at first sight_ , she had said to him with that perpetually cheerful voice of hers.

And so he had bought them for her.

Ethan cleared his throat causing Reardon to swing back to him. Ethan's mouth curled upwards, knowingly. "Guilt gift, I call it."

Reardon sighed. "Well, you should know, better than most."

"Ouch, mate. But seriously...."

"She knew, Ethan. Annie knew from the start that I didn't have the capacity for anything more. When she wanted more...." Reardon paused, recalled the overriding hurt on Annie's pretty face, and he winced.

"You had to end it, I know, mate."

"Couldn't hurt her anymore. Anyway, that was a long time ago. Our friendship is solid and that's what's important."

"Still, that capacity thing of yours? Seems to be full and functioning now."

Reardon stared at Ethan, took in what he was saying and then thought of Claudia. He recalled her on the hillside earlier that day, her lithe body moving in sync with his, her irresistible moans, the total hunger steeping her huge, dark eyes, recalled her unexpected gutsiness in not leaving him, at her remarkable courage and cleverness in outsmarting the Moron. This over-protected, fear-driven woman had completely confounded him, but more so, touched him, deeply.

Ethan had been right. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit; a cocky Ethan he could do without.

This time was different.

Claudia was different.

And he feared it.

He, who feared very little, feared the way she made him feel _._

He swallowed hard, then gestured towards the laptop. "Let's get on with this, okay?"

Ethan nodded and then began. "For starters," he said, working the screen, "your hunch about the whole Vietnam thing and our notorious little band of gun buddies was spot on. There were six of them as you know, all went to Vietnam, all came back."

Reardon stretched across the table, reached for his coffee; the mug was already cooling. "Did they know each other before they got together?"

"Nothing to suggest it, but they certainly became pretty tight for many years."

"And all Italian."

"Or of an Italian heritage. Not sure of the significance, possibly helped solidify the bond."

_We look after our own._ Claudia's father had said.

A definite bond.

Ethan continued. "The interesting bit is that they'd meet every month at one of those posh estates along the Clarence River." One more click and he turned to Reardon. "Look familiar?"

Reardon bent towards the screen. Looming larger than life was the almost identical picture of the house in Claudia's photo, along with the lions and the oversized water fountain. "Well, what'd you know?"

"In fact, a few of your hacker comrades came back with that one."

"This place got a name?"

"Yep... Araneya."

"Araneya Estate," Reardon mumbled to himself, as if it would somehow decipher their mystery. He took several sips of his coffee and planted it back on the table.

Ethan then went on to reveal that the estate belonged to none other than the Macanettis _,_ i.e., the well-publicized Senator Carlo Macey. "It was his parents' house during their pistol meets, a Frederick and Irena Macanetti. Freddie was a lawyer, and a fairly influential one, moved a lot in the political circles."

Reardon inched back in his seat. "So, why the regular need to meet?"

Ethan shrugged. "Their Italian bond, perhaps?"

Reardon agreed that their ethnicity played a role, but he wondered if it was something far more significant.

Like the Vietnam War.

A war that was like no other.

Reardon knew, at the time, Australia practiced involuntary conscription of twenty-one-year-old men into National Service. Those who actually made it to the front line were selected according to their birthdates.

Like winning a raffle.

Their prize?

Literally thrown into the midst of a combat jungle.

Reardon's jaw set tight as he shook his head. These young men, naive to war's harsh realities, tirelessly fought for beliefs they were unsure were theirs, witnessed some of the worst atrocities they could imagine, and discovered that their enemies, in many instances, turned out to be the actual women and children they thought they were protecting.

And all this, while their peers back home continued with their normal lives and careers.

It was as if the world had gone on without them.

"Maybe the meetings were their way of coping after the war," Reardon said.

Ethan leaned back and sighed. "Understandable. It's not as if they came home to a roaring fanfare."

Reardon agreed. Some of the public had claimed that it wasn't a real war. Others blamed the soldiers for what happened in Vietnam. Was it any wonder that these men had suffered more post war effects than any other group of soldiers?

"Could also explain the rift between Claudia's parents," Reardon added. "Cabriati met Claudia's mother a couple of years after Vietnam. She fell pregnant; they got married."

"A shotgun wedding." Ethan tutted. "So Milo is born; Papa Bear is still having difficulty showing all the right emotions and continues to fall apart. The clan meetings probably distance Papa Bear from Mama Bear even more. And after the unwanted Claudia is born, Mama Bear collects Brother Milo and leaves."

To Reardon, it made perfect sense, even though he cringed at the whole _Bear_ analogy.

"Sad story," Ethan said.

"Sad for everyone." Reardon shifted in his seat. "Anyway, it's still supposition; let's keep going."

Ethan grabbed the mouse and carried on. "During that time, the Senator lived at Araneya with his wife and three children, two daughters and a son. His parents traveled often, mainly overseas, trusting the place to Macey's care. Mate, have a look at these pictures. It looks like one of those mansions from _Gone with the Wind_. A couple of families could live in it and not even be aware of the other."

Ethan flicked through image after image of the residence, both inside and out. "The Senator's son, Aaron Macanetti, now runs the joint, along with his own family and Senator Macey's very elderly mother. The father passed away some years back...."

"Ethan, stop." Reardon closed in on the screen. With his finger, he motioned Ethan to take it back one. "Yep... there." He then squinted and stared. An oldish, rather hideous portrait of a man stared back. Reardon studied its surroundings, the off-white walls, the dark spiraling staircase and finally the solid wooden door at the end of a long hallway, a door with unusual markings _._

"Well, bugger me," Reardon whispered as he fell back. "Claudia's dream."

Ethan flicked a look between Reardon and the photo. "It's real?"

Reardon had always thought the place was real. But to actually witness proof, to know that some of his theories about Claudia's past were correct was a different thing altogether. He allowed the short quiet to absorb the new information. Later, he would analyze its full implications.

"Then I assume Araneya was where she was living?" Ethan again.

"With Alice? Almost certainly."

"And all this shit about living in Sydney with her was...."

"Exactly that, shit." Reardon slugged down the last of his lukewarm coffee. He needed another, larger, stronger and definitely hotter. He stood and collected their empty mugs on the way. Once in the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle.

"Why would Claudia's father cover this up?"

"Why indeed." Reardon felt a little irritation bite his skin. More lies from her father, Claudia didn't need.

"So, what else can we assume?"

"That her dreams could be what I always thought, memories of some type, of something that actually happened."

"Saul, for someone to repress a memory like that, well, it has to be...."

_Something bad_. Reardon had already figured that one. He thought of the more common possibilities, didn't like where his head was taking him.

He made coffee for them both and one by one set them back on the table. Wispy vapors coiled from them. Reardon sighed and sat back down. "You know, I can't stop thinking how protective her father is. It's almost borderline obsessive."

"Knowledge of what happened?"

"Very likely." Reardon began lightly massaging the area around his wound.

"You okay?" an observant Ethan asked.

"What, first my shrink, now my mother?"

"Nope, just your friend."

Reardon semi-smiled. "Painkiller is wearing off. Nothing that a good night's sleep and one of Annie's magic pills won't fix. So let's get this done."

Ethan returned to the computer. He blew on his coffee before taking a small sip and then brought up what appeared to be an old newspaper report. "Around the same time these guys were enjoying one of their reunion bashes, a ten-year old boy, Benjamin Lucas, was shot in one of the nearby forests."

Reardon sat up. This was new. "Killed?"

"Yep."

"Did they find who was responsible?"

"Nope. Macey's pistol party were initial suspects but investigations cleared them. They were witnessed hunting over three miles away."

"The witnesses, reliable?"

"Very much so, all respected citizens. Besides, the bullet removed from Benjamin Lucas didn't match any of the clan's weapons. At the inquest, the judge deemed it an accident by person or persons unknown."

Reardon stared at nothing; his head buzzed with questions. "Remaining unsolved."

"Seven months later, one of the clan, Ricky Taccone, was found dead in the same forest as Benjamin Lucas and you've guessed it, shot."

"Murder, suicide, accident?"

"By all accounts a suicide; weapon in hand. But there are few, if any reports on it, no investigation, nothing. Almost, as if it never happened."

"Cover up?"

"Looks like it."

"Gun type?"

"No information. But the Benjamin Lucas case was closed not long after. And before you ask the next question, no, Benjamin Lucas' file continues to state that he died by persons unknown, not by Ricky Taccone."

Reardon frowned. "This is bizarre."

"You're telling me. After that, the group stopped meeting, each of them went their own way."

"What year was that?"

"1990."

"Coincides with when Claudia's father claims he collected her from Alice."

"So what do you think? Claudia saw something, like the kid being shot? Certainly an easier alternative to bear than some of the options I've been considering."

Reardon made a noncommittal sound and then began slowly, meditatively drumming his fingers on the table. "So what we have are six men. All from an Italian background, all who returned from war and decided to meet on a regular basis. Each possessed a preference of revolver. Somewhere amongst all this, a relative newborn enters the scene and is given to Alice Polinski who was what? A friend?"

"Nanny," Ethan replied, "to Macey's kids. Lived in her own cottage on the estate."

"The nanny." Reardon's fingers stilled. Excitement breathed second wind into him. "So, Macey being a very devoted chum of Cabriati, allows Alice to take in the baby until such time as Cabriati can sort himself out and collect her."

"Which took seven years. A long time to sort oneself out."

"Certainly was. In the meantime, Claudia is raised by Alice and probably has free reign on the estate and in the house. However, something happens."

"The bodies in the forest?"

"See, Ethan, this is where it doesn't make sense. Claudia's dreams, they have nothing to do with the forest, they're to do with the house. It must be something different." Reardon rubbed his brow. "Too many variables, not enough facts."

"All we have right now. Your people are still on it, though. In fact, Centaur1 is a constant source of information. I swear he, or she for that matter, needs to get a life."

Reardon knew the identity of Centaur1, someone who was unquestionably a genius. "To some hackers, it is their life." Reardon changed course. "We need to speak to Claudia's father again."

"And how are we going to do that? Right now, Cabriati hates your guts. And when he discovers about you and Claudia, I'd be hightailing to the mountains." Ethan forcibly coughed into his clenched fist. "Shit, forgot, you already live in the bloody mountains."

Reardon was unfazed. Cabriati's emotionally driven threats were the least of his problems.

"You know how we placed a man outside of Cabriati's house today?" Ethan went on.

After Iacovelli and Souza, Reardon had arranged it. Cabriati had been one of the clan. It didn't take a genius to guess he could well be next. "And?"

"He was yelled at by a pretty pissed-off Papa Bear, who basically told him to tell you to go fuck yourself."

"Charming," Saul said. "But this is what bothers me."

"I imagine it would. Have you seen the size of that Grizzly!" Ethan winced.

"Not him. His reaction. Surely, he must be a little worried about his own safety. Wouldn't he then want protection? Wouldn't he want to have this whole mess sorted, if not for his sake, at least for his daughter's?"

"In a perfectly well-balanced world, yes, but there's nothing well-balanced here. Don't even believe Cabriati wants this solved. And I reckon his problem with you is that he knows you could solve it. Whatever happened twenty years ago, he was involved."

Reardon tried to combine Ethan's logic with Claudia's doting father. "I still can't accept he would've knowingly caused his daughter harm."

"This is the same man who dumped her for seven years."

Reardon recognized that, but his instincts spoke differently.

"You know, we should be trying to get to Macey." Ethan again. "He's certain to know plenty."

Reardon was of the same opinion but not everything was that straightforward. Even if they managed to get past Macey's personal security, it didn't guarantee that Macey would enlighten them with the truth.

"No one you know who could get to him?"

"A federal senator? Even I have my limitations." Reardon shrugged once. "Well, to a point."

Ethan smirked. "What, no more juicy jail-bait transcripts? You're getting soft, mate."

Colt/Iacovelli and Macey's timely phone conversation wasn't of Reardon's doing. It was Centaur1 following someone else's request. Centaur1 assumed Reardon would be interested. Reardon was. He smiled. The challenge of getting close to Macey was an element he now found appealing.

"Recognize that grin too well, mate."

Reardon shot Ethan a passing look. "Know where Macey is right now? He's got to be getting nervous."

"Oh, that he is. Have a look at this." Ethan waited for a particular clip to download. "Macey and his wife were stopped by an over-zealous reporter at Canberra Airport this afternoon. They were returning from Christmas bon-bon popping at Araneya."

Semi-filling the screen was the stockily built, fast-paced Macey and his notably anxious wife. Pursuing them was a tall, thin man, gripping onto a black handheld microphone. "Senator, Mark Hollinger... Channel Nine News," he called out. "Can you spare a moment to comment on the current Queensland shootings?"

Macey spread his short, stubby fingers towards Hollinger and shook his head. But Hollinger ignored it. "Do you think this extraordinary barrage of violence will aid in your crusade for stronger laws against gun possession?"

The Senator stopped. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he smoothed his hand over his cropped, grey hair. He pulled gently on the lapels of his light grey sports jacket before finally turning to face the reporter.

Passing bystanders began to close in like starving vermin to a slice of cheddar.

Macey cleared his throat, lifted his pointed, resolute chin high. "As strongly as I feel about gun possession in this country," he said in a solid, husky voice, "I could never in good conscience utilize the recent tragedies of others to further my cause. What has happened in Queensland is absolutely appalling, and my condolences go out to each and every member of those four families."

It was well answered, Reardon thought, particularly within a political context. But as much as Macey attempted to appear fearless, the terror in his dark, heavily lidded eyes clearly ambushed it. On the other hand, there existed no such pretense from the Senator's wife. Standing loyally beside her husband, her petite face projected an unnatural shade of pale; the expression of shock, weariness and fear as equally pronounced.

"She's scared shitless," Ethan pointed out.

"She has every right to be," Reardon replied. "She would've known the victims, would know her husband was once a part of their group. What surprises me is that no one else has connected Macey with Iacovelli and Souza."

Or maybe they had. Maybe the media/investigators were keeping it confidential for some reason.

The interview went quiet. The Senator's eyes skated over the immediate perimeter, then stopped suddenly and within seconds, his forced, sturdy façade changed. Macey grabbed his wife's hand, quickly ended the conversation and then slipped away.

"Something's spooked him," Ethan said.

Reardon agreed. Something had spooked the dear Senator.

Or, more importantly, someone had.

"Last info I got," said Ethan, "Macey's return to Canberra was all a publicity con. He has a heavily guarded penthouse in Sydney; that's where he's really holing up."

"Our Senator is taking no chances."

"Making it difficult for our doer to get to him."

It also meant the doer would have to break the pattern and go to Macey instead. So how would this affect Claudia's role in the killer's bizarre ritual? Or would she simply be another break in the pattern?

The ongoing glut of information was having a harsh impact on Reardon. It was only natural that he wanted to process it all at once, come up with a few viable solutions. But in his current condition, he knew that to be near impossible. He needed sleep. Later, he promised himself as he slugged on his coffee. Much later. "Anything on the last clan member, Johnny Hercolani?"

Ethan brought up Hercolani's portrait. The first thing that hit Reardon was the unnatural cold, hardness in Hercolani's black eyes.

"Not the friendliest looking guy," Ethan said, mirroring Reardon's exact thoughts. "And, the last anyone's heard from him were his workmates. Hercolani told them he was taking off for a few weeks' vacation. I'd imagine if he had been another victim, it would've followed a similar pattern as the others, and his body would've turned up in Nankari."

"But it hasn't. So where is he? Why is he the only one of the clan unaccounted for?"

"The doer, perhaps?"

Reardon paused, mulling over the last comment. "One has to wonder how does our doer get his victims to Nankari in the first place, coerce one of them into a car and even more crazily, after two murders, compel another to enter Claudia's unit."

"Someone with the gift of the bullshit. And someone with muscles."

"You talking about yourself or the doer?"

"Hysterical, mate."

Reardon smiled. "Our doer must know them or of them _..._ someone they trust."

Ethan shrugged.

"Any indications that Hercolani and Macey are still in contact? Or any communication with Vincent Cabriati?"

The answer was direct. "None." Ethan let out a long yawn, then stretched his arms wide. "Man, this is one fucked up case." He stood, strode past the open, brick fireplace equipped with vintage accessories, moved between a cornflower blue tufted sofa and a large, matching ottoman until he reached the open sliders. There he hoisted his hands on his hips and waited.

Reardon couldn't have agreed more about the case.

_Often the most convoluted possesses the simplest of solutions, remember that_.

More wise words from his mentor.

Reardon copied Ethan, met him at the slider. Neither said anything. It was customary. A momentary respite was often crucial.

The constant stream of cooling sea breeze brushed against Reardon's tired, heated skin and he closed his eyes. Minutes passed before one of them finally spoke. It was Ethan.

"You know what really intrigues me," he whispered without looking at Reardon, "whatever may or may not have happened in Araneya, there's been nothing for twenty years. So what's set this all off now?"

"No, not now," Reardon said. "This began fourteen months ago."

He swung to Ethan.

"With Simon Struthers' murder."

# Chapter 32

# Saul

December 28, 2010

3:25 am

THE SMALL MUSCLES around Ethan's eyes twitched as he narrowed them tightly. "Why, because the crime scenes were identical?"

Almost identical, Reardon thought, except for the methodical arrangement of the Remington by Souza's body, informing them which of the remaining aliases was his.

And of course, _the hands._

He briefly explained Claudia's discovery to Ethan and only the discovery. If Claudia ever wanted to share the private details of Struthers' death with Ethan, then that would ultimately be her choice.

"So Struthers triggered it all off."

Reardon nodded. "Struthers was an investigative journalist. Very likely, he uncovered something about Claudia's past, probably by accident. We have to follow that up. Somebody at the time, maybe a colleague, relative, friend, may know something. We also have to find a way to get Claudia into Araneya, to relive whatever it was that happened."

"Won't be pleasant for her."

Reardon was fully aware of that. But, at this stage, they had little choice. "Get anything from those two thugs on the hill today?"

Ethan leaned against the slider's frame. He scraped away rogue strands of hair that blew onto his brow and then crossed his arms. The short sleeves of his maroon shirt pulled tight. "Wasn't as fruitful as I hoped."

"Not like you."

"Nothing to do with my talents, mate. Whoever is running this shit is keeping it close."

"And?"

"And...." Ethan dropped his head, avoiding Reardon's eyes. "There's a price on her head. What you and I call a 'not to stop job' until it's done."

Reardon felt his heart slam still.

"The thing is," Ethan resumed, "they don't know who ordered it. They just do as they're told by some low life called Basteros."

"Basteros must know who he's working for."

Ethan shook his head. "You and I both know that's not always the case. But, I did just happen to nick one of the bastard's phones. Won't take me long to find Basteros. They claim they aren't responsible for Alice Polinski, Iacovelli or Souza."

That was unexpected. "What, there are two doers?"

"I'm just passing the info, mate. I can only tell you they were not lying."

Reardon agreed it seemed unlikely that whoever was responsible for the current body count, would've suddenly ordered a hit on Claudia. There was no logic to it. There were still three members of the clan alive, all of whom Saul believed, were now staring at similar fates. For some unknown reason, the doer/doers had included Claudia in their bizarre ritual.

So why kill her now?

"Who then?" Ethan said.

"More the question, who had the resources to direct something like this? Your average person wouldn't even know where to start."

Reardon groaned. An idea took birth in his head, and he wondered why he hadn't considered it earlier. "Sometimes," he said, allowing the other thought to mature, "I feel like we're just making progress and something else happens to throw us off course."

"Maybe this whole thing is designed to put us off course; maybe the real target has always been Claudia."

"Maybe." Reardon's whacky idea was gaining momentum. He crossed the floor, collected a biro and a pad from Annie's breakfast bar and began scribbling.

From behind him, he heard Ethan's faint footsteps and then his chair scraping again. "What are you doing?"

Reardon continued the scribbling. "What does it look like?"

"Just tell me you're not losing it, mate."

"I'm not losing it, mate." Reardon then followed it with a quick, "Aha."

"So I'm guessing the 'aha' is good?"

"Either good or one bloody coincidence."

"You don't believe in coincidences."

Reardon grinned, enjoying the momentary lightness. "Then it means good."

He pocketed his scribble and returned to his seat. He ignored Ethan's quizzical expression and then changed direction. "Anything on Milo Cabriati?" He still failed to understand Milo's message to meet Claudia, and then not to turn up.

"No sign of him," Ethan answered. He then went on to explain that he'd spent considerable time searching Milo's home, interviewing his neighbors, his best friend and even his girlfriend. But the task had proven almost useless. "One of his next-door neighbors claimed that on the afternoon of Boxing Day, Milo approached her asking if she could feed his... wait for this... his pet carpet python and bird eating spider." Ethan mimicked a shiver. "Seeing those things slithering and crawling. That's wrong! I can tell you the neighbor was none too impressed either, but she agreed."

"Milo doesn't particularly strike me as the cute and furry type. And?"

"And he told her he would be gone for a few days; didn't say where. She also thought he seemed unusually agitated."

"What about the friend, the girlfriend?"

"They haven't heard from him. But, as they both said, that's not uncommon. Apparently, he loves his own space and goes off frequently. The girlfriend is only new, but I sense she won't be hanging around much longer. She finds some of his quirks a little off putting." Ethan paused. "Think he's involved?"

"Don't know. But he certainly knows more than he's telling." Reardon pulled Claudia's phone from his pocket. He spent the next few seconds reading Milo's text, and then passed the phone to Ethan.

"I guess that at least explains how our Alice got into Zephyr," Ethan said after reading it. "And possibly the mystery of the birthday cards."

Reardon had already considered that Milo had been the go-between, but wondered what would induce a teenager, and by the sounds of it, not a particularly empathetic one, into helping a woman his family detested. "I'm more interested in what Milo intimated; that Alice was killed because of something she knew, something she wanted to tell Claudia. And considering that it meant breaking her religious promise, it had to have been something bloody important."

"The possibilities are endless. Like you said, mate, not enough facts."

For now, Reardon set aside the ongoing puzzlement of Alice Polinski and Milo Cabriati. "What else have you?"

Ethan's response came back fast. "Charles Smith."

Reardon froze, shot Ethan a long, sideways look. And immediately knew. Ethan had something worthwhile on Smith. Reardon's muscles tensed, his breathing slowed. It was his equivalent to crossing fingers. "What about him?"

When Ethan answered, his pitch had lowered, not one that Reardon had heard before. "I decided to follow an idea I had today."

Reardon stayed quiet. _Just how many waking hours did Ethan spend on all this?_

Ethan bent towards Reardon and clasped his hands together; his rock-hard stare glued to him. "We already know Claudia had some connection with Smith. Or at least with whomever Smith was working for."

A sequence of anticipatory shivers stirred through Reardon. "Go on."

"Remember Thomas Bellante's final e-mail with Smith?" Ethan went on to paraphrase it word by word.

"E-mail dated November 23, 2009:

**Bellante:** _In reference to Claudia Cabriati, he has accepted the request._

**Smith:** _Good. What about the other matter._

**Bellante:** _It'll work out._

**Smith:** _It better... or else...._ "

Reardon nodded. _How could he ever forget?_

"If this Smith, whoever the hell he is, is asking for confirmation about Claudia, the next question I'd be asking is – who is he and what was the request? So, I re-searched back."

Ethan's body language screamed self-assurance. Reardon shifted, waiting, expectant.

"Judging by that super-stunned look on your face, mate, you never thought of doing that? Surprising for someone of your impeccable caliber."

"We had already studied Thomas Bellante's past transcripts until we almost passed out."

Ethan threw up his long, index finger. "Um... I had passed out, with the help of multiple bourbons. You probably didn't notice."

Reardon kept his muscles tensed and alert, and then said in a soft monotone, "There was nothing in Bellante's past e-mails that had Claudia's name tagged to it."

But a fresh brand of hope took hold of him, like a strong, virulent virus requiring immediate feeding. Had Ethan done the impossible and found a connection? A connection between Charles Smith, Thomas Bellante and the men he so desperately searched for.

"No, there wasn't," Ethan said, "not directly with Claudia's name."

Reardon slumped back and swore, felt the old, tag-along hope desert him faster than a deleted e-mail, like so many times before.

"I know what you're thinking. Bear with me," Ethan continued. "We assumed that any other communication must've been done before we bugged the place. So, I went back with refreshed eyes, with the new information we now have on Claudia."

"And?"

"And...." Ethan brought up an e-mail dated eleven days before the Claudia/Bellante/Smith e-mail.

It read:

**Smith:** _Inform MC he'll be required to take on a new person._

**Bellante:** _Dates?_

**Smith:** _Unsure yet, but soon. Tell him to be prepared._

Reardon re-read it several times. What was he not seeing? Was he that bloody exhausted? And then it hit him.

MC.

Malcolm bloody Cruikshank.

He ran his hand roughly over his hair, felt it spike like the prickly hairs on his skin. "Let's, for a minute, assume that this MC is the psych Claudia saw after Simon Struthers' death."

Ethan scoffed. "No assumption, necessary. Only a week after the 'Claudia/or else' e-mail, Claudia is in Cruikshank's office for her first consultation. Too close to be... um... coincidental."

Ethan crooked a bent arm over the chair; his side-swept grin was arrogant, triumphant. "So, I then get to thinking, why Cruikshank? Why does someone want _him_ specifically to take Claudia on? What if it was because someone just wanted Claudia back in Nankari, you know to...."

"Keep an eye on her." Reardon's intuition buzzed with fresh layer of hope. "And Cruikshank was in charge of the eye-keeping. So, it then begs the question, who wanted her home _and_ under control?"

Numerous members of Claudia's family and friends fitted that bill, but no one more than her father.

We look after our own.

Reardon suddenly felt way beyond tired. The throbbing sensation in his arm had intensified; his head felt distended well over capacity. He needed sleep, wondered if it would come easily tonight... prayed it would. "Shit, Ethan, don't like where this is going."

"Me either."

"Seeing Cruikshank?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Reardon lowered his head. Ethan's work was impressive. And he said as much.

"I know," Ethan said.

"Making me look incompetent." After all, why hadn't Reardon thought of cross-referencing new information with past information?

"Not hard to; not right now." Ethan's normally jesting voice came across as uncommonly drab and heavy. And for the first time that night, Reardon openly acknowledged the dark shadows swelling beneath Ethan's glassy eyes.

"We're all buggered, mate." Ethan yanked himself out of his chair, zipped open his blue canvas duffel bag and returned with a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.

Reardon smiled, lazily. Just what he needed to soothe away the gnawing prickles. He grabbed a couple of glasses from Annie's top cupboard, some ice from the freezer and was soon relishing the smooth, rich amber liquid. A few sips later, he sensed the tension slowly slip away.

Michael Cruikshank.

Charles Smith.

How did Ethan's theory fit into his own? Reardon pulled out his earlier scribble and stared at it. "Got that clip with the reporter interviewing Macey?"

Ethan set to work, pulling up the clip. When he did, Reardon said, "Can you hone in on the spot, where Macey begins searching the crowds?"

Ethan did, Reardon grateful that the camera operator had performed a long, leisurely sweep of the crowd.

"Slow it down. And... stop." Reardon studied it, checked his scribble once more, and then back at the screen.

Ethan's eyes darted between the clip and Reardon. "What are you seeing?"

Reardon felt that all too familiar instinctual pull and smiled. "Not what... _who_."

"And _who_ is?"

"Charles Smith."

Ethan laughed then stopped midway. "Mate, think you better slow down on the bourbon."

Reardon didn't need to slow down. And he was certain his deadpanned face, still focused on the clip, said so.

"You're fricking serious, aren't you?"

Reardon certainly was. "Watch that section just before the Senator's whole demeanor changes."

Sloane did.

"See that?" Reardon was pointing to the man closest to the reporter. He wore a military-style buzz cut and black sunglasses. "Follow Macey's line of sight. Who is he staring at?"

"Buzz-boy."

"And?"

Ethan replayed it slowly a third time. "And Buzz-boy is mouthing something to Macey just before Macey is scared shitless." Ethan slammed still. "Hell, if you're right... then... Charles Smith...."

A painful smile scratched Reardon's face. "Send out an e-mail. We want anything and everything on Buzz-boy, ASAP. And anything on this news clip."

Ethan's fingers flew across the keyboard.

Reardon poured two more bourbons. "I know how we can catch the guy who ordered the hit."

Ethan stopped, stared.

"You said you have the phone of one of Basteros' men."

Ethan pulled the phone from the pocket of his light-colored cargoes. "Right here in my hot little hand."

Reardon was pleased but quiet.

Ethan was beyond quiet. "Are you going to fricking tell me what's brewing in that irritating head of yours?"

"Absolutely," Reardon replied, "But first we have some planning to do."

# Chapter 33

# Claudia

December 28, 2010

1:32 pm

SAUL AND I were leaving Nankari.

In light of what we now knew, it was for the best.

I placed a newly washed plate into the wooden drying rack and continued the lunch dishes. Nearby, Annie was quietly humming, redressing Saul's wound.

Saul sat at the dining table working his laptop, his expression a visual mish-mash of concentrated eye squints and frowns. He wore his trademark jeans and a black, sleeveless muscle shirt, my pitiful head registering more muscle than shirt. Several neatly stacked piles of paper, two empty coffee cups and his mobile phone surrounded him.

Saul caught my eyes. "You okay?"

Of course I wasn't. But I nodded at him, smiled a small, weak smile. It didn't alleviate his concern however; worry lines still marred that striking face of his.

Annie's loose, wheaten locks fell to one side. "Leave the dishes, Claudia, just go and...."

"And what?" I said. "Rest?" My manner was sharp, biting and I immediately apologized.

She dismissed it in her usual Annie-like graciousness and returned to Saul. I returned to the dishes and desperately clung onto the lingering smells of freshly baked bread and smoked ham.

"Whatever happened, we will find out the truth," Saul said.

"I know," I answered. But did I really want the truth any longer?

The soothing aromas quickly deserted me. The chilling memory of two hours earlier returned like a brazen, ill wind.

I am sitting beside Saul. "Do you know who wants me dead or why?" My words have a ridiculously implausible quality to them.

" _Only that it's not the same person responsible for the other murders."_

I cross my arms on the table, marvel at its dust-free surface and grunt. "Well, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?"

_Saul grins_. _"Today we rest. We'll leave late tonight."_

Rest? I have just slept over ten hours.?

" _I have something to show you," Saul says in a non-committal way._

" _Hmm, a good something or a bad something."_

He shrugs. "Not sure; maybe both."

I'm naturally intrigued. He whips his laptop around to face me. And my breath grinds to an instant halt. I side-glance Saul. His brows knit into a tight frown. I lean closer, take in the extraordinary image.

It is a snapshot of my dream, a shot of the long hallway, the ugly portrait, the endless spiral staircase and most importantly, the door, looming as large as I had always visualized it.

" _I can't imagine what this must be like for you," Saul whispers._

What it's like? Disturbing, shocking, wonderful... strangely liberating are just my first thoughts.

" _Wh... who... who?" I say, sounding like an owl with anxiety issues._

And then Saul tells me.

About Araneya Estate.

Its name conjures up faraway visions of a beautifully quaint cottage, of tall, floral archways and stone cobbled walkways. Of a small, pretty woman with a large, welcoming grin.

Of vast, stately rooms and old, elaborate furnishings.

Of hallways that go on forever.

Of... hidey-holes.

I instantly straighten.

Hidey-holes.

And just like that, fear resurrects into something far more horrible, far more frightening.

I gasp, stumble out of my chair and step back.

" _Claudia, what's wrong?"_

I don't answer... I can't. Terror has struck me dumb. I fall into the wall, hear blood rush to my head as I stare blindly into an alien past. Saul is shaking me, calling out my name. But I can barely hear him; his voice replaced by others, more fearful, more urgent.

And then I smell that stench, so strong, so putrid... so human....

So absolutely final.

The unmistakable stench of death.

I stare at my hands. I stare at what's in them... what's on them.

Oh god... no... no... oh god....

_My stomach heaves, once, twice and I stagger forward and grab a chair. It falls. I nearly fall with it. I clutch my stomach. Bile now burns my insides. And the need to run consumes me like a ravenous, wild animal. I get as far as the kitchen. But there my legs desert me and I crumble to the floor. Saul is next to me. He reaches out but I shrink away._ _I huddle my knees close to my chest_ _and desperately try to forget._

" _Tell me what you saw, Claudia."_

I shake my head, thankful that the vision is now dispersing, returning to its original place.

" _Baby, please... it's important."_

I look to Saul's face. His anxious eyes are pleading. I press my hand to his cheek; it's clammy, unusually cool. A heavy weight presses against my chest, robbing me of my next breath. My hand falls away as I reluctantly nod. I shrug off the thousands of threatening goose bumps, clutch my knees tighter to me. "I... I saw a small girl," I stammer.

Icy shivers work through me as I visualize her again. Her terrified face, her long, thick hair, her pretty blue and white dress all caked in blood. I place my palms flat on the floor as I tell Saul. "She's... she's....." My throat begins to clog. "Oh no... please no...."

Strong arms grab my shoulders. "What about her, Claudia? Tell me."

But I shake my head furiously. "No, just let her run, please just let her run... hide...

... _let her forget."_

An emphatic slam of the front screen door snapped me back to the present. Ethan appeared, his hands tucked in the pockets of his long shorts. His eyes darted directly to Saul and he nodded. Saul closed his eyes and nodded back.

It wasn't easy to shove away the thoughts of the blood-soaked girl. But something about Ethan's expression told me I should. I forced a playful groan. "You two are doing it again."

With a click of the bin lid, Annie disposed of Saul's old bandage. She then stripped some wipes from a commercial container and cleaned her hands. A faint smell of antiseptic wafted from her. "Get used to it, Claudia. They've been communicating like that for so long, they don't realize how irritating it is to the rest of us plebs." She laughed. I obligingly laughed with her.

Surprisingly, there was no reaction from either man. Worse still, Ethan appeared like one who had just run over his much-beloved cat. "Okay, what's wrong?" I asked.

Ethan rested his forearm along the bar. His stance was awkward, the bar too low for him. However, any obvious unease he felt seemed pointed towards me. Was he preparing me for something... dare I say it... _bad_?

I looked to Annie. She screwed her face in a comical sort of way and shrugged. She then took solace in one of the barstools. I wiped my hands and joined her. My stool complained bitterly as I heaved into it, screeching like some distressed parrot.

Again, I asked Ethan what was wrong. He was staring at his black joggers. I noticed the familiar white Nike insignia on one of them and waited for him to answer.

Saul spoke instead. He had his thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of his nose. "Just tell her, Ethan."

I didn't much care for Saul's heavy monotone or the fact that both he and Ethan always knew shit well before I did.

"Remember Saul telling you about a Charles Smith?" Ethan's voice had a hard, tightened edge to it.

"The man who wanted something done to me? Have you found out who he is?"

"Not yet, but I _do_ know what Smith wanted Thomas Bellante to do."

The fine hairs on the back of my neck coiled. I bit down on my lip and prayed for numbness.

"Smith, or whoever he was working for, wanted you certified as mentally unstable after Simon's death... he wanted _you_ and everyone else close to you to believe it."

I didn't know who gasped louder, Annie or me. I reeled back into the barstool, thankful for its high back. "W... why?"

Ethan dropped his gaze, slumped his shoulders. He appeared vulnerable, apologetic even and I instantly felt sorry for him. "There was a strong chance that the psych you were seeing in Sydney could have helped you remember. Assisting patients to come to grips with their forgotten pasts was apparently his forte. Someone didn't want to take that gamble. They wanted you back in Nankari under the care of Dr. Malcolm Cruikshank."

"Weren't they worried that Cruikshank could have achieved the same result?" Annie asked, reiterating my own thoughts.

Ethan looked to Annie and shook his head. "When Cruikshank wasn't spending time psyching patients, he spent it on his other sideline, working for Thomas Bellante. That's what Smith had Bellante do, convince Cruikshank to take on the job of babysitting Claudia."

Ethan then swung back to me. His sun-tanned face had whitened, his normally lively eyes, flat. "And Cruikshank did. Under Bellante and Smith's orders he set about making you appear so far gone, that if you ever spilt anything you knew, it would've been just the ranting of a grieving lunatic."

There was a sick, bitter taste in my mouth as I tried to process. "So the whole time Dr. Cruikshank was purposely convincing me that I was crazy?"

Ethan cleared his throat. "Worse than that, Angel. He was actually medicating you with a drug, a hallucinogen called Phencyclidine."

"PCP," Saul whispered. It was then that I noticed Saul rounded over, his downturned face mere inches from his tightly clasped hands.

"Yep, only small doses, but enough to accentuate the PTSD symptoms."

Saul groaned.

But I was past groaning. Visions of the small girl hit me. "Did Dr. Cruikshank know what had happened to me at Araneya?"

Ethan shook his head.

"And the watchers?"

"Were really there, purposely fueling your supposed paranoia. Possibly explains why you felt that they had changed when you returned home to Nankari."

Numbness began to desert me, replaced by a slow fueling anger.

"Angel, even the behavioral therapy you were getting was to make you...."

I gestured Ethan to stop and jumped off the stool. I began to pace; my fingers ached from the constant twisting. Soon I was on the patio and then on the sand. The scorching heat bit my bare feet. But, in some warped way, it disturbingly helped.

Dr. fucking Cruikshank.

I recalled his harsh, wiry face, his long hooked nose hovering over shrewd, smug lips, over his ridiculous grey goatee. I recalled the many hours we had spent together, the times I tried to convince him, the times he tried to convince me, the times when it got all so horribly draining, until I couldn't fight back any longer.

Until I just gave in.

Just as he would have wanted.

How could I have been so stupid, so gullible, so easily accommodating? My rising fury began liquefying into tears, blinding me, as blind as I had been then. I searched the pockets of my denim shorts, was relieved to find several tissues. I pulled one out and blew my nose.

_You were vulnerable, Claudia,_ I tried to justify. _You had just lost the most important person in your life. Cruikshank, the bastard, took advantage of that._

You were the victim.

As I so often seemed to be.

Fresh anger churned out fresh tears. I was fast tiring of this victim status. I wiped the last of my tears and headed back to Annie's.

Saul was on one of the swinging seats. I stopped, used a leafy bush for cover and watched him. He had his back hunched over, his hands fastened together. There was no doubting the disquiet on his face. I thought back to when I told him of my vision of the girl. Afterwards, hatred burned bright in his eyes; his muscles were incredibly tense as he vowed that he would find the truth and those responsible would pay. The abrupt change in him was disturbing.

With a heavy heart, I wondered if I was good for a man like him. He who relied on his remarkable self-control to help so many. Did I really have the right to screw that up, as I obviously appeared to be doing? Or was I merely over-reacting, unwittingly trying to sabotage a relationship barely begun? I bagged the thoughts for a later date and walked over to him.

As soon as he saw me, his eyes widened, a smile hung off the corner of his lips. What was it I saw? Relief? Joy? Compassion? I don't know. But I knew that look would forever stay etched in my mind.

When I reached him, he grabbed both my hands. "Been another hell of a day," he said.

That it had.

I took his lead and settled in next to him. "And it's not even over yet."

The frightening reality of that hit me more than I would've liked.

# Chapter 34

# Saul

December 28, 2010

4:35 pm

"YOU OKAY?"

REARDON'S eyes snapped opened. The surrounding images appeared a little blurry. He blinked several times and soon recognized Ethan staring down at him, appearing disturbingly... _disturbed_.

Reardon pressed a clenched fist to one side, straightened his unusually stiff body and leaned back into Annie's sofa. He welcomed its silky-smooth fabric, so cooling against his hot, irritable skin. "What happened?"

Ethan plunged into the other end of the sofa with an emphatic swoosh creating faint tremors along the seating. In his hand was a half-eaten green apple. "You're exhausted is what happened. Lack of proper sleep, an annoyingly unwanted bullet wound, and of course, good old emotional preoccupation. You've been asleep for well over an hour. I would see that as a good thing."

"Is Claudia okay?"

Ethan feigned hurt. "Of course she is. As if I would let anything happen to her under my watch. She's still on the patio, still adjusting."

Reardon rolled back his head until it found the sofa's headrest. He closed his eyes and only saw Claudia, confused and shaken.

"So, how are you really feeling, my friend?"

"Fine."

"Yep, can see that."

"Ok, fucking damn angry, then."

"Better. Can I give you a small word of advice?"

Reardon sighed. "You're so full of advice these days."

"Ah, mate, that's because you're so full of needing it." Ethan crunched into his apple. "Anyway, just hold off giving Cruickshank his just deserts. At the very least until you've calmed down a notch or two. Don't want you doing something you may regret."

"He deserves whatever is coming to him." A wealth of fitting retributions entertained Reardon's mind, some that even unsettled Reardon.

"Reckon you're right. But it'll happen without your help. The man's dying. Lung cancer."

Good old-fashioned karma. How Reardon loved it. "So, where's the bastard now?"

"In custody. Thought Cruickshank would be safer."

Reardon cast Ethan a questioning look. "If I want to get to Cruickshank, whether he's in custody or not...."

" _You_ could, I know. But I'm thinking more about our anonymous Mr. Smith and what a very unhappy camper he'll be once he learns that Cruickshank has bailed out on him."

For just one, single pleasurable moment, Reardon visualized Smith with Cruikshank. His lips curled.

"Know that look only too well, buddy. Remind me never to get on your bad side." Ethan studied the next section of apple attack. "Cruickshank is bloody scared. Trust me, when the coppers finally arrived, he just about dragged _them_ to the police car. Whoever this Charles Smith is, he must be one scary man."

Reardon thought of some of the worst criminals he and Ethan had stumbled across. Outwardly, many appeared your typical, everyday nice guy. Inwardly lurked an entirely different story. "So what else did Cruikshank tell you?"

"What we first thought. Cruikshank's job was to make Claudia appear unstable if she ever remembered. He has no idea of Smith's identity only that a couple of weeks back, Smith told him he'd be required to take Claudia on again. Cruikshank refused."

Reardon sensed fresh anger bubble in his throat. "What, he thinks that all will be forgiven now that he's too sick to carry his illegal shit on?"

"Not sure and don't care. I'm not the religious type, as you well know. But he is seriously looking to make amends. And I used that to my advantage."

Reardon rubbed the back of his aching neck. "I need a bloody run."

"First sensible thing you've said. And throw in some of that artsy-fartsy meditation shit you do, preferably before tonight."

Reardon pictured the magnificent Himalayas where he had trained, its unbelievably precious and pristine beauty. As he saw himself run through its virginal territory, he took in its rugged, snow-capped mountains, smelt the first sprinkles of spring, sensed the still, harsh cold pelt his face. Beneath his thudding feet was the challenging, softening sludge stressing his muscles to the max; in his overstretched lungs an intense, burning pain.

The training had been brutal.

But Reardon had never felt more alive.

He raked his hair and fell back to reality. A continuous but subtle clatter sounded to his right. Annie was busily packing away dishes.

"Know who encouraged Claudia to see Cruikshank?" Ethan asked.

"Her father," Reardon said.

"That couldn't have gone down well."

It hadn't. Afterwards, Claudia appeared totally defeated. "Everything keeps leading back to that bloody family of hers."

"And one very huge, very colorful family it is."

Reardon thought the comment curious. He studied Ethan as he headed to the kitchen and binned the apple, as he whispered something in Annie's ear. Annie nodded.

"I'm thinking you went to Cabriati's today," Reardon said after Ethan returned.

"Yep."

"And I'm guessing the place was packed with relatives."

"Packed is an understatement."

"And they were all there because?" Reardon paused, and then shook his head. "Of course, they were all there because that's what the Cabriati clan do... look after their own."

"A relief to see your instincts are still alive and functional."

Reardon ignored him. "Did you speak to Vincent Cabriati?"

"Nope."

"But you obviously found out something important."

"Ooo... yes. But let's just say it's not a good something."

Could this day get any worse? Reardon quickly reprimanded himself. Of course, it could. "Am I going to need a drink?"

"Perhaps several, my good man."

"Fuck this, Ethan." The whole case was making Reardon's gut tangle in ways he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Annie appeared from nowhere with two half-filled glasses of bourbon. Reardon caught her kindly eyes. "You know?"

Her downturned mouth was his answer. She left an almost full bourbon bottle on the coffee table then disappeared down the hall.

"That bad," Reardon whispered. He emptied his glass and then gave Ethan the green light.

"I recognized someone." Ethan pulled out two folded bits of paper from his shirt pocket. "At first, I thought it impossible. Got out my mobile and quickly snapped a photo. Luckily I did, because within minutes, Cabriati was onto me, and I was escorted out of there by some pretty buffed-up guys."

Reardon wondered what someone built like Ethan would term a _buffed-up guy_ but he let the disturbing image pass. "And?"

"I fiddled with the photo on my computer; you know all that photo-shop shit – a black leather jacket, matching hood and so on."

Reardon instantly saw where this was going and prayed he was wrong.

"You asked me if I would ever recognize the person watching Claudia at The Local the day Alice Polinski was killed. I didn't think I could but...."

He handed Reardon one of the folded papers. It was a colored printout of a person in the photo-shopped apparel and sunglasses. Reardon detected something familiar beneath the masquerade. At first, he couldn't quite pin it but then it smacked him like an imaginary ten-ton fist. His throat automatically dried. "Can't be," he scarcely whispered.

"Sorry, mate, but it is." He handed Reardon the original photo.

Reardon held it for a few bare moments, watched it slip from his shaky hands and flutter onto the shag-pile rug. A cold, hard face stared back at him, almost in a mocking way and he thought how truly warped the world could be.

He slugged the rest of his second drink. It slid down smoothly, comfortably. His head felt almost vacant, free for a short time. And it felt bloody good. "This is really fucked."

"That it is, my friend." Ethan paused and then, "I've been playing around with a few theories."

Reardon welcomed the theories, mainly because he was still too dazed to come up with his own. They were good, some better than others. But like a dogged spark of electricity, they eventually generated Reardon's own idea.

And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

And the more it made sense, the more he hated it.

"Are we still going through with tonight?" Ethan asked.

"Of course."

"Does Claudia know of the plans?"

"Only that we are leaving Nankari." Something Reardon hoped wouldn't eventuate if all went well.

"You haven't told her?"

It was almost accusatory. He side-glanced Ethan. "No."

"Why not?"

"You don't think she's been through enough already?"

"Everyone you help has _been through enough already_ but you always keep them up to date."

Reardon began rubbing his brow.

"Saul, even with how you feel about her, you know deep down you have to tell her, if for no other reason, for her own safety."

"When she's with me, she _is_ safe." But whom was Reardon really trying to convince?

Ethan flapped the photo in his face. "And this," he said, in a not too convivial tone. "Are you going to tell her about this?"

Reardon visualized Claudia's sad, crumpled body on the kitchen floor. One memory had caused it, _one_ solitary, bloody memory. How would she deal with something of _this_ magnitude? "Eventually."

"She needs to know, Saul, like right now. She needs to know who she can and cannot trust."

"Yes, she does," he hissed, a little too forcibly. " _But not now_."

Ethan's eyes rolled skyward. "Can't believe this of you, mate. And I know women; you'll be making a huge mistake not telling her."

"Then that'll be my mistake to make. And what suddenly made you the all-round expert on women, you who change them more times than your bloody jocks."

Had Reardon just said that? He gritted his teeth and silently cursed. With all their jovial banter about Ethan's womanizing, Reardon knew that once upon a flawless world, Ethan was anything but. All people had their coping mechanisms after traumatic events.

Ethan's women were his.

"I'm sorry," Reardon whispered. "I don't know where that came from."

"I know exactly where it came from. You're feeling torn _and_ not in control. I just happen to be the poor sod available." Ethan stood. "One more piece of Ethan Sloane advice. Don't become like one of her over-protective junkie family. As much as you care about her, she doesn't need that from _you_."

And he left Reardon to dwell on his own thoughts.

***

Reardon ran at least three miles non-stop, performed his _meditation shit_ as Ethan called it, and ran the three miles back. Short in comparison to what he normally did but it brought fresh blood pumping through his veins. Feeling semi-back in control, he showered, changed and then searched for Claudia.

He heard her well before he found her, heard the rhythmic squeal of the outdoors swinging seat.

The blistering red sky was signaling a near-end to another day. Reardon wondered where they would be on its next cycle. Crickets welcomed the cooling evening. A frivolous gecko scurried along the patio's timber railing, stopped, stared and scurried right back off.

Reardon snuggled next to Claudia, the swinging seat creaking a little louder, longer than normal. "Hey you," he murmured.

Claudia smiled. Shit, how he loved that smile, how her entire face simply smiled along with it. "Hey you back," she said.

"Been here the whole time?"

She shrugged. "For the most part. Had lots to think about. And a good, long chat with Ethan helped. He feels so bad about Cruikshank." She was staring towards the roaring, incoming waves. "It hurt him."

_It hurt me_ , he wanted to say.

"I told him that I appreciated his honesty, that I would've hated it more if he hadn't told me."

Reardon rolled his eyes. Ethan's ego would be intolerable after that. Couldn't he, just once, be wrong? Reardon buried his nose into her thick, windswept hair, inhaled the familiar smells that came with her and wallowed.

She reminded him of a young injured horse that his father once had, lost, frightened but highly spirited. All it wanted to do was run away. Just like her. Until his father taught the mare irrevocable trust.

As he needed to do with Claudia.

"Baby?" Reardon whispered.

He heard her soft, seductive _hmmm_ tantalize every living, hungry nerve cell he possessed. He winced and battled, looked forward to the day he would battle no longer and simply have her. Somewhere special... not a place soaked in the blood of dead people. "I have something to tell you."

Her half-hooded eyes swung up to him.

"Tonight, when we leave Nankari...."

Annie rushed in, halting mere feet from them. She was twisting her long, beaded necklace, gazing directly at Claudia. "It's your father," she mumbled. "He's... he's... oh damn it, Claudia, he's just been rushed to hospital. They think a heart attack."

# Chapter 35

# Araneya Estate

1989

" _I WANT TO tell you a story, my Carina."_

Her Papa appeared genial, more than he had in some time, and hence the girl, with the trusting innocence that came only to the young, snuggled beneath the security of her father's arm. "Is it a good story, Papa?"

But her only answer came in the swift stillness of his body. The little girl stilled also and waited.

They were in her special place, beneath her watchful guardian angel, in her own bubble of magic. Here, she would listen to the sweet, mysterious voices, the ones that soothed her with comforting words and hopeful promises and the belief that if she wished hard enough, long enough, and was patient in her waiting, then in time her wish would come true.

And the girl did believe.

She believed with all her might.

Moonlight shivered across the stone statue, melting its frozen lips and mutating its cold, grey eyes into something golden and warm. It was smiling at her. She made her wish, as she had done so many times before.

When her wish-making was over and her hope strengthened by the magic, she asked her Papa to tell his story.

His body stiffened further. "It is not a good story. I wish it was."

The little girl felt heartened that her Papa believed in wishes too. "If you wish hard enough, long enough and just wait," she said, proudly stating what she believed, what the magic had taught her, "then the bad story will become a good story."

Her Papa cupped her chin and looked at her with sad, squinting eyes and a lop-sided, downturned mouth. "Then I wish I didn't have to tell you. But it is a story that you must know. Do you understand?"

The girl wasn't sure if she did but she nodded eagerly. "Of course, Papa. I'm very smart."

He smiled a brief, delicate smile and then pulled away. With his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped firmly together, he stared into the muted shadows beyond and began his story. "Once upon a time, there was a young man, a very happy man with a wonderful future ahead of him. Everybody loved him, his family, his friends. Oh, he had many friends." Her father closed his eyes. "But that was soon to all disappear."

" _Why, Papa, what happened?"_

" _The war happened," he said, in that unnatural pitch she knew so well, the one that never failed to make tight, nasty knots in her tummy._

She huddled her knees close to her chest.

" _A ludicrous, senseless war."_

The girl didn't know what 'ludicrous' meant, but she wasn't about to ask.

" _The man didn't know that. He thought it was a good war, one that he could be proud to fight in, be brave for his country. And so he willingly and very foolishly took part, only never to return."_

" _Did he die, Papa?"_

" _Oh, yes, Carina, he died all right, but not in the way you think. His body was alive, it moved, spoke, ate, slept, but the rest of him, his core, his heart - his soul - was dead."_

" _I don't understand. How can he be dead but not dead?"_

He glared at her with wild, burning eyes, "Because, that is what war does. It kills who you are, who you once were. It annihilates your very essence. And all that returns is an empty shell."

The girl, fearful of his worsening mood, remained silent.

" _A vast empty shell," he repeated to the hollow space before him. "This man had to do things in that war that he never imagined. Do you know what some of those things were?"_

The girl didn't think she wanted to know.

" _He would kill people, sometimes brutally, not just men, but woman, even children. He would look into their wet, frightened eyes, hear their screams for mercy. But he gave none. They were the enemy, after all."_

The little girl's former hope, her strength, the wondrous magic, was fast diminishing. She trembled. "Papa, I... I don't like this story."

Her Papa ignored her. "The delusional man did many terrible things, things that lodged themselves permanently in his already sad, pathetic mind. But he accepted it, because he knew he was doing it for the good of his country."

His lips curled and he laughed a short, wicked laugh. "For his country. What a joke... what a cruel, cruel joke. Do you know what he found out about his country, the country he fought for so loyally? They didn't even want him in the war; wouldn't even acknowledge or honour him for being there. Everything he had suffered had been for nothing." He shook his head. "And all that remained were the horrific memories of what he had done."

He moaned, buried his head into his trembling hands and fell unusually silent, unusually still.

The girl moistened her small forefinger with her mouth, slicked back a long, wayward lock as she so often did when she was anxious. What should she do? Should she say something to her Papa? Perhaps, give him a hug like Alice did with her when the girl felt as sad as her father appeared.

She looked to her guardian angel, listened to her wise words. "Papa?" she whispered in a quivery voice. "Are you all right?"

His shoulders began shuddering and he whimpered, not once but several times. She sensed a swift, throbbing ache near her heart as she saw tears glistening on his reddened cheeks.

" _Why are you crying?"_

He took a few more moments before tipping his head sideways and looking at her. "Because," he rasped, "because that man is your Papa."

The girl immediately clutched her chest and inhaled sharply. Her Papa killing people? Could he do something like that? She didn't understand what war was. She didn't understand much of what he was saying, but she did understand that he had killed people... children. She felt scared, scared for herself and for her Papa.

The girl looked to the left, mapped out the cobblestone path to Alice's cottage... to safety. Should she run there? Now? Hide from her Papa? A nearby owl hooted and she jumped, her eyes wide, her heart thundering. Something gripped her wrist. It was her Papa's hand. "Please don't ever be afraid of me," his voice now gentler. "I couldn't bear it if you were. Trust me."

She wanted to, she wanted to very much.

" _Your Papa is not a well man."_

" _But you will get better, you said so."_

" _I don't know," he said. "I may have to go away for a while."_

" _And when you come back, will you be my Papa again?"_

He tenderly placed his warm, moist hands on either side of her face. "Look at me," he whispered.

What she saw were remnants of her old Papa, with his sweet, loving eyes and his warm, hopeful smile. "I promise you, Carina, I promise you I will get better. And then I will come for you, and I will be your Papa once more."

And this time, she did trust him.

# Chapter 36

# Claudia

December 28, 2010

8:12 pm

I PINCHED MYSELF.

Was I really hiding amongst a less inhabited back section of a several story hospital, cloaked in Annie's blue surgery scrubs, ready to embark on a crazy, perhaps dangerous plan to see my father?

I scanned the sparsely lit area. Maybe it was my feverish mood, but it seemed to exude a strangely sinister feel. Large dismal-colored industrial bins lined one of the bricked walls. Unfriendly smells drifted from them; shadows bleakly shifted over them. And all around, low, foreign sounds echoed, the thumps and the creaks that came with a steamy, stagnant night such as that. Another heavier thump and a pair of bright, pink eyes shot out of nowhere and stared directly at us. My breath stalled.

"It's just a possum," Saul said.

"I knew that," I grumbled. The damn thing hissed at us. I felt the ridiculous urge to hiss back.

"You still want to do this?"

I turned to Saul. Why the question? Was he having second thoughts? Worse still, had he caught me pinching? I frowned. "Of course. You think I would dress like this because I have a secret fetish for nurse uniforms?"

The near-full moon slipped from the cloud's shield and captured the playful sparkle in Saul's eyes. "You mean you don't? That's truly disappointing, Claudia."

I fought off the urge to smile, wrinkled my nose at him instead. From then, the night appeared less menacing.

Saul's phone vibrated. The conversation was brief but long enough to steal that precious sparkle from him. "They've found another," he whispered.

My throat tightened and I swallowed. "That would make it five."

"Possibly more."

As Saul had expected.

" _Whoever is after you, will assume you'll go to him," Saul says._

I see my father laying in a screeching ambulance or hospital bed fighting for his life. "And they would assume right." I swipe the car keys from the coffee table; hold them as if they are a prized possession.

Saul grabs my arm, swings me to face him. "You'd risk your life?"

" _Yes."_

" _And everyone else who'd be there? Your family, friends? You don't think you'd be putting their lives at risk as well."_

I step back, fall into the sofa.

_You're just collateral, I recall the moron say to Saul._ _As would anyone, unfortunate enough to be in my radius._

My head falls and I picture my Papa again. "We left on such bad terms."

" _I know."_

" _If something happens to him...."_

Saul is quiet, paces a few steps, rubs his brow, turns, paces some more. Several times, he glances at Annie still twisting her necklace.

What is he doing? I search for Ethan. He is swinging on a barstool. I give him a questioning look. Ethan presses his forefinger across his lips and winks.

So I wait in silence.

When Saul stops, he turns to Ethan. Saul's posture is taller, erect and he is grinning.

" _Ah, my friend, I take that look to mean you have a plan?"_

I oscillate between the smug-looking pair. "What plan?"

I pulled the supposedly long pants as low as possible on my hips. They still appeared too short. "So where is this new low-life hiding?"

"He's not. He's in full view, in the outpatients."

This was new. The other four preferred the refuge of the night. All in a prime position of the hospital's well-lit entrance.

All waiting for me.

The mere thought of these watchful, faceless figures brought back a similarly troubling past. I monitored the frisky shadows still teasing the bins and trembled. "I can't believe this is really happening to me."

Saul hooked his arm around my neck. "I get that."

I leaned into the familiar security of his musky scent. "So what does Outpatient's Man look like? In case he decides to cross wards."

Saul didn't find my latter comment amusing and said as much. "Young guy, tall, leanly built, mousy-colored hair that looks badly in need of washing. As does his white T-shirt and khaki shorts. Work boots, caked in dried mud."

My mouth dropped. "And this is who they've sent to kill me?"

Saul rubbed the bridge of his straight nose and grinned. "You sound insulted."

I shrugged. Perhaps I was.

"You would prefer someone in an expensive silk shirt and an Armani suit to do away with you."

I grinned back. "Sounds a little worthier... yes."

Saul kissed the top of my head. "Remember, these guys are serious."

I knew that, but in some odd way, the temporary lightness helped.

"I wish I could say that everything will turn out fine," Saul said, "but I'd be lying."

_Lie if you need_. I was being facetious, thankfully to myself.

"Besides, I have this." I twisted the thin black leather band tied to my wrist until an orangey-red stone appeared. It was a gift from Annie.

" _This is a fire-opal," she explains. "It's an enhancer of personal power, a protector against danger. Wear it for me, so I know you're okay."_

I hold the smooth, shimmery rock; imagine its power already sweeping through me and promise her.

" _As a true symbol of fire," she adds, "it loves oxygen and light. Feed it, and it will forever feed you."_

Saul closed his hand over my wrist. "You sure you still want to do this?"

I gave the question more thought, thought how easy it would be to walk away, use Saul as a thick, cozy doona and wrap myself in him. Thought how risky the plan was, not just to me but also to others.

Thought of my beautiful Papa.

And trusted my instincts as Papa had always taught me.

"If I was any one of your other clients, what would you advise me right now?"

Saul's joggers shuffled along the gravelly ground. "That's an unfair question, Claudia. You're _not_ like my other clients."

I was well aware of that. "Pretend."

"No."

"Why?"

"I'm not into make-believe." He withdrew his arm, raked his hair almost furiously.

I could've stopped the questions. And considering the situation we were in, perhaps I should've. Total focus was integral. But I wanted to know. "Please."

He glanced at me and just as quickly cut away. "I would probably...." And he stopped.

I gripped his chin, forced him to look at me. "Don't _probably_ me, Saul. From all I have learnt about you, _probably_ isn't even in your vocabulary _._ _You_ act. Instinctively, knowledgeably, confidently. It is how you have helped all those people. So just damn tell me what you _really_ think I should do."

I could see his dilemma journey a three-part act. "What your heart, your instincts tell you to do."

"Which is to see my father."

He cemented his jaw and nodded.

"Why?"

When he opened his eyes, they were a giant kaleidoscope of emotions, not all decipherable. He stroked my cheek. "You have lived your entire life under a perpetual shroud of fear and guilt. If anything happened to your father, your guilt would compound, weaken you more. If you were any other client, I would do anything possible to prevent that from happening."

"But you would let that happen to me?"

"No, Baby. I wouldn't have suggested this plan in the first place if that were the case. But a selfish part of me doesn't want you hurt, wants you safe."

He looked battle weary.

And his battle was me.

I thought of all my so-called protectors, Nate, Lia, Mel and more dominantly Papa. And however grateful I was to them, however much I loved them, _I didn't want that relationship with Saul_.

"Thank you," I whispered to him.

We kissed. Passionately, yes, but to me, more as an affirmation.

"There's Tallow," Saul said, looking over my shoulder.

I followed his gaze, made out a dark, muted silhouette in the distance. A sudden weight pressed against my chest as the reality of what I was about to do hit me.

"Remember," Saul said. "I can't access this fire escape from the outside, so ring immediately if anything goes wrong. I can get Jenna and Scotty to you right away. And for goodness sake, Claudia, if there's just the slightest thing that feels off... _get out of there_."

I double-checked my pocketed phone and gave him a quick kiss. With a sense of consternation clinging like second skin, I joined the short but robust Tallow.

Tallow didn't engage in conversation as he led me up the many cemented stairs. He was more like a vacillating lighthouse, scanning the poorly lit, barren stillness. When we finally reached the top floor, he gestured for me to wait beside the closed metal door.

A small time passed. The door clanged and whooshed, then slowly squealed opened. A tallish, similarly garbed woman with angular cheekbones and a long, pointy chin stood on the other side. I already knew who she was, Viola, Annie's friend. She hurriedly gestured me forward.

I spun to Tallow. "You have thirty minutes," he said.

And with that, I stepped inside the hospital ward.

The stark, sterile environment blasted me like an avalanche of icy, hostile winds. It coated the lofty, white walls, tortured the brightly burning lights, taunted the sparkling shine of rumbling medication trolleys and pristine floors. Staff in sensible shoes padded in and out of rooms, others hurried along the lengthy corridor. But they all appeared as if time had an agenda of its own. Paperwork rustled, clipboards clicked and the rare verbal exchanges appeared curt and humorless.

"This is the Intensive Care Unit," Viola said.

She slipped an ID similar to hers over my head. "No-one should notice that the photo isn't you but keep it flipped over anyway."

I fingered the plastic ID in place. "How's my father?"

Small crinkles creased Viola's gently smiling eyes. "At this stage, the doctor only _suspects_ a heart attack. He's still waiting for the first test results to confirm it. In the meantime, your father has been sedated, placed on oxygen and other precautionary medication."

"So he's okay?"

"For now, yes, Claudia." Viola then urged me along the busying corridors.

***

It was deja vu.

Seeing my father's rigid body lying in a dimly lit hospital room, seemingly kept alive by plastic tubes and a perpetually bleating machine. Mama sat hunched next to him, clinging onto his wrist with one hand and a white, crumpled handkerchief in the other.

Nate hovered near the foot of the bed, rocking back and forth, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. Marcus was in the far corner, slumped forward in a fabric armchair. His fingers were static, laced through his long, fair hair.

I bit my lip and inched forward, scarcely removing my gaze from Papa.

"Someone checked him a few moments ago," Nate said. He sounded tired and understandably frightened.

I forced a feeble smile and called out to Nate. He looked twice, the second time with a comically scrunched up nose and forehead. "Clauds?"

That alone grabbed Marcus' attention. He stood and took quick, unsteady steps towards us. We held each other's hand, bowed our heads until they scarcely touched, as we had done many times before. And for a few precious seconds we took solace in one another.

"May not even have been a heart attack," I whispered into our special circle.

"Yeah, that's what the doctor said," Nate answered. "But, seeing Papa like this, so powerless... it's not cool."

I understood. Our father's physical and personal dominance automatically appointed him the backbone of our family. If he weakened, strangely, it weakened all of us.

_Your Papa's doctors say I am strong like... like a bear,_ he had stated on Christmas Day with such confidence.

So then how had this happened?

I looked up at my brothers and asked them. "We don't know," Marcus mumbled. "We weren't there."

"And Mama?"

Marcus shrugged. "She's barely spoken a word since we've been here."

"Like last time," Nate added. "All of this is exactly like last time."

Not everything.

I searched the blank, back wall, imagined a tall, solid figure leaning straight against it, imagined his arms fiercely crossed, imagined his cool, unreadable face. "Where's Milo?"

Nate clenched his jaw. "Milo's beginning to really piss me off."

"Nothing?"

"Not one single, fricking word from him."

My neck prickled. "And he knows about Papa?"

"Both I and Marcus have tried ringing, left messages and whatever. Still nothing."

The prickles began to itch. "Keep trying, anyway." I then spun around.

Nate spun me back. "Clauds?" he said, with a puzzled look.

He had questions, none of which I had the time nor the inclination to answer. "I can't right now." He studied me and winced. He then released my arm and I headed to Papa.

Papa appeared remarkably peaceful, even with the bulky oxygen mask. His cheeks were faintly flushed and surprisingly warm to touch. I turned to Mama. Her blanched, listless skin and glazed, sunken eyes told me all I needed to know. "What happened, Mama; what happened to Papa?"

It took only one slow blink, a long, profound sigh and my mother's entire demeanor changed. Clasping together her well-manicured hands, she straightened her shoulders and glowered at me.

"M... Mama?"

"Is this what it takes," she said in a low, taut voice, "your Papa in a hospital bed before you finally see him, perhaps even forgive him?"

"It isn't like that, Mama."

"Of course it is."

Her words were harsh, yes. But, deep inside, I wondered if she was partly right? Uncertain, I blurted out a shaky apology but she shoved it aside with a dignified flick of her handkerchief. Behind me, a door opened and closed and urgent voices muttered.

"That day when you walked out on your Papa," my mother went on, "when you chose the help of some... some... complete stranger instead, it hurt your father very much."

An old saying about pots and black kettles spun like disconnected pieces in my head. Hadn't my mother once left Papa, hurt him also? Was she trying to pass some of her own guilt onto me? "I was hurting too, Mama."

"I'm sure you were, Claudia. But _we_ are blood. _We_ still look after our own, just like your father has done all these years. What you did broke his heart. You, Claudia you broke his heart. _You_ are why he's here."

I stepped back horrified, aimless and blind. Footsteps thudded closer. Strong arms held me up and Aunt Lia's unmistakable voice dominated. "That's enough, Adeline," she hissed.

Mama dropped her head. In a contrite way? I wasn't sure. A few, short locks of her near-black hair fell across her high cheekbones.

"Nate, Marcus," Lia said, not once taking her eyes off Mama. "I think your mother needs some time away from this room. Perhaps the cafeteria?"

A shaky-looking Nate crouched in front of Mama. It struck me how identical their profiles were. "Let's go see if their coffee is as good as yours, Mama," he said. My mother leaned her head to one side, cupped Nate's anxious face and smiled. A little envy grazed my soul.

"You okay, Sis?" Marcus asked.

I straightened. "Yeah," I lied. Marcus didn't look convinced. I didn't blame him. A superior imagination I had, but sadly not the acting skills to match. "Please, just look after Mama."

With a progressively heavy heart, I watched them leave. I pressed my burning chest and took deep breaths, smelling all the wrong, sickly smells. I then sat beside Papa. The lean, stiff mattress, still warm from my mother, scarcely moved; its plastic cover crackled.

When Lia touched my shoulder, it was light and supportive as was her voice. Her brightly colored bangles jingled a familiar, soothing tune. "You know, my darling, this isn't your fault."

Lia dipped her head, tried to catch my eyes but I could barely look at her. "Then why would Mama say such a thing?"

"She's frightened. She's needs to make sense of what's happened to your father."

I studied Papa's stationary figure, listened to the rhythmic, mechanical whirring of his life-controlling machine. And I wondered what he was dreaming about. I squeezed his hand, and prayed it was only good things.

Lia was possibly right about my mother but my perpetual conscious wasn't as kind. "Like Mama said, Papa would've been so hurt when I left him that day."

"And if I'm not mistaken, so would've you."

"I'm not the one lying in a damn hospital bed."

"No. You're the one who carries guilt around as if it's another bodily organ. Have I not taught you anything?"

I swore and shot a sharp glance at Lia. But, she was as always, incredibly patient, incredibly loving. And I selfishly wished my own mother were more like her.

Papa groaned.

Or maybe I had imagined it.

With my face mere inches from his, I watched and prayed. Could I be so fortunate? When he released a second, louder groan, I stroked his soft, tepid cheek, whispered his name repeatedly. Long, hopeful seconds passed before Papa gradually opened his eyes.

I shot a look at Lia. Her grin was all teeth and happy crinkles. "He'll probably be a bit disoriented, just reassure him."

I did as she suggested, bent close to his ear and briefly told him where he was and what had happened.

He closed his eyes and I winced. Was he going back to sleep? More tense seconds passed. I turned at a shuffling sound to my left. Papa was lifting his arm. The movement was jerky and uncoordinated. His arm fell back onto the woven, hospital-blue blanket. "What, Papa? What are you trying to do?"

But Papa closed his eyes again. I appealed to Lia. She appeared as bewildered as I felt. Back to Papa and I noticed his lips moving.

Then I knew.

I carefully lifted his mask, rested it on his forehead and waited. His first intelligible word was my pet name. I fought back a hysterical laugh and cupped his face with both hands. "Yes Papa, it's me, your Carina."

He smiled.

"You're going to be fine, Papa. I know this in my heart."

Papa coughed. I realized it was an attempt at a laugh. And when he spoke, it was with an unusually croaky, brittle voice. Still the best sound I'd heard in a long, long time. "That is because your Papa is strong... like a...."

"Bear." I laughed with him. That one beautiful moment could've lasted forever.

But it didn't. My phone bleated; Tallow warning me.

I wanted to tell Tallow to go away, that this was _my_ time with Papa, probably my only time. To give me just a few more precious seconds.

It was as if my father knew. Those charming blue eyes of his, the ones that I always synonymized with trust, loyalty and more importantly love, locked with mine. "You have to go," he whispered.

I didn't know what to say.

He searched for my hand, found it and covered it with his own. "I did not mean the awful things I said that day, Carina."

Tears pricked my eyes. I swallowed them back. "I know, Papa, I didn't either."

Papa sighed; his eyelids fluttered in a sluggish, sleepy-like way. So many unsaid words seemed to drift aimlessly between us. But I had to let them go.

Instead, I pictured the day when Papa and I would again laze back in a pair of comfortable sun-loungers, soak up the glorious Nankari views and a good bottle of Chianti.

I stroked his newly moistened cheek with the back of my hand, allowed my own tears to fall. Somewhere in that emotional haze, my phone bleated again.

Take a hike, Tallow.

"Someone is worried about you," Papa whispered.

"Yes."

"I worry too."

For once, Papa had every reason to worry. But what was I to tell him? That unknown people for unknown reasons were trying to kill me, some tolerantly waiting outside this very hospital? "You aren't to worry, Papa. I am safe." I tried _not_ to avert my look. Papa would immediately know I was lying.

"Saul Reardon?"

I raised my brow. Strangely, it was in no way malicious or resentful. "Yes, Papa." I waited for an adverse comeback. But there was none. "In many ways he's like you, smart, strong and every bit as fiercely protective. He won't let anything happen to me, just as you haven't."

Papa nodded. "Then you must go... _now_... as this Saul Reardon has planned."

My jaw dropped. "How do you know about what Saul has planned?"

Papa glanced at my surgery scrubs. I rolled my eyes and smiled.

With a heavy sigh, I kissed both his cheeks and gave him a gentle hug. As I did, Papa cast a strange glance sideways. "Just be careful who you trust...." I caught Lia grimacing. She shrugged. "And above all, keep safe."

I promised him I would and then I replaced his mask. With one last squeeze of his hand, I headed towards the door. Behind me, high heels click-clacked along the vinyl flooring. "Claudia, wait." I semi-turned. Lia appeared every bit as disturbed as she sounded. "At least tell me what's going on with you?"

I could've laughed. I mean, seriously, how many ridiculously truthful answers could I give to that question? And did I really want to? Yes, Lia had been an incredible source of strength in my life, particularly during my weakest moments but....

My phone bleated a third time and I swore again. "I don't have the time now, Lia." I quickly text Tallow that I was on my way.

"I need to talk with you." She hesitated, conspicuously dipping her eyes. "I know some things... family things."

_We look after our own_ was fast becoming a tiresome mantra that I just wanted to do horrible stuff to.

"Things that can help me?"

She nodded.

"I'll call you very soon. Right now, for everyone's safety, I need to go."

I hugged her and left.

***

Viola wasn't outside.

I withdrew my mobile, precautionary only, and made my own way back. When I finally spotted the fire-escape door, I tasted sweet relief, blessed Saul for a plan well thought out.

That was, until someone called my name.

Rationality told me that to be impossible. To hear one word rise amongst the clamorous sounds of a hospital ICU ward was, yet again, my hungry imagination feeding. I pressed on.

Heard my name again.

I wiped the increasing dampness from my forehead. Muffled, unintelligible voices rushed past me. A shoulder bumped mine, slowed me down. A curt apology later, I was back on my way. But to where exactly? As a rule, fire escapes are only accessible from one side. Once I used it, Tallow and I would be incapable of locking anyone out.

What to do?

Perhaps go to a nurse's station, call 000. And tell the police what? That someone called out my name? Not a crime in this country, not yet, anyway. I readied to press speed dial to Saul.

"Claudia?" The high-pitched voice skidded along the corridors like an army of pre-pubescent roller-bladers. I cringed, felt relief in some crazy kind of way. When I reached the exit, I heaved the door open and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me. Tallow's gruff, ruddy face flashed back. "Where have you been?"

Before I explained, the door re-opened. With one deliberate, slick movement, Tallow aimed his weapon.

Mel appeared. Her hands were raised high; her stretched, stricken eyes humorously crisscrossed on the gun's barrel.

I stepped towards Tallow. "She's a friend."

"I don't care. Why is she here?"

I decided if Tallow had any affable people skills, he employed them on a needs basis only. "If you remove the gun from her face, she might just answer you."

Tallow lowered it, only partially.

"To... to find out about your father," Mel said, still watching the gun. "You never pick up your damn phone, Claudia."

That wasn't it. I had my phone turned off, as did Saul and Ethan. Precaution if anyone was trying to track us down. We now all possessed disposables.

"Is it possible you were followed?" Tallow asked Mel.

What?

He repeated the question.

"Why would anyone follow me?" Mel's lip twitched, quite a lot, not a trait I had ever noticed before.

Tallow swore, raised his weapon again and swung a steady, glacial look at me. "Claudia, get downstairs, _now_."

Without hesitation, I grabbed Mel's hand and began our long flight. Tallow's heavy boots thumped close to our heels. "Not looking good, Saul," I heard him say.

The fire escape door opened.

And closed yet again.

# Chapter 37

# Claudia

December 28, 2010

9:15 pm

FEAR HOUNDED ME.

But I had no time for it.

Still clutching Mel's hand, we U-turned, began the next flight of steps.

No thudding sounds from Tallow. I slowed, half-turned. Tallow was crouching against the inner concrete barrier gripping his gun. Grey, shifting shadows circled him, swallowed him. He motioned for us to keep moving.

From the corner of my eye, something stirred. Another shadow, larger, darker, grossly misshapen appeared along the upper steps' wall. My breathing stilled as I saw it descend. I quickly alerted Tallow to it, then gripped the solid steel railing and began hurrying down the steps, dragging an anxious-looking Mel along with me.

"I don't understand," she said.

_You and I both._ "We have to get downstairs, fast," I said. My voice sounded strange, guttural. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear, don't think behind... just think forward."

Time slowed down; my pulse ramped up. And for the tiniest moment, it was blissfully soundless, except for the soft, whooshing air against my ears. The proverbial _lull_ crossed my mind.

I prayed for the _storm_ not to come.

Gunshots cracked and echoed.

Mel froze. "A... are they real bullets?"

I wanted to say, _no; that Tallow and Shadowman were just having a jolly play date_.

I bit back the sarcastic urge. "Yes Mel, they are real. That's why we've got to keep going."

She didn't need telling twice. Another U-turn. More steps. And I wondered if someone had sadistically added an extra flight or two. A quick scan ahead and I imagined an old, friendless, tomb, an inescapable place haunted by bone-chilling creaks and shuffles, and dank, decrepit air.

A place where the dead stayed dead forever.

The extra shivers I didn't need. I cautioned my imagination and snapped back to the real world. Nearby, several bullets ricocheted off the walls. Mel and I dropped, hovered close to the barriers.

Someone above groaned. Once. Twice.

A piercing scream. A rushing sound. And a final, emphatic thud.

All was quiet. I stood and half-heartedly peered over the edge.

One flight lower, laid a hideously contorted body of a man. A crimson pool swelled from him, the only bright, living color amongst the surrounding dead grey.

It wasn't Tallow.

Any minor relief I had was short-lived. Mel popped up beside me, took one look at the figure and began screaming.

I had never heard Mel scream before. I never wanted to again. I likened it to nitro-glycerin laced pinballs exploding on impact. I shook her, yelled for her to stop. It was useless. I tried to pull her forward but she clung stubbornly on to the barrier.

Tallow yelled. I couldn't decipher the words but I could decipher his brusque tone. Heat flushed my face, tingled, felt itchy. _Shit, what to do... what to do?_

Looking back, I wondered why I did what I did next. Instincts? Or just the vital urgency to quieten Mel. Whatever, I stretched my hand as far back as possible and slapped her sharply across her face - just as good old Hollywood had taught me.

My palm stung. But Mel's screams skidded to an automatic halt. Her wide, glassy eyes stared back at me. Her bottom lip jittered, her body swayed, and sagged back against the barrier. I called her name.

Nothing.

I gripped her shoulders, called it again. Short, fast gasps followed. And then the mascara-tainted tears. The last time I had seen Mel cry was on her wedding day, just before we walked the long aisle. She had been so happy, so excited... _so_ _unlike today_.

A piece of my heart broke away. Mel was strong, always had been. But this horror was new territory for her. I hugged her, soothed her, tried to recall the last time _I_ had done that for _her_. Mel clutched onto me as if I were her only lifeline. In some twisted way, the unexpected role-reversal felt good. We slowly dropped down but there was very little comfort in the ground's hard, emotionless veneer. I hugged Mel tighter still.

And fear took a few steps back.

"The guy is dead," I whispered. "We're safe."

She nodded and sniffed. I pulled some tissues out of her bag and handed them to her. "I have never seen a dead body before. It's so...." She stopped, screwed her face, and then glared at me, strangely.

"Shit. How many times have you been through this?" she murmured.

I spread my fingers, tapped my pinkie. "Well, let's see, last count...."

"This is _not_ a joking matter, Claudia." The old Mel was back. "I thought I understood, was so harsh on you, but all this time I... well, I just didn't know."

I took hold of Mel's hands; they were cool and damp, a little shivery. "You didn't have to know," I said. "You were there for me anyway, every single time, helping me in the best way you could. I will always be grateful for that."

Above, the fire escape door opened and closed again. Saul's men? I looked upwards, waited for Tallow's verdict, waited for any sign that promised us safety. But all was still, all silent.

"We've got to keep moving." I tried to sound calm but Mel wasn't stupid.

"You said we were safe now."

The sudden, ominous echoes of fresh gunfire confirmed otherwise.

Mel gripped my wrist. "I don't want to die," she whispered. "Claudia, my god... my children. I can't."

I pictured the three small versions of Mel, all girls, all flamed-haired, the youngest barely three, the eldest seven. I pictured them without their mother, pictured Pete without his wife. All because Mel was _my_ friend.

Because she was collateral.

Anger powered me to my feet. "That is _not_ going to happen." I hissed. "We _will_ get out of this, _alive_ and you home to your kids."

I had no basis for her to trust me. I wasn't even certain I trusted myself. I reached out with a visibly unsteady hand. Mel studied it, then studied me. She wore an expression I hadn't seen before.

Above, more shots sounded.

Mel clutched my hand and I pulled her up. She wobbled a bit, took a few solid breaths and then gripped the railing. "Let's go."

And we did, scampering off like small, frightened rabbits down a nefarious rabbit hole.

Tallowed yelled a warning.

Another shot and Tallow yelled no more.

Threatening footsteps thundered in his place.

No time to turn, to check.

Bullets zipped around us like hungry, single-minded mosquitoes. Acrid gunpowder polluted the air. We skirted the twisted body, careful not to slip in its darkening, syrupy pool. Then, sped up again.

Endless grim, concrete blurred past. And I wondered what a bullet to one's back felt like. Would it hurt? Would it be quick and painless or slow and agonizing? I thought of Saul waiting on the other side of the door, imagined him pacing, fiercely rubbing his brow. I began jumping two steps at a time. Mel did the same. Not enough, though. Pounding, rhythmic footsteps vibrated to our rear.

Mel groaned. "I can hear him...."

"We're almost there."

One more U-turn. My feet skidded, lost balance. Mel caught me, leveled me. We charged to the door. Behind us, there was a low, satisfying laugh and a less than friendly gun cocking. "Little late, ladies," a male voice whispered.

Perhaps it was; I didn't care. I threw my full weight on the long horizontal handle, pressed down hard and flung open the door.

"Get down!" Saul yelled.

I grabbed Mel and pulled us both to the ground. One last gunshot and then a clear, loud thump. After that, all I heard was Mel's and my heavy wheezing.

We took our time before inching into a sitting position. Mel straightened her sleeveless top, twisted back her bag and began checking out her gravel-rashed knees. She brushed one and winced. "Tell me, we're definitely safe, _this time_."

I turned to Saul. He was still facing the exit. Both hands had his gun cemented directly ahead of him. That fixed, lethal look of his, the one I had seen two days earlier with the mammoth, had returned. I followed it to fire escape door. The spread-eagled body of a man lay across the exit. Centering his forehead was a single bullet wound.

"On second thoughts...," Mel said.

I swung back to her. Her reddened, grubby palm pressed close to my face. "Don't answer. You just might jinx it."

I smiled. "I know how scared you were, Mel, and it's okay; you did great."

Something cold and 'shadow-less' crossed those striking green eyes of hers. When she blinked, it was gone. But I knew what I saw.

True fear.

The type that inhabits your body, messes with your mind for good.

Mel grunted. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Claudia, don't shit me, it was _you_ who did great. Not me. If not for you...."

If not for me, my dear friend, you wouldn't be here.

She pulled off her hairband, smoothed her rebellious hair and tied it again. That one simple action appeared to steady her somewhat. Her eyes tapered. "In fact, Claudia, who _were_ you back there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't 'what do you mean' me. That whole superwoman crap."

Superwoman? Hardly. "Guess, just adrenalin kicking in."

"Well then, I thank your fricking, adrenalin kicking arse."

We laughed, hugged.

Mel pulled back, gazed at Saul. His stance hadn't changed. "Saul Reardon...." she whispered.

I nodded.

"What's he doing?"

"Safeguarding me." I flicked my head. "I mean, safeguarding _us_ ; probably being cautious there aren't others."

"It's a little creepy, don't you think?"

"He's only like this with these murderous scumbags. Normally, he's very compassionate, kind." I shrugged. "You know."

She ogled me with that irritating _Mel sees all_ look. "Really?" she said.

Footsteps resonated from the fire escape.

A swarthy, neckless man in a white V-necked tee and denim shorts appeared. It was Scotty. "So sorry, Saul," he said.

It was as if the midday sun had just breathed on Saul. Section by section his body uncurled. "How's Tallow?"

"Being taken to the ER. The bullet went right through his lower shoulder but he's conscious. Tough bugger. Jenna's with him now."

Saul slotted his gun into the back of his jeans. "You and Jenna were his back-up. What happened?"

"I got duped by a couple of heavies is what happened."

Even in the semi-lit doorway, I noticed Scotty's reddish, cracked lips tighten as he shook his head. "I _never_ get fricking duped."

"Tell me about the heavies."

"Shit, Saul, you should've seen 'em." Scotty coiled his hands and spread them wide. "They stood out like a pair of solid D-cups in micro-bikinis."

I forced the disturbing analogy from my head. Saul bit his lip.

"They stared directly at Jenna and me and grinned, then began hightailing out of there."

"And you followed them."

"Course. I had just seen Claudia enter the exit. Thought she'd be safe with Tallow, wanted to make sure these giant dudes didn't follow. By the time we got your message about Tallow, well... we were some distance from any fire escape." Scotty hesitated. "This was a failsafe assignment, Saul. How did these guys even know Claudia would use the fire escape _and_ at that particular time? How'd they know who Jenna and I were, especially in our get-up? Either these guys were fricking lucky or you have a squealer in the ranks."

Saul pressed the bridge of his nose. "The thought's already crossed my mind."

"Don't make things easy," Scotty said, shaking his head. "Anyway, want me to deal with Weatherly when he gets here?"

Saul's shoulders rose and fell. "Yeah. And keep me up to date with Tallow."

Scotty nodded, then disappeared back up the stairs.

Saul strode towards us and dropped to his haunches. His smile was warm, yet a little unsteady. "Are you two all right?"

I wasn't sure what _all right_ covered. If it meant, were we still alive, then I guess we were. "Yeah," I said.

He stroked my face and winced. "I thought I lost you." I could hear his fear, this man that seemingly feared very little.

"Sorry... still here."

That skin-crawling noise of a crunching car snapped us apart. About two hundred yards away a black 4WD had smashed into one of the industrial bins. Intermittent sparks crackled from the vehicle. The driver's door flew open. A man stumbled out. He swayed for a bit, then landed butt on the ground and head in hands.

I heard Saul's name. Ethan was sprinting towards us. "There's another one, nine o'clock," he yelled.

Tires screamed, rubber burnt and smoke filled the air. Headlights spun around the other side of the hospital. We ran, past the creepy industrial bins, the concertina car and its half-dazed driver and around another bricked corner. Ahead, tucked amongst innocent bushland, was Saul's Jeep. Saul chucked the keys to Ethan, almost pushed Mel into the front seat. I jumped into the back with Saul.

Ethan fired the ignition "So where was that little sucker hiding?"

"Always has to be one more," Saul said, pulling out his gun. For the first time, I noticed it was a Walther PPK. And how did I know that exactly?

The unexpected sound of the rear window whirring caused my thinking to change directions. When it was fully down, Saul straddled it as easily as if he were brushing his teeth. He grasped the roof with one hand; held his gun with the other.

"All seatbelts on," Ethan announced, as one piloting a Boeing 767.

My heart sped up. What was with Saul hanging out of the car?

"Ready?" Ethan.

"Ready." Saul.

I closed my eyes and prayed for salvation. The car lurched and propelled forward.

Shit.

I had to open my eyes. And immediately wished I hadn't. Ahead, nothing but massive tree trunks closing in fast. I flicked to Mel. She was gripping the dashboard with both hands, her knuckles an unusual shade of pale. I called out to her.

No answer.

I wanted to yell something... _anything_.

Ethan slammed the brakes and instantly swiveled into a forty-five degree turn. My seatbelt grabbed my chest as I snapped forward. I sucked in air; snapped back again. I shot a wary glance from my window, didn't like what I saw. Those bright, menacing headlights, heading straight towards us. My now runaway heartbeat tortured my ears. A shot fired. Another instantly followed. Brakes shrieked, thankfully not ours.

"Now!" Saul yelled.

Ethan again burst forward, then slammed still. Another shivery, crunching noise, another concertina car bonnet, this time, hugging one of the old, thick tree trunks. I fell back into the leather seat and blew out mouthfuls of air.

"Think you only got one of those tires," Ethan said.

Saul climbed back in, slid the safety catch on his gun and returned it to the back of his jeans. "No, Ethan, got two."

"Nope, mate. Got two with mine, you only one."

"You're wrong; besides I'm the one with the clipped wing, remember?"

"Always the excuse," Ethan revved up the engine. It sounded like a beast waiting for his master to set him free. "I presume we now get the shit out of here."

Saul curled his arm around my shoulders and semi-smiled. "Absolutely."

Ethan shifted the gears and with his head half way out of the window, roared a primeval, _Wahoo_ before speeding off.

Adrenaline was running rife. I smelt it, sensed it stimulate my own stressed body.

I laughed. We were alive and it felt remarkable. Saul pulled my head towards him and kissed the top of it. From the open window, fresh, flowing air spoilt us.

That was until Mel.

"What is the fricking matter with all of you," she shrieked from her small dark corner of the world. "I've been shot at, pulled, pushed, slapped, almost smashed into, and all you lot can do is cheer and laugh. You're all bloody mad!"

Ethan flinched. "Ooo... I'm guessing you're Mel."

Mel scrutinized him with an expression I couldn't fully interpret. "You?" she said. "Aren't you the one...?"

"The one. Mmmm, I like it. What do you think, Angel? An apt title for me... 'The One.'"

I laughed. "Definitely you, Ethan."

Mel turned to me. "Angel? Claudia what is all this? Who is this absurd man? And why are you openly encouraging these cowboys?"

_Cowboys?_ Had shock dulled her memory that much? "You mean, you don't remember the guy at The Local, the one who, in your words, was 'soooo cute' and 'could keep me entertained these holidays?'"

Mel studied Ethan some more. A serious shade of red colored her cheeks. "You weren't interested in him," she hissed.

"No, I wasn't," I hissed back. "As I wasn't with the other 'cowboy' you practically guilt-tripped me into an appointment with, the one you also thought was very cute."

Ethan took a sharp swerve in the road and groaned. "Ouch, mate. Don't know about you but I'm feeling a tad crushed."

"Totally obliterated," Saul said.

"Far prefer devilishly good looking than... arrgh... 'cute.'"

"I can live with 'cute.'"

I glanced at them. Ethan focused on the road; Saul focused on me, both wearing mischievous, boyish grins.

Ethan stopped at a red light. A group of jovial, mixed-aged teens hung off each other and swaggered across the road. As he watched them, his expression changed to something strangely more solemn, like worry lines I'd never seen before, a fierce fire in his eyes.

_Everyone has a story,_ I heard Papa say as he had so many times before. _Some good, some not so good. They may want to tell you, they may not. You need to be patient, non-judgmental._

I was suddenly curious what Ethan's story was.

The light turned green. Ethan soared off. "Don't you girls stop because of us," he said, sounding like his old self. "It was just getting interesting. Was even thinking of throwing in a bit of mud in case it got physical."

He laughed. Mel crossed her arms and grunted. Surprisingly, she said no more.

Saul breathed in heavily, a semi-calm oozed from him. Ethan continued driving. And as the well-lit road darkened, I melted into Saul's warm body and unraveled.

"Everything go well with your father?" His voice was soft, misty, smooth as the road ahead.

There was so much to tell Saul but I knew this wasn't the time. I thanked him instead, snuggled closer to him, enjoying the special scent that was only his.

I noticed scores of insects magnetically drawn to the car. They shifted like weightless clouds worshiping the light, perhaps even the warmth; some forever trapped by its charm.

Charm.

Saul's charm had already trapped me.

# Chapter 38

# Saul

December 28, 2010

10:25 pm

REARDON LEANED AGAINST his car, his thumbs hooked lazily in his front pockets. He watched Claudia and Mel chat beneath a bright patio light. Small, fluttering creatures haloed their heads. From the other side of the meshed security screen, a sprightly, red-haired girl bounced and screeched "Mummy's home."

Claudia had freed her hair from the many pins. It spilt in soft, natural waves down her slender back and over her straight, bare shoulders. Hospital scrubs removed, she now wore a tight, pale tank shirt and cut off denims.

Reardon loved those shorts, the way they consistently showcased her tanned, lithe legs. He conjured up wayward images of those same legs wrapped around his hips, of Claudia and him moving slowly and rhythmically together. A certain part of his anatomy began reacting and he swore. Bugger if this woman didn't do all the right things to him at all the wrong times. He shifted, whistled out a chest full of frustrated air.

"You okay there, mate?" Ethan was next to him, also pressed against the car. His arms folded squarely across his chest.

"What'd you mean?"

"You look like you're wide-awake dreaming."

Reardon grimaced. "You mean day-dreaming."

"Na. Look around you. It's night-time. No day here." Ethan shrugged. "Wide-awake dreaming."

"You know you're an idiot."

"Been called worse."

Any lustful thoughts Reardon had quickly faded. "Who's in the white Honda across the road?"

"Manning. She and Jonesy will take watch just for tonight; make sure no one bothers Mel or her family."

"Trust them?"

Ethan glared at Reardon as if he had just said multiple _f_ words at a local parish meeting. "Of course. Why?"

"Not entirely sure. It's just the whole debacle at the hospital. I'm thinking someone tipped our doers off."

"A mole? Amongst our guys?"

"I don't want to believe it. But, who else knew of tonight's plan."

Claudia glanced at him and smiled. Reardon smiled back and tapped his watch. "It's just that we've never had problems before this case." It hurt him to say it. But there it was, the black and white truth. "Anyway, we have a killer to catch."

Ethan stepped onto the sandy-loamed footpath; his abundant keys rattled noisily in his large hand. "Think the plan will work?"

"It has to. I need this person out of the picture before we reach Araneya."

Reardon turned back to Claudia. She and Mel were hugging. A few words later, Claudia made her way down the broad, paved steps and along the driveway.

"See you around, cowboys," Mel yelled, before her eager family swallowed her.

"She's one intense chick," Ethan said, as Claudia pulled up.

She laughed in that beautiful singsong laugh that was only hers. Reardon felt his heart melt.

"Yep," she said. "But she's a good friend."

Ethan grinned, then spread out his arms. "Come here and give me a hug before you go."

She did, nestling comfortably into Ethan's chest.

"Glad you're okay," he whispered.

Something pinched Reardon, nothing major but just enough, like a small, simple 'watch out' sign. Reardon noted Ethan's expression. He knew that look. He thought of Ethan's name for Claudia.

Angel.

And he wondered.

He hoped he was bloody wrong. Complications, the three of them didn't need.

Headlights appeared from further up the road, grew larger until they screeched to a stop across from Reardon's car.

A black Porsche.

The door swooshed open. A willowy blonde, wearing a tightly fitted, sequined mini dress smoothed out of the car. She leaned against the opened door, pouted her lips and stared directly at Ethan.

"Annabella," Ethan said and followed it with a heavy sigh. "Hot with a capital H."

"You gave her a key to your car?" Reardon played the stunned guy well.

"My chauffeur for the night." He winked at Reardon. "Got to love a woman who likes control."

Within seconds, Ethan slid into the passenger seat of his Porsche and they sped away.

Reardon chuckled as he strode to the driver's side of the car. Claudia was beside him in an instant. Her hand curled out towards him.

"I'm driving," she said. "You have an arm to rest and I'm perfectly capable."

She jutted her small, rounded chin and whipped her thick, dark eyelashes several times. If it weren't so important for him to control the wheel, he would've handed her the keys in an instant.

He stroked her soft cheek; it was unusually warm, a little flushed. He grinned. "I know how capable you are. But it's only for a short time. Once we hit the highway and put some distance behind us you can take over."

She squinted, bit her bottom lip and watched him. She then pressed her fingers into both of his dimples. "I hate these."

"Really? My mother loved them."

"That's because your mother didn't know how dangerous they were. Either that or she didn't mind being sucked in by them."

Her large, dark eyes glimmered with mischief. He decided he probably loved them more than her glorious laugh and her incredibly sexy legs.

"Okay, until the highway, it is," she said.

***

Reardon cruised along the major routes until the lights of the Sunshine Coast were mere flickers in his rear view mirror. Ahead, nothing but a serviceable bypass, and at that time of night a very dark and empty one. Just as he wanted.

"You're up to something," Claudia said.

"What makes you think that?"

She tilted her head to one side and sighed heavily. "I wish you could be more honest with me."

The words struck him with some force. He had always been honest, extended it to every single individual that he helped. In fact, he took bloody pride in it. Fear, he fast learnt, was an ugly, crippling emotion. Worsened further by the unexpected, the unknown.

By keeping his clients informed with the best and the worst, not only helped reduce some of that unknown, but also prepared them mentally for whatever lay ahead.

He hadn't prepared Claudia for tonight. He ground his teeth, something he hadn't done in a long time, felt his eyebrows crumple. "I tried to tell you earlier." He cringed at how weak that sounded. "You know, just before Annie came in with news of your father."

"Tell me what?"

His chest constricted a muscle or two, made him draw breath. His gut felt as tightly wound as Claudia's fingers appeared. "About tonight's plan."

"Tonight, as in now?"

"Tonight, as in soon."

She crossed her legs and spoke without looking at him. "You could've told me before the hospital." Her voice was unreadable.

"You're right. But you already had enough to deal with. I guess it's just my way of protecting you."

"Something you don't do with the others."

"Seems that way."

She went quiet.

"I'm sorry, Baby. It was wrong, completely reckless." He swept his hand between the pair of them. "All this is new for me. Be patient till I work it out."

She turned to the window, stared at the blackened shadows blurring past. When she turned back, it was with a warming smile. "I can do that."

He returned the smile, stretched his _dangerous_ dimples just for her.

"So tell me about tonight."

Reardon sighed, almost wished tonight now wouldn't happen. "I think I know who's put the hit on you."

Claudia's smile collapsed. "Who?"

"Someone whom I suspect will turn up at any moment." Reardon glanced at his rear vision mirror. Nothing yet.

Claudia threw a swift peek through the back window. "You mean someone will be following us?"

"Maybe."

"And you're okay with this?"

"Yes. Until they make a move."

"A move? Like to kill me?"

He winced.

"Shit, Saul. Have you at least got someone following _the_ someone following us?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of? Fuck."

Had Claudia ever used the word fuck before? Reardon couldn't recall. "Ethan and I have this well-planned. And there's still the off-chance that this person may not even show."

"But you hope he will."

"Naturally. I want the bastard caught. One less reason to be looking over our shoulders." Again, he checked the mirror.

"Who is he?"

He imagined several names crossing her head about now. "I'm thinking it's _..._."

Light bounced off the mirror, struck Reardon's eyes. A set of bright headlights flashed from the bend behind them and began approaching fast. Could mean something, could mean nothing. Reardon favored the _something._

"Is that him?"

"Not sure, yet." The vehicle closed in until Reardon could barely make out the headlights. That's when he felt the first nudge against the bumper. "Obviously this is their game."

"To shove us off the road?" Claudia snapped both hands on the seat's edge. "Don't think I like this game."

"I'm thinking more he wants us to pull over."

"And are we?"

"Not until I'm ready." Reardon slammed the accelerator. The tires gripped the solid, coarse bitumen and they blasted forward. Excitement rippled his skin, adrenalized his blood. How he loved the chase. One glance at the wide-eyed, transfixed Claudia, and the excitement quickly waned.

Another jolt to the bumper, this time with more impact.

Reardon's body lurched forward.

Claudia called his name.

Something flew off the dashboard and fell to the floor.

"Baby, listen to me." Reardon said.

Claudia appeared half-dazed. No, worse... _she appeared bloody unprepared_. Hell, if he didn't keep messing up with her. "Claudia," he snapped. "I'm depending on you." So much for super calm and control. His emotions were more like bloody yoyos.

Another bump. A very awkward spin of the wheels. Reardon quickly readjusted them, waited until he curved the next bend. "You with me?"

Claudia glared at him with a gloriously high, resolute chin. "Of course."

Disbelief hit Reardon first, then a long breath of admiration and relief. The next bump sent the car swinging to the other side of the road. Brakes screeched. Claudia jolted, clasping the side of the seat. Reardon pulled hard on the wheel, straightened it. Sharp pain stabbed his wounded arm. He swore.

"You okay?"

Shouldn't he be asking that? "Fine." Sweat irritated his forehead. He checked the mirror. He made out two distinct shapes piloting the car. Reardon guessed the passenger was their doer, the other, one of his driving lackeys. The vehicle dropped back. "The next thing they'll probably do is come close to our side. Try to shunt us that way. I'm going to let them to do that a couple of times. Even have a few attempts at giving the same back."

She asked him why.

He crisscrossed his gaze from the mirror to the road ahead. "Because they'd expect it of me." Did that sound wanky, a bit full of himself? "Then when I think the time is right, I'll run the car off the road. Remember, I'll be doing it on purpose."

"Please tell me you know how to do it without killing us."

"I know how to do it without killing us."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

"And then what... what do I do then?"

There was a grittiness to her look now. And something else. What was it? Control? Was she trying to control her fear? Shit, the bloody woman never ceased to amaze him. "Play unconscious. I'll do the rest. Got me?"

That stubborn little chin nodded along with her head.

"The airbags may go off. The crash won't be that major, but just in case, be prepared that they may knock the wind out of you. Use it to make your act appear more real."

Another nod.

"And promise me, unless the car catches fire, which it won't, under no circumstances get out of the car until it's over." That part was important. Reardon needed to concentrate on something _other_ than her.

The foreign vehicle sped up until it sidled them. Reardon still couldn't make out the faces; the windows were black like the car. It suddenly swerved, side swept the front of Reardon's car and pulled away.

Reardon took his foot off the accelerator, gripped the steering wheel and turned into the direction of the skid. When he was back in control, he mimicked their maneuver. The other vehicle zigzagged for several yards, then fell back to the rear. The racing jock knew how to wheel a car.

"Watch out!" Claudia yelled.

A pair of iridescent eyes shot up from the road's center and stared at them. A possum perhaps? Reardon wove sharply to avoid it. The subsequent thumps meant his racing companion didn't. Claudia mumbled beneath her breath.

They sped on. Another sideswipe, another counter attack, the cry of angry brakes, the stench of scorching rubber.

Until the big hit came. Bigger than Reardon expected.

It didn't take much effort on Reardon's part to execute the false crash. They would've crashed anyway. In contrast to all his defensive driving techniques, Reardon slammed the brakes, executed a half pirouette and screeched to the alternate side of the road where he allowed the car to plunge and stop in a sharp down-turned angle.

No deployment of airbags. He was happy with that. He immediately checked Claudia. "You okay?"

A meager _yes_ followed. She then rolled her full weight against the door and closed her eyes. Reardon tapped his watch and did the same.

A car door opened.

Light footsteps approached.

Reardon paced his breathing.

Light footsteps became heavy footsteps until they stopped just outside his door. He imagined someone looking through the window, could sense their sharp, inquisitive eyes burn a hole in him. But Reardon remained flawlessly rigid.

A click.

The car door.

A pause.

And the door began to open.

Just a little.

And then it stopped.

A little more.

And Reardon bolted, grabbed the door handle and smacked the door directly into the Racing Jock's middle. Racing Jock buckled and groaned.

In one swift move, Reardon sprang from his seat. Knitting his hands into a rock-solid fist, he smashed his opponent squarely beneath the chin. Racing Jock's head cracked back. He stumbled several steps. But the man was huge. He quickly uncurled, flexed his burly biceps and came thundering towards Reardon. He swung his clenched fist. It caught nothing but vacant air.

Reardon had already sidestepped him, smashing his foot directly into the back of Racing Jock's knees. Racing Jock crumbled with an ear-splitting roar. Reardon ripped to his rear, pressed two digits into his wide, fleshy neck and Racing Jock went down.

Claudia called out. The door of the black car was slowly opening.

"Stay put," Reardon whispered. Using his car as a shield, he crouched low. An obscure figure stretched from the opened door, then darted into the nearby bushland.

Reardon took chase.

The forest was dark. The forest possessed a map load of possible directions. One could easily lose a runner in a forest like that. Reardon stopped a few feet inside its perimeter.

_You have good natural instincts,_ Roscoe, his mentor, once told him, _but at times, you need to stop, take heed of your surroundings. It is those same surroundings that will speak to you... give you what you need._

Reardon pressed his eager palms against a nearby gum tree, used it as his base. He closed his eyes, drew strength in the sharp, distinctive scents of night-time bushland, pure with plant-driven oxygen, devoid of innocuous daytime fumes. To his left crickets chirped, as did the few desperate rasps of hungry frogs crying for rain. Dried leaves shuffled, crunched; scavenging scrub turkeys perhaps.

To Reardon's right?

Nothing.

He smiled.

Employing the moonlight as his ally, and the silence of his animal friends, he carefully trod forward, avoiding the sharp crunch of twigs, the crackles of parched foliage. He stopped, listened some more. Heard the sounds of human invasion. And followed it.

Partially crouched behind a bush was a well-rounded figure. Reardon carefully withdrew his switchblade from his ankle and backtracked. A soundless route wasn't easy in such a rain-starved environment.

A little skill, a little luck and soon his blade met his surprised assailant's throat. "I expected more challenge from someone like you."

The man's laugh came far too easily. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Is that a threat? Rather ineffectual if it was."

The man shifted his weight. "We could debate it, but another time, perhaps."

Reardon pressed the blade until it indented the man's skin. "On the contrary, tonight's perfect for me."

He boosted the man to his feet and spun him around, allowed him to slither like the snake he was back to the ground. The moon reflected the evil shine in his eyes, the rabid smirk on his lips, the unprecedented self-confidence in his pumped out chest.

Reardon's initial instinct was correct.

This man _was_ dangerous.

"Senator Carlo Macey," he said. "This _is_ a surprise and a strange place to be gathering constituents."

# Chapter 39

# Saul

December 28, 2010

11:54 pm

MACEY SQUARED HIS broad shoulders, bent his knees and began casually plucking small, withered bits of plant life from his grey, pinstriped pants.

"Ah, if it isn't Saul Reardon," he said. "The poor man's redeemer. You're good, no doubt about it, and no less than I was led to believe by the many myths about you." His tone was all well-practiced poise and self-righteous power.

"Is that so?" Reardon crouched onto his haunches, spun the knife's blade close to the senator's face. The blade quickly ignited with sharp, shimmering lights giving it a striking but deadly appearance. "You flatter me, Senator. But myths are mere stories, and like all stories, breed upon the vibrant imagination of the tellers."

Macey stopped the plucking, glued a steadfast look towards Reardon. "Very poetic, Reardon. I like it. So, what is it that you want from me?"

Reardon cocked his head, took his time before answering. "For starters, how about removing the hit on Claudia Cabriati, call off Basteros and his minions."

Macey's surprised expression was a trifle over-acted. He then laughed a great, full laugh. "A hit? My, how very gangster-like of you. And why would I know anything about a hit and of this... _Basteros_?"

"Please, Senator, tell me you're smarter than that."

Raw anger flashed in Macey's eyes. And just as quickly vanished.

Reardon shuffled in his jean's pocket and pulled out a small, silver mobile. "This phone belongs to one of Basteros' men."

"How unfortunate for him."

"More unfortunate for the person who received a text from it, say around two, three this morning believing it was from Basteros. Funny thing about mobiles, you can never be sure who actually sent the text."

Macey's smirk dropped fast. "I don't understand."

"Of course you do. It's why you're here." Reardon let that hang for a while, enjoyed the Senator's visual discomfort. "Why else would a prestigious, well-respected government official such as yourself, be traipsing along back roads at this time of night... _just when Claudia and I are_?

"I'm not a coincidence sort of guy. I think you had a job to finish, one that Basteros continually botched up. Hence, you took the bait, _my_ bait. Again, I would've thought you smarter than that. And like you, I thought that from the many myths I've heard."

Macey's lips gelled into a thin, tight line.

"Look, if it helps any," Reardon said, playfully chucking the mobile between his hands. "I admire you, admire how you got away with it all these years. Brilliant even. How better to cover who you really were, amongst the pretentious façade of a supposedly passionate anti-gun law advocator. You, who headed a gun clan in the seventies. You, who warped the sweet innocence of the Araneya children with the sick, twisted belief that knowledge of guns was their only salvation. You, who controlled the rest of a Vietnam-damaged clan to adhere with your perversions. That's power, Senator. And precisely what you wanted. Sorry, rephrase... what you believed was _owed_ to you."

Macey shriveled his eyes.

"Then Claudia's father, Vincent Cabriati, happened. How you must've hated someone smarter than you."

"Smarter than me? Cabriati?" Macey stretched his neck as one after a hard day's work. "You should write a fucking book, Reardon."

"Can I include your alias in it?"

"My what?"

"Wesson. The name of your chosen revolver. The name you use for all your illegal dealings, for the gun clan and for... Basteros."

Even in the partially lit night, Reardon could make out the veins in Macey's neck pumping wildly. But, to Macey's credit, he remained remarkably controlled. Macey stood, shook his head. "You are one fucked up piece of engineering, Reardon."

Perhaps he was.

But his instincts about Macey weren't.

Macey dragged up his pants until it connected with his well-fed paunch, re-tucked his white shirt, front _and_ back and returned with a small revolver.

Reardon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "This isn't giving me positive vibes for our budding relationship."

"Did you expect I'd just buckle under a few paltry accusations from the almighty Saul Reardon?"

"No, sadly, I didn't." Reardon glanced over Macey's head. "Come on down, fellas."

"You're bluffing. I know about the tactics you employ."

"Obviously not all of them," a guttural voice to Macey's rear said. Reardon cut to the swag-like Scotty. Tonight's bandana flavor was black. How appropriate, he thought.

"Cocky bastard, aint he, Saul."

"More like, predictable." Reardon re-strapped his switchblade. A second man, lean and swarthy emerged. "Andy, you cover him from the front."

Macey turned to one, then the other, back to Reardon. "How the fuck...."

"I'd be more concerned with the pair of M16s aimed at your head," Reardon said.

Macey released his weapon, then leaned against the nearest tree trunk; night-colored it was, mirroring Macey's mutinous eyes. Reardon collected Macey's gun, passed it to Scotty. He then searched Macey until he found two mobile phones. He flicked through both, pocketed one and returned the other to Macey. "You can keep that one. You'll need it to ring your lawyer."

Reardon glanced around, found a long, twisted log and parked himself on it. It was bumpy but solid. He slumped his arms over his knees, gestured a rare section of green grass for Macey.

Macey preferred standing.

Reardon didn't care.

From the north, high-pitched sirens wailed, grew progressively louder with every passing second.

"You called the fucking police?"

"Not me exactly." Reardon glanced at the smiling Scotty.

"This is absolute madness. You have no fucking proof of any of your shit."

"Wouldn't matter if I did or didn't. You being here alone would create a journalist's wet dream. And, unfortunately for you, I just happen to know a few, journalists that is. But, again, unfortunately for you, I happen to have proof also."

Macey swung to Scotty. Scotty's eyes blew wide. "Don't mess with Saul, mate, it's like tinkering with the fricking _Titanic_."

Reardon executed his next words with all the precision of someone who knew narcissistic personalities, such as Macey's, well. There was one thing, possibly the _only_ thing that Macey feared.

Incarceration.

And the total loss of control that escorted it.

"Bad time of year to be thrown in the watch-house," Reardon continued. "Festive period, courts close down. But, if urgent and with a good lawyer, well...."

"If you really wanted me gone," Macey grunted, "I'd be on the road right now, staring at red and blue lights. It isn't the hit on Claudia you want removed. With my phone, you can do that yourself. It's something else."

"I'm impressed."

Macey's chin rose high.

"I then have to wonder, how does someone as smart as you get into such an awkward position such as this?"

"Perhaps it's not because of me. Perhaps the reason for our special tryst is you. Someone who merely craves the mental challenge from an equal."

Reardon collected a nearby twig, dry, withered, any life mere remnants in its last, fading breath. He recalled a time when he was that twig, ready to oblige to the strict laws of nature and simply give up his last breath. But nature gave him extra strength, the solid determination to survive. "Maybe you're right. But we're also both reasonable men. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement, one that could benefit each of us, a gentlemen's agreement if you like. One that excludes the law."

The background sirens screeched to a halt. Another small flicker of fear crossed Macey's steely gaze. "Keep talking."

"For starters, I could arrange that your driving buddy up there takes the fall for this entire... hmmm... 'road rage' affair."

"He'll talk."

"Not something in my experience dead men do very well."

"Very unethical of you."

"Hardly. Secondly, I have two men here willing to escort you to a destination of choice."

"And you would do that, why?"

"Answers, information, a confession or two."

"Huh, you certainly don't ask for much." Macey loosened his red and grey multi-dotted tie. "How do I know you're not wired?"

"I swear on Claudia's life that I'm not."

"Means nothing."

_Means everything,_ Reardon thought. "You could search me, but I'm sure you already know, today's technology makes such devices virtually undetectable."

Macey stroked his bristled chin in silence.

"I guess it's either me or spending the remainder of the festive season in lock-up," Reardon said.

"You know this is blackmail."

"It is? Oops."

"Blackmailing a government minister."

"Using the resources of your political office to murder."

"It's a fucking shame those idiots at your house couldn't finish you off."

Reardon considered this. Of course, Macey would want Reardon dead. It'd make access to Claudia that much easier. However, as inept as Basteros' men proved to be, Reardon still found _couldn't_ an interesting choice of word. "You've been warned off me by someone."

"You've certainly got one hell of an imagination."

"It adds to the myths. So what's your decision, Senator? I'm a busy man also."

Macey chuckled. "You know, we're not very different you and I."

Reardon threw the twig to the awaiting elements and sighed. "How's that?"

"You hide your true self beneath the shroud of a modern day Robin Hood, I beneath the hood of a concerned politician. In the end we are simply who we are."

Reardon glanced at Macey, wished he could wipe that smug grin off his smug face. "And who's that precisely."

"I don't need to tell you. You and I, we already know."

Scotty stepped forward. "Saul...."

Reardon shot Scotty a short look. It was enough to return Scotty to his original position.

"We conduct ourselves beneath a mask of social acceptance. It is how we survive. We are... _special_ ," Macey concluded.

_And no doubt, you believe every delusional word you just said._ The man made Reardon's stomach churn. "You're right, we are, and that's how I know you'll make the right decision."

Macey's eyes appear distant, contemplative. "All right," he eventually said. "Ask your questions. I'll decide if I answer them or not."

To Reardon it was a start. "Why the hit?"

"You seem to know everything else. You tell me why."

"Keep your dramatics for your voters, Senator. And your games for those who actually get sucked in by them."

"But isn't that what we're doing? Playing a game?"

"Ah, you're doing it again." Reardon flicked his head to Scotty. "Your chance from me was a one-time offer. See you on national TV."

Scotty grabbed Macey by the elbow. "Come on big shot, getting any answers from you is like putting sunscreen back in its tube."

Macey jerked his arm and scowled. "Get your bloody dogsbodies to back off, Reardon. And then I will talk but _only_ with you."

Reardon liked the more legitimate fact that Macey didn't want witnesses to his confessions. One small gesture, and Scotty and Andy merged back into the night.

"I answer your questions; you let me free, back to the Sydney unit where everyone thinks I am. Got it?"

"Got it."

"I know people also, Reardon. You ever repeat any of this to anyone and not only will I haunt whatever life Claudia has left, but also make her family's lives not worth living. That I promise you."

"I believe you." And Reardon did.

Macey slipped to the ground and took a few more deep breaths. His lips curled callously. "I _wanted_ Claudia out of the way.... _because of you_."

Reardon stilled.

"I find the whole thing ironic, don't you? _You,_ who were meant to protect her. It would be all rather amusing if it wasn't so very tragic."

Macey sat in his dingy corner, appearing like an out-of-shape wrestler who had just won his first round. When he spoke again, his voice was all cynicism and false concern. "Didn't expect that one?"

Of course, he hadn't. "Why?"

"Initially, I only wanted Claudia scared off. But when _you_ entered the scene, well... that just promoted her to an entirely new category. You were the stature of person who could unbury too many things that need to remain buried, as good secrets should be. As I saw it, with Claudia gone, it would then get you off my back."

"Did you really think I would've dropped the case if Claudia was killed?"

"Through all I've learnt about you, the man whose lungs survive with the belief of virtuous revenge, once you got Basteros and those responsible, yes, I trusted you would have."

Macey was right.

He was also wrong.

Because with Claudia, it was different.

And as Reardon was fast discovering, with Claudia it was always different. "And you wanted her scared off... why?"

"In case she remembered, of course, remembered... _Araneya_."

The name hung in the muggy, still air between them, mysterious and evil. Reardon licked his dried lips once. "What happened to Claudia there?"

"The girl who lived like a pompous little princess after her screwed-up parents dumped her?"

"You tell me."

Macey fell silent; long minutes passed. When he looked back up, something had changed. "Several of us had a fraternity there many years ago."

"I know about it."

Macey appeared unsurprised. "Every month we'd go hunting in the local forests. It was our way of surviving what we suffered in Vietnam. During one of our meets, a young boy was killed."

"Benjamin Lucas."

Macey nodded. "Termed a hunting accident. All very sad for the parents."

"And your fraternity wasn't involved?"

"Of course we weren't involved. We even had witnesses to prove it. But the community reactions were different. They needed someone to blame for such a heinous crime. As we happened to be hunting that day, we became their principal target. And as the old adage goes, when enough mud is hurled, some of it eventually sticks. You can't imagine what it was like for us."

"I can't imagine what it was like for Benjamin Lucas' parents."

Macey grunted. "I sympathized with their loss; we all did. But we were _not_ responsible. And then... then Ricky Taccone happened. Not that anyone cared about him, other than us."

"What do you mean?"

"Ricky had a lot of difficulty adjusting after Vietnam; more than the rest of us. The disparaging way people behaved towards us when we returned from a war that _they_ decided we shouldn't have participated in. The whole thing was a political nightmare, but it didn't help the number of good men who fought there. The entire Benjamin Lucas affair, the unjust condemnations, well... it hit a bitter nerve in us. As for Ricky? It was the last straw. He simply ran out of juice." Macey closed his eyes. "He went out to the forest and shot himself."

There was silence for a moment, strange, very heavy. Macey's expression appeared genuinely sorrowful. "The community saw his act as one of remorse. It satisfied their ridiculous conviction of us and felt that justice had been done. My father used his prominence amongst certain circles to have much of the incident suppressed, our names excluded from any police reports, including the existence of our fraternity."

"You mean they were bribed."

"I prefer to deem it as donations to worthy causes. Nonetheless, in time, it all became a distant memory."

"A memory that Claudia, to this day, doesn't have. Sorry. Senator, that makes no sense."

Macey eyed him. "You must know what I stand for."

"You're advocacy for anti-gun laws. An irony in light of your past."

"Take it as you will, but the fact remains I'm not just _any_ advocate. My family and I have been one of the most devoted campaigners for a very long time, particularly since the Port Arthur massacre in '96. That event alone transformed gun control in Australia. Do you know as a country we have some of the most regulated firearms legislation in the world?"

"Impressive." Reardon deliberately checked his watch. "But let's keep on topic."

Macey continued. "If the other political parties and the pro-gun activists got wind of my past, it would destroy my credibility, the credibility of my party and everything I've worked so hard for. As for the voters? People are such fickle creatures; support you with their lives for years and drop you at the first scent of a scandal."

Reardon accepted much of what Macey was saying. The popularity of certain politicians was often tenuous and relied heavily upon the public's trust in them. A twenty-year-old scandal such as the one Macey described would provide ample fodder to any group wanting to see Macey's reputation destroyed.

But....

"I understand your motivations. But it still doesn't explain Claudia's repression. There has to be something more."

"Can't you just accept it for what it was?"

"A rather imprudent statement, Senator. Now I _know_ there's something more."

# Chapter 40

# Saul

December 29, 2010

12:35 am

MACEY FEIGNED A long, wide yawn. "And the game continues. One that may have no winner."

"A winner doesn't concern me. Claudia does."

"That's becoming more and more apparent."

Reardon began playing with his watch. It was made of brushed, polished stainless steel. Its light blue glow emitted everything from the expected time to its Omega brand name. He snapped the clasp open, close... open again.

Macey groaned. "In any good game, Reardon, true opponents take turns. Think I'm well overdue for mine, don't you?"

Reardon wasn't happy providing his adversaries turn-taking time, thinking time or any other such time. It gave them too many opportunities to be creative. But his mentor's past words crossed his head again.

Sometimes it is in the lies that one finds the most truths.

Reardon decided to play. "As long as you keep the questions relevant."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Knew that one of the doers was none other than Senator Carlo Macey?"

Macey grinned, a disturbingly boastful grin.

"Alias Wesson?"

The grin broadened further.

"Alias... _Charles Smith._ "

The grin died faster than rats in a cyanide experiment.

"What crap are you talking about?"

"Don't Senator. In your words 'with all you have learnt about me,' I wouldn't suggest suddenly playing the simpleton. Your name gave you away."

Macey was quiet, his eyes shrewd and watchful.

" _Charles_ \- the Anglicized version of Carlo. _Smith_ \- Smith and Wesson - Wesson being your other alias. And then there's the acronym. Souza, Macanetti, Iacovelli, Taccone and finally, Hercolani, their initials spelling your fake surname, SMITH. Coincidence? Not normally a fan. But I fail to see what else it could be. So then, I have to wonder, why wasn't Cabriati included? Didn't his initial fit your word play?"

"Fuck you, Reardon."

"My, where's the sportsmanship. But, I digress. The Charles Smith of two years back did searches on behalf of racketeering cartels wanting to employ certain people. So I get to thinking, what if he already had his _own_ racketeering organization, something Cabriati wanted no part of."

"This is all very fascinating, but there's the small matter of proof to substantiate such ridiculous accusations."

"You're absolutely right, but as you know, there _is_ no proof. You've learnt to cover your tracks well. In fact, I had some of my best look into it. Charles Smith, entrepreneur and racketeer doesn't even exist."

"Subject concluded then."

Reardon feigned concern. "No, not my style. I enjoy the closure too much. So I delve some more. And guess what I find? A slight detail you overlooked. Mark Hollinger."

"The news reporter?" Macey laughed. "That's sheer desperation."

"No, that's sheer optimism and one that paid off. Interesting addition, Mark Hollinger. However, he was your addition. Or so you thought. The whole airport scene? On national news? Great acting, I have to say, on all your parts.

"Firstly, Hollinger eagerly chasing you, then pinning you down for an interview you supposedly tried to dodge. And then another one of your faithful dogsbodies, Cole Ryker, the tough guy with the buzz cut standing next to Hollinger; he pretending to intimidate you, especially with the whole whisper in the ear act."

Macey tried to interrupt.

"Shh... Senator," Reardon said softly. "I'm still answering _your_ question from _your_ turn."

The Senator steepled his stubby fingers and gritted his teeth.

"But it was your performance that outdid both Ryker and Hollinger. That expression of pure, gut-wrenching fear was truly a winner."

"Maybe I was fearful," Macey hissed. "Maybe I wanted my loyal public to see how truly concerned I am with the gun laws in this country."

"Oh, I don't think your loyal public was your intended audience, Senator. Vincent Cabriati was."

Macey's eyes shriveled. "I don't give a fuck about Cabriati."

"On the contrary, I think you do. I think he has some hold over you; that if any harm ever befell his precious daughter, he'd immediately know it was you. It's why you didn't have Claudia killed after Alice Polinski _or_ after Simon Struthers.

"However, after the brutal and still unsolved murders of two of the clan, you saw a prime opportunity to get rid of her, planning it to happen while thousands witnessed you traipsing through Canberra airport. You hoped that by displaying a certain level of public fear, that that'd stave off any suspicions on Cabriati's part."

Something shady registered in Macey's expression, and Reardon knew his suppositions were correct. He pressed on. "What you hadn't expected was the failed attempt on Claudia's life, something you weren't aware of at the time of the interview."

"So what if I hadn't? It means nothing in the scheme of things."

"It means everything. Your exact words to Hollinger, 'My condolences go out to each and every member of those four families.' Bad mistake on your part. At that stage, there were three families involved and _only_ three. Alice Polinski, Iacovelli and Souza. Your seasoned arrogance had unwittingly included Claudia's death in your calculations."

"You think too much."

"Occupational hazard. But, again, I sidestep. The name, Hollinger, was irritatingly familiar. Turns out to be the same surname as the guy who shot Thomas Bellante, a _Patrick_ Hollinger. More coincidences? Again, not a fan. More delving and I discover that Mark Hollinger is Patrick Hollinger's son. But you probably already knew that."

Reardon rubbed his slightly stubbly chin. "Now, I'm only guessing, but I think that you, as Smith, promised Patrick Hollinger something if he took the fall for Bellante. Patrick Hollinger, with all his drug issues, naively believed you. But not so naive that he didn't pass the state of affairs onto his son, just in case something unnatural happened to him while serving his sentence. Something did. Daddy Hollinger died in prison from a massive overdose soon after.

Enter the son, Mark. He joins your camp on the false pretext of following his father's loyal footsteps, but all along, he only wants reliable proof to destroy you. Funny thing about revenge, it's a need that time merely perpetuates. I know that better than most. Right now Mark is exercising that need, even though he had initially considered doing it with the federal police."

Moisture bubbled on Macey's broad forehead.

"You're bluffing."

For once Reardon wasn't. The information he received on Mark and Patrick Hollinger was bona fide. And Mark Hollinger was exactly where Reardon claimed, with his men, happily spilling his guts, in the promised knowledge that the 'gut spilling' would be to his advantage. "Ah, there's that _bluff_ word again. Tut, tut, Senator. I wonder if you know me at all."

"You're such a self-righteous bastard."

"I try," Reardon said in his best _self-righteous bastard_ tone.

"You think you have all the fucking answers?"

"Not even close. This, whatever it is, goes far deeper than even you are aware of."

Macey laughed. "What crap."

"Really? Then I only have to ask, _did you want Thomas Bellante dead_?"

Silence.

"I'm guessing not. I'm guessing for once, _you_ were the pawn, the one that provided a fall guy for someone else, someone of a higher authority. You see, I believe there are other forces in play in this game of yours, Senator. I have a certain role, and interestingly so do you. As for Claudia? Her role, at this stage, is minor. What I fear is that her role won't be minor for long. What fears me more is that you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Was he bluffing this time? Reardon wasn't sure himself. He only knew that too many coincidences had been in play and for far too long. Like his supposed leads, so promising at first but always leading him to that proverbial and very frustrating brick wall. And then there was Claudia, the woman he was helping, and reluctantly falling for, incontrovertibly linked with this federal senator, racketeer boss and one-time friend of her father.

As ridiculously paranoid as it sounded, Reardon believed someone else was pulling the strings. He suddenly understood how a puppet felt, sensed the strings tighten with every questionable thought dogging his head. And if his instincts were correct, uncovering the puppeteer would then become a major priority. In the meantime, as the old adage goes, he had other fish to fry.

Macey was silent; his eyes were not. They were searching, ravenous for escape. Was he that much of an amateur? Reardon had hoped for a far worthier adversary.

It wasn't to be. Macey scrambled into the darkest section of the forest. And then disappeared.

"Want us to go after him?"

It was Scotty. How he liked the guy, his bizarre bandanas, his quirky metaphors; more importantly, his unbinding loyalty. Reardon slipped off his watch and handed it to him. "Let me know when you have him."

Scotty nodded and left. That slick, that quick. Reardon expected nothing less. He then stole the free time to indulge.

And immediately thought of Claudia.

He could picture her so well now, laying low in the car simply because he had asked it of her. How he admired that trust, admired her. And yet, he still couldn't shake off his perpetual misgivings about their relationship.

"Saul, we have him."

Of course, they had him. Reardon's trackers never failed. He followed Scotty through a section of thick bushland and into a cavern of tangled brushwood, low to the ground. Amongst it, sat a worn-out Macey. Andy stood nearby.

Reardon breathed in the unique, pacifying scents of the eucalypts and centered himself. Again, he extracted his switchblade and dropped to his haunches before a sly-eyed Macey. "You disappoint me," Reardon said.

A shaft of moonlight caught something wholly wicked in Macey's eyes and magnified it. "Because I fought back, didn't bend to your will?"

"No, because you didn't fight back with any ingenuity."

"And you wanted more?"

Reardon was silent.

"Like I said, you're definitely one fucked up piece of engineering."

Reardon ignored the comment. "Let's get back to this racketeering business of yours."

"What's the point? You have Hollinger. You win."

"Hollinger is my temporary insurance. You play your end of the game; give me what I need to know, and Charles Smith returns to the oblivion where he belongs. But only on the condition that his organization shuts down."

"As if you would do that."

"Oh, yes, I could, very much so. My only interests are in my clients' welfares, which now includes Mark Hollinger. I'll do whatever I have to do to ensure that, even if it's outside the law. Just the knowledge that Charles Smith's racketeering days are finished will be enough for Hollinger. His family, his wife, kids don't need to be dragged through the media yet again. A quiet, backstage resolution is far more preferable."

"And exactly how would you know if I gave up the business?"

Reardon burnt his direct gaze straight into Macey. " _I... just... would._ "

Macey pulled away, cleared his throat, readjusted a tie that didn't need readjusting. "Fuck you, Reardon. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Are you talking about yourself or the mystery person who appears to control you and your business?"

Macey bucked with all the virility of a well-seasoned fighter. " _No-one... controls... me._ "

"But _he_ does, Senator. Do you even know who he is, how to contact him, where to find him if you needed to? Isn't he the one always giving the instructions, you always following them?"

Macey's cheeks reddened to a hot shade of crimson. "He knows you."

Reardon's puppeteer theory grew momentum. "I already figured that."

"He's someone you can't fight."

"I seriously doubt it. In the meantime, let's get back to what happened to Claudia at Araneya."

Macey grazed his face with his hand. Anger still burnt bright on his skin. "Claudia Cabriati," he began. "So fucking uncontrollable, strong willed, opinionated, so unlike _my_ own children. They knew the term respect."

"More like you were incapable of manipulating Claudia as you did your own."

"Incapable is not in my blood. It was that fucking Polinski woman, always filling Claudia's head with some bloody moral rectitude. That's what made Claudia impossible. She believed all Alice's bloody crap, that _she_ was someone special. She was seven fucking years old."

"Imagine how you must have felt, that a seven-year old could rattle you like that, even now. That's power."

"That's not bloody power. Polinski had twisted her mind." Macey heaved a huge breath and blew out slowly. "You have to understand, during our meets we, well... we did some things that people would've disapproved of."

"Such as?"

"Such as alcohol, drugs, women, amongst other things."

It was the _amongst other things_ that bothered Reardon the most. "Sounds quite the party."

"It was our way of surviving," Macey snapped. "Not that anyone comprehended that."

Reardon knew about surviving horrors; but something about the Senator's version bothered him, quite a lot.

"After a while, it wasn't enough. The longer the foolish public subjugated us to their hostility, the angrier we got, until we began questioning our love for this country. We'd often joke how our initials formed the word Smith. And as much as you hate coincidences, Reardon, there it was. We actually thought it was meant to be, that fate was telling us something."

"And in your screwed up states of mind you believed it."

"It wasn't hard; our need was great. We would've believed anything to satisfy it. Anyway, Hercolani was one bad bastard; he knew people. One thing led to another, and our new racketeering group was formed."

"Except for Cabriati."

"Cabriati was a different story."

"And your racketeering specialty?"

"Weapons and ammunition."

Reardon sighed. He was past being surprised anymore.

"You have to understand, we wanted to hurt this country the way it had hurt us, especially after the whole Benjamin Lucas affair. As I said that particular incident became our turning point."

Reardon didn't want to understand. How many innocent people were victims because of the clan's so-called _needs_? "And did Cabriati know?"

"Cabriati detested the whole idea, but he'd never rat on his brothers."

"So tell me more about Hercolani. You said he knew people. Like who?"

"At the time I didn't care who. Years later, when I felt I was being...."

"Controlled."

Macey glared sharply. " _Manipulated_..., I approached Hercolani. He swore he didn't know who this person was."

"Did you believe him?"

"I never believed a fucking word from that warped psychopath's mouth. All he could tell me was that no-one knew who he was or what he looked like; that he was a man of many names and many faces." Macey scoffed. "What a load of shit, nothing more than scare tactics."

Shit, perhaps. But there was no denying the fear in Macey's _own_ warped, psychopathic eyes.

"And Thomas Bellante?"

"Hercolani brought him in. Said it'd be good to have a corrupt solicitor on side. Bellante proved useful, many times."

"But you had him killed."

"I was ordered to."

"And you don't know why?"

"Of course not."

For the first time in a long time, Reardon felt real hope. Could Hercolani's relationship with Bellante be a link for his own personal cause? Could Hercolani have lied to Macey, knew who this nameless, faceless man was, this person Reardon now dubbed _The Puppeteer_? "Know where Hercolani is?"

"Reckon he's hiding. Are we bloody finished yet?"

_Barely_ , Reardon thought. "How did you know about our plan for the hospital tonight? Via your 'manipulating' boss?"

A small, wisp of confidence appeared to semi-energize the Senator. He glared at Reardon through wickedly lowered brows. "What you should be asking is why someone in your ranks would rat you out in the first place?"

Inside? Reardon's gut contracted.

Outside? He remained totally poker-faced. "You know who?"

Macey laughed. "Even if I did, you'd think I'd tell you?"

If Macey wanted his freedom, yes he would. But oddly, Reardon believed Macey didn't know. "What really happened to Claudia?"

Macey rolled his hands, huffed and puffed several times. "Claudia would hide out in the most ridiculous places," he began.

Hidey holes.

"But there was one place that was her favorite. A special room just for our group. I'd warned her many times to stay out of it but she was such a contrary, willful little bitch. She had overheard us talking about our new... _business_ _venture_. I didn't know how much she understood, but the girl was smart.

I cornered her almost immediately, told her she was never to repeat what she had heard to anyone, not even to Alice. She stood staunch in that fucking room and said, _Alice says that you have to do what you feel is right and I will always do that_... or some such shit. Anyway, I managed to convince her that her Papa and Alice could be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out. She then promised to keep her mouth shut."

Reardon couldn't imagine Claudia contrary _or_ willful; so different to the overly compliant and obliging adult today.

"My warnings didn't stop her." Macey appeared lost in his own rabid past. "But one very huge lesson did."

"And what lesson was that?"

Macey stared into the dark and smiled.

" _She saw Ricky Taccone shoot himself._ "

# Chapter 41

# Araneya Estate

1990

TONIGHT WAS SOMEHOW different.

Wrong.

She could hear it in their loud, spirited voices, their erratic, intoxicated movements, stumbling, guffawing.

The little girl huddled in her hidey-hole, an air vent set a few feet from the floor of her Papa and uncles' special room. Inside, the space was dark, narrow, filled with fetid odors and a low, constant drumming noise like lots of tiny sledgehammers. On either side of her were two endless black tunnels. Further into those tunnels, she imagined sticky, thick cobwebs, scurrying rats and large well-fed cockroaches. She shivered and stayed close to the rusty, old-fashioned grill as silently as one her age could.

She didn't want to be caught, to bear Uncle Carlo's awful wrath again. But hiding there helped her to understand her Papa, see if he were truly getting better.

Heavy footsteps stumbled closer to her, then stopped short of the grille; someone wearing khaki pants tucked into a pair of brown steel-capped boots. The girl stiffened, held her breath.

" _Where's Carlo? Shouldn't he be here by now?" a man replied. His voice, as intoxicated as it was, was still strong, gravelly with a hard edge to it. The girl recognized it as her Uncle Johnny's. She didn't like Uncle Johnny as much as she liked the others. He began tapping his steely toe, quick, impatient taps._

In the distance, a door opened and closed, and footsteps thudded along the concrete steps. "About time," Uncle Johnny said. And he staggered back to the others. Their voices became strangely serious. She didn't like it when they were serious. She tried hard to listen to their conversations. But some of their words were too muffled to make out. She moved a tiny bit closer, careful not to make a sound and then strained her ears in their direction.

And what she heard frightened her.

It frightened her a lot.

Her small body withered and she hugged herself tightly, praying everything would be all right.

They cheered, clinked glasses and the serious became joyous and light-hearted again.

All except one.

He was weeping, shaking. "I want to die... I just want to die," he kept mumbling over and over again.

It then went quiet. And when the voices returned, so did the seriousness.

A shiny, black gun appeared, one she easily recognized.

" _Yes, please let me die."_

The girl slapped her hand across her gaping mouth; her eyes ballooned wide. No... no... no.

What should she do? She was only a little girl. What could little girls like her do?

But time didn't wait for little girls' decisions.

Time waited for no one.

When the single gunshot sounded, she knew it was all over.

Shock annulled any fear. She shoved the grille open. It landed with a resounding clang onto the stone floor. She hurriedly crawled out, scraped her knee on the sharp edge and ran to the room's center.

It was a whiplash of heinous sounds, ungodly smells and....

Wake up... wake up.

The yelling, the painful cries, the nasty odor of fresh gunpowder and something else, a stench so strong, so unbearably vile.

The girl studied his blue and white striped shirt, the one she gave him for Christmas, the one he promised he would wear forever. Thick, crimson liquid blotted it.

Wake up... wake up.

Blood dripped like a faucet from his slumped head. His eyes wide, lifeless, staring at her. No one else just her, as if it was her fault, as if she could've done something to stop it.

So... so... much blood.

And those horrible, horrible eyes calling her, appealing to her.

Something sharp burnt her insides.

Wake up... wake up.

Why wouldn't he wake up?

Hands gripped her quivering shoulders. It was Uncle Carlo. "What have I told you about hiding here," he said.

The little girl said nothing.

" _I think a lesson is in order," said Uncle Carlo, "don't you, my friends?"_

Lesson? What lesson? The girl felt dreadfully sick.

" _A lesson. Yes, yes, a lesson," her uncles said. They appeared dazed, with half-closed eyes and uncoordinated gestures._

The girl stepped back, glanced at the concrete stairwell. It seemed further away than normal. "I... I'm sorry. I won't do it again," she whispered.

" _Too late, dear girl." She looked at Uncle Carlo and gasped. He didn't look like Uncle Carlo, not any longer. He looked more like a bad man in one of those scary movies she wasn't supposed to watch._

Fear ordered her to run and run fast.

She did, heading towards the exit, yelling Alice's name. Before she reached it, thick arms circled her waist, lifted her clear off the floor. She kicked and screamed. It was no use. Uncle Johnny was too strong.

He brought her back to Uncle Carlo where Uncle Johnny imprisoned her with his hands. Her heart thumped crazily.

What were they going to do?

Chilly bumps scurried over her like thousands of small crawling insects.

" _You look cold, sweet girl," Uncle Carlo said. In his hand was a thick, yellow sponge. "I think we should warm you up."_

They all cackled and she instantly pictured ugly, craggy warlocks chanting around a huge black pot.

" _Ah, Ricky, my friend, let's clean you up a bit," Uncle Carlo said, as he soaked the sponge with Ricky's blood. He then slowly approached the girl, dropped to one knee and began carefully bathing her bare feet in the blood. It was grossly warm, so very warm, moving, prickling her as if it were still alive, as if it were living and breathing on her._

" _No, please... no," she screamed. "Please, no more."_

" _But of course, there is more, sweet girl, much, much more. We have only just begun."_

Horror struck her dumb. And she began to cry. As she felt the sponge dab higher, she tried hard to think of good things like Alice and the pretty fairy-like cottage, like her precious Dolly, the stone lions, the huge water fountain where she loved to play.

In time, the acrid stench became too unbearable, the weight of her now blood-soaked hair too heavy, the incessant, foul prickling of her skin too torturous. When Uncle Carlo finally reached her stricken face, finally began soaking it with the foul-smelling fluid, she screamed... louder, longer, higher than ever before.

And after that, she remembered nothing.

# Chapter 42

# Saul

December 29, 2010

1:25 am

MACEY STARED INTO the night, his dark eyes silent, still. "After the shot," he whispered, "Claudia appeared from her usual hiding spot and tried to wake Taccone. In doing so, she accidently got his blood all over her. When she saw the blood, she began screaming."

"And all this took place in the neighboring forests where Taccone was found?" Something about Macey's version bothered Reardon, but be buggered if he could pinpoint what that something was.

Macey nodded, swung his gaze back to Reardon. "She was like a fucking Duracell battery, just wouldn't stop."

Reardon tasted the first savor of rage. This cold bastard recited the event as if it were nothing more than an irritating hiccup in his pathetic life.

"I'm telling you, Reardon, that scream was the most ungodly sound I'd ever heard. I reckon the girl always had bloody issues. Mercifully, she passed out."

Reardon took several breaths whilst the haunting picture of a little girl screaming, stained in blood, of his Claudia, drenched his mind. He forced down the rising bitterness.

"So, except for Cabriati, the whole clan was present when Taccone shot himself?"

Macey nodded. "It was an oath we all took. If one of us wanted to end it, we would be there as support. Afterwards, we gave each other alibis, made it look as if we had no involvement in the incident. Took Claudia to Alice. Made Alice swear on Claudia's life to keep quiet about what happened. Fortunately for us, Claudia never remembered anyway."

_What total 'fuckedup-ness' was this?_ And then a more disturbing thought struck Reardon. "You knew Claudia was hiding there."

"I... I...."

"Shut the hell up. You knew. Not to mention that you finally got to wield your power over her, get your own back, teach her that 'lesson' you spoke of, you sick bastard."

Reardon furiously rubbed his temple. He could feel a headache take its first breath.

"It wasn't like that."

"Of course it bloody was or at least, something close to it. My god, she was just a child. And Cabriati worked it out. That explains why he came back for Claudia, washed his hands of you all." Reardon tried to maintain control but he was fast losing the battle. "And then what?"

"And then nothing."

Bullshit, there was nothing. This man, however disappointing as an opponent, was far more evil than Reardon had initially thought. Reardon lunged to Macey's rear and seized his neck. Macey instinctively grabbed Reardon's arm with both hands, tried pull it away. But it was useless.

Reardon pressed his mouth near Macey's ear, arrowed his blade mere inches from Macey's eye. "Not a word now, Senator."

Macey nodded, but there was a steely stubbornness in his look.

"Because I want you to hear _every_ word. Right now, all I'd like to do is slice this little beauty clean out of its socket, section by raw little section." Reardon swiveled the blade to the other eye. "Then I'd do it all over again with this one, make you as blind as you obviously are."

Reardon dropped the blade, tried to jimmy it between Macey's lips. But Macey's jaw was clammed shut. Reardon increased the pressure on his throat. Macey struggled for air, slackened his jaw. The blade slid in smoothly. Reardon zigzagged it slowly against the flat of his frozen tongue. "Then there's this device you use in voicing your bloody lies...when I'm through with it...."

Macey gabbled something indecipherable.

Reardon extracted the knife. "What was that, Senator?"

"There's... there's more."

Reardon shrugged, slid the hungry blade back into Macey's mouth. "Sorry, Senator, I don't believe you."

Macey's eyes bolted wide, his body shook fiercely and the noises he made sounded more like an opera singer doing his warm-ups. Reardon waited a few more seconds, slipped the switchblade from his mouth and relaxed his hold.

Macey wheezed, coughed, wheezed some more, began massaging his reddened neck. Reardon squatted in front of Macey, waited for him to collect himself, waited for _the more._

It finally came in the form of the other members of the clan. Reardon listened as he heard of their mounting paranoia regarding Alice Polinski and the possibility that her sudden appearance and her murder would reignite Claudia's memory, a version that corresponded with Reardon's recorded phone conversation between Macey and Iacovelli. "And so they panicked."

"Of course they bloody panicked." Macey's voice was jerky, raspy. "I tried to assure them that even if Claudia did remember, she wouldn't say anything because of her father. They weren't convinced. They recalled how ridiculously irrational she became after that bloody fiancé of hers. They were worried that if in the same state, she would blurt out what happened at Araneya, not even think of her father."

"So after Struthers' death, you had Thomas Bellante enlist the psych, Malcolm Cruikshank."

"I told Cabriati that if he brings Claudia home from Sydney, ensures she goes to Cruikshank, that Cruikshank would not only help her but would keep anything she says, that wasn't in our best interests, confidential. Cabriati consented."

"But he had no knowledge of the true extent that Cruikshank went in making Claudia sound unstable."

"Of course not. Cabriati would rather take the rap than have her suffer any more. He loves that girl like nothing I've seen... like she's his salvation somehow."

Reardon hadn't been wrong about Cabriati's love for Claudia. He, at least, had to be grateful for that.

"Cruikshank made Cabriati believe his daughter was truly suffering a serious form of PTSD," Macey continued. "That diagnosis also ensured that if she revealed anything to her friends or family, they'd simply think she was delusional. I also had someone follow her from time to time. Enrich the delusions just that little bit more."

The figures.

"So when Cruikshank refused to take on Claudia for a repeat performance after Alice Polinski," Saul said, "the rest of the clan got nervous."

"Not just nervous, they became downright absurd, began talking about coming clean, having _their_ bloody story heard."

"And all this because you made the dumb-arse mistake of wanting revenge on a seven year old. I'm surprised they didn't want you dead."

" _Not if I got to them first._ "

And there it was.

Just like that.

What was it about narcissists? That eventual desire to confess all, as if showcasing what they believed were their unique, extraordinary talents. "So _you_ organized the clan's deaths?"

Macey was silent, but his eyes spoke plenty.

Reardon definitely hadn't expected this. He stood and stepped back. How could Reardon have been so wrong, not just for the motive behind Claudia's hit but also in his assumption of two doers?

Often the most convoluted possesses the simplest of solutions, remember that Saul.

A twisted laugh from Macey. "Another shock, Saul Reardon, not as good as you thought you were?"

How Reardon despised that laugh. "Basteros' men claimed they had nothing to do with those murders."

"That's because they didn't. I had someone else, someone _special_ take care of them."

"And the elaborate set-up for each? It wasn't just to scare Claudia off. It was to make her think she was losing it again... to get her back to Cruikshank."

"What can I say? My _someone_ has a true talent for the bizarre and the dramatic."

Was that admiration Reardon detected in Macey's warped expression? "They would've trusted you when you called them to meet at the spot where they died, these, your life-long, fraternity friends."

If Macey felt any remorse, even sympathy, he didn't show it. He lifted his shoulders high, stretched his back straight and in a deep, sepulchral voice said, "Back then the clan was strong, loyal and did what they did in order to survive Vietnam's aftermath. Now, fear had changed them, made them weak, irrational. I did the only humane thing I could...

.... _I put them down_."

Was it Reardon or had the immediate air temperature just nosedived? Reardon shuddered. "They were loyal to you."

Macey laughed. "You're right, they were _._ But fear seized that loyalty, emulsified it. I couldn't trust them any longer. And that's not a good thing. To me, like you, loyalty is integral."

But Reardon would never murder for it.

He studied Macey's self-righteous grin, his cheerless, dead eyes, decided what he really wanted was a few hours one on one with the bastard.

But their time would come.

Just not tonight.

_He had made a promise also_.

"So who is this _special_ person of yours?"

"Again, not something I know. It was the way he and I both wanted it. That way there'd never be a connection between us."

Reardon had to accept the plausibility of such an arrangement, even though he didn't want to. "How did you find him, Google contract killers?"

"No, through Hercolani."

"My, he's one resourceful guy." Reardon really needed to find this Hercolani. "Why Simon Struthers?"

"Your typically nosey, investigative journalist?" Macey snorted. "Every year, on New Year's Day, we hold an exclusive charity ball at Araneya. That particular year, my dear mother decided we needed more publicity for the event. I think the woman was bloody bored. But you can never say no to her. Enter Struthers and his crew.

On their second day there, Struthers came to see me. Told me about his fiancé, about some bloody dreams she was having. Turns out her dreams as well as some photos he had, matched certain sections of Araneya. Asked me if he could bring her to Araneya. I happily obliged. He was so bloody excited, the poor fool, that he rushed home early. Of course, once I discovered who his fiancé was... well...." Macey's laugh was more a tired, weak cackle. "And you don't believe in coincidences."

Reardon didn't, still didn't. "Same _special_ _someone_ took care of him?"

"Of course."

"The overly extravagant setup?"

"As I said, my _someone_ has a talent for the bizarre."

"How did your _special someone_ access Claudia's home and car?"

Macey shrugged. "He simply said that access wouldn't be an issue."

So many more questions to ask. But Reardon knew he needed processing time; time to talk with Claudia; see if she recalled any of Macey's versions of what happened at Araneya.

"You know, it all started with that fucking Polinski woman," Macey hissed. "If she hadn't been so intent on seeing Claudia, none of this would've happened."

Be buggered, the man actually believed his own bullshit. "So it wasn't you who had Alice Polinski killed?"

Macey arched both eyebrows. "Of course not. As if I would intentionally trigger this whole bloody drama."

"Know who did?"

"If I knew, I would personally kill them myself."

Not able to stand another minute breathing the same air, Reardon beckoned to a still invisible Scotty. "Take this bastard to Hendrix, before I do something I regret."

Macey's gaping eyes darted from Reardon and to the newly arrived Scotty. "You said you would keep me out of this."

"My exact words were that _I could._ I never said _I would_."

"That's just bloody semantics, you lying piece of...."

"Something I'm sure you are well-rehearsed in."

Scotty pressed the rifle's nozzle against Macey's back. "A gentlemen's agreement," Macey whispered.

"Pardon the cliché, Senator, _but I am no gentleman_. I guess this game had a winner after all."

"You know you'll be sorry for this."

"Oh, I already am. Sorry that I didn't carry out what I _really_ wanted to do to you." And in slow, measured movements, Reardon flicked his switchblade closed.

"Didn't or just plain couldn't. With the police close by."

The impiety Reardon felt mirrored the look on Macey's face. "If you believe that a bunch of police can stop me, then you really don't know as much about me as you profess. You're only in one piece because I want you to be. See, my gut keeps telling me there's more, particularly with what happened at Araneya. I hope for your sake I'm wrong, because if I'm not, I will find out, and then I'll come back and you'll personally suffer my many talents with a switchblade."

Blood drained from Macey's face. "They won't be able to prove a thing. I'll use your fucking road rage story, blame it on you and the driver."

"Oops." Reardon cringed. "Now that _was_ a fib; your driver's still alive." Reardon flicked his head towards Scotty. "Get him out of here."

Using the muzzle of his rifle, Scotty prodded Macey forward. "Come on, Senator, your loyal but misinformed public awaits."

As they stepped onto the bitumen, two police cars and unmarked sedan greeted them, lights bright against the blackened shade of one very deranged man. Senator Carlo Macey dropped his face to shield his eyes.

A tall lanky man, with the lines of one who had seen too much in his day, fronted up to Reardon.

"As promised," Reardon said. "Not a mark on him."

The tall man hailed to a cluster of police officers. "And all perfectly recorded."

Macey swung sharply. "You said you weren't wearing a wire, Reardon; you swore it on Claudia's life."

Reardon fingered Macey's collar and extracted a small stick-like fixture. "I wasn't wearing one. _You_ were."

Macey clenched his jaw so tightly, his ruddy, puffed-out cheeks quivered. "You have no idea of my power, Reardon."

"And you, my dear Senator, have no idea of mine."

As the police escorted Macey to their vehicle, a thought suddenly struck Reardon. He called out to the Senator. "Why have Basteros execute the hit on Claudia, not your _special someone_?"

Macey dropped his head and winked. "Who?" And with that, he disappeared inside the police vehicle.

"Can't believe this, Saul." Detective Inspector Noah Hendrix stood as taut as his manner.

Hendrix was one of the few law enforcement people Reardon trusted.

"It's quite a story," Hendrix said.

Yep, it certainly was that. "Not one we want in the media," Reardon replied.

"You think Macey will go along with that?"

"Definitely. This man has his own agenda, and he certainly doesn't want his public anywhere near it."

"How long you need?"

"Two, three days max, all going well."

"Okay, I'll charge him, let him lawyer up. But with the proof we have." Hendrix lifted the wire. "He's done like a turkey dinner."

"Be cautious. The man is cunning, and I believe as powerful as he claims."

Reardon heard his name, spotted Claudia walking towards them. His heart skipped several beats.

"She's a dish and a half," Hendrix quipped. "I can see why you're helping her."

"Cut it out. I help anyone who needs me."

"Mmmm, I reckon she could need you in many ways."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Hendrix. But yeah, she's pretty special."

"Bugger me Saul; are you going soft on a woman? Well, if I live and breathe."

Reardon sighed. "May not be in her best interests to be involved with someone like me."

"By the look in her eyes, I'd say it's too late. And as for someone like you? You're a good man, Saul. We all know it. You just need to believe it." He chucked Reardon a set of keys. "Anyway, tank's full. Get going."

Reardon thanked him. Hendrix smiled, then walked away.

"Well, Mr. Everyone's Hero of the Moment, can you please tell me what the fricking shit just happened?" Claudia's white, stiff face said _this had been traumatic_. Her straight back, determined hands on her hips and the whole _don't screw with me_ voice said the complete opposite. "Was that whole theatrical vehicle crashing thing necessary? Methinks you actually get some warped pleasure from all this James Bond stuff."

She was right but he decided not to answer; it was safer. He stroked her face with his fingers, felt heat gush through them like a surge of electricity.

She bit her lip. Even that he found sensual. Bugger if this woman wasn't going to be the death of him. Instincts suggested a cozy, quiet place on the water. There he could make love to her until it washed away all the horrible thoughts in both their heads.

Stronger instincts ordered him to tell her what he knew. "We have to talk."

A rainbow of emotions crossed her beautiful but tired face. He took her hand, guided her towards a pair of ghost gums. He leaned against one and drew her into his arms.

And, however much it hurt him, however much it hurt her, he told her every single detail.

# Chapter 43

# Claudia

December 29, 2010

1:12 pm

I HAD INVITED my mother to meet me at The Local Watering Hole.

I wasn't sure as to why I chose the venue.

Perhaps, because it was here, when I was celebrating the end of the school year with Mel... _that my mother sat in the corner watching me._

I stepped onto the wooden deck, searched the buzzing, lunchtime crowds until I found her. She was dressed in what I and my brothers often referred to as her battle clothes, a crisp, off-white linen two piece. It perfectly tailored her small, hourglass figure; made her appear feminine and simultaneously in control.

A bottle of champagne stood chilling in a silver-coated bucket; two glasses set in place, my mother's half-full. I scanned her face, semi-shaded by the rippling, white sails above her, noticed a few out of place lines on her ordinarily smooth forehead. She picked up her glass, brought the rim to her lips. The entire movement was flawlessly graceful.

I felt nothing.

Not anger, shock, sadness.

Nothing.

Not even fear.

As I passed a table of surfy-looking guys, one of them whistled. My eyes bored straight through him. He immediately raised both hands. "Whoa, just my luck, another hot looking Ice Queen."

I walked on.

"Hello, Mama."

"Claudia."

Words went astray for a short time. I sat and poured champagne I didn't yet need.

"Are you all right, my darling? You look, I don't know... off."

I didn't answer.

"If this is about what I said to you at the hospital, I didn't mean it. I was just upset about your father."

A slow, steady burn warmed some small place inside of me. And I welcomed the fact that I could still feel. "Yet here we are, at The Local, drinking cold champagne while Papa lays weak in a hospital bed."

"I don't understand. _You_ wanted this meeting."

"One that I hoped you wouldn't attend." My mother's uncharacteristic presence only confirmed what Saul and Ethan already believed. "It was you."

She looked up with vividly innocent eyes.

"It was _you_ who killed Alice Polinski."

Time froze.

Vacant, emotionless and so unbearably silent.

I think my heart stopped. My mother's sudden blanched expression made me believe hers had too.

I waited.

So did my mother.

If I could read your mind, Mama, just about now.

Contours continued to crumple her brow in places. Her burgundy-colored lips fell. "Are you insane?"

At that moment, I believed myself to be the most rational, sanest person in our family. "It explains so much." I said. "It explains why, since Alice's death, you've struggled to talk to me, show any concern for me, even to look me in the face. I thought it weird at the time, but I consoled myself with the fact that it was a rather challenging time for us and, well... we all deal with stress in different ways. Never once did I expect that your detached behavior was due to anything else."

"You really think I could kill someone?"

I could've believed her, wanted to; the portrayal of the falsely accused, so seamless in her well manicured gestures, so authentic in her feigned shock deliverance. But there was no escaping what I now knew to be fact.

"There existed a time I'd have thought it impossible that you could kill anyone, let alone in cold blood."

"And you believe this of me, because I am here, not by your father's side?"

"I think this because of many reasons. For one, there was the bullet, the bullet from Papa's Magnum."

I was bluffing. Ballistics had determined the bullet could have come from _any_ thirty-two caliber revolver.

What remaining façade Mama tried to maintain, fractured. One of her hands fastened the base of her throat. It was as colorless as her fast, deteriorating pallor.

I sipped my champagne, held the thin stem of the glass with remarkably steady fingers. "Now, I guess we could all kill with the right motivation, with the right ingredients in play. So what was your motivation? What were the ingredients that compelled you to execute such an act?"

My mother swayed her sights to the bay. Her large, dark eyes appeared sullen, as they looked upon the bay's picturesque splendor, the water's pure, seamless beauty, so incongruous to the tragic figure she now painted. Eventually, those same eyes stared back at me.

"Alice came to see me."

And there it began.

"She wanted to see your father but she thought I would be a more sympathetic partner to her cause."

Alice Polinski's first mistake.

"Said she had something important to tell you."

"Do you know what that was?"

"She wouldn't say. But, honestly, Claudia, it was nothing more than an over-dramatic attempt to be with you again."

"Didn't you think the entire thing odd after she spent twenty years following _your_ rules?"

A brief, startled look and I realized she hadn't even considered it. She gave a one-sided shoulder shrug and said, "Didn't matter, anyway. Turns out, Alice had only asked permission out of mere courtesy, to prepare us for any unpleasant aftermath. In the end, I had no other choice but agree to help her."

"Why would you do that? You hated the woman."

Mama's lips pulled back in a definite sneer.

And as much as I originally didn't want to believe it, Saul and Ethan's theory about Mama began falling into place. "You agreed to help her, so you'd know the exact time and place Alice planned to see me. And that way get to her first."

Mama didn't yay or nay it. She didn't need to. "It was just two days before you finished work for the year," she said. "Alice wanted to wait until your last day of school. That way you'd have lots of free time to adjust, said she'd linger outside of Zephyr until you returned home."

"You had the code to Zephyr; you could've let her in."

"I didn't _want_ to let her in."

It was a remorseless admission; a blind person could've sensed that. I captured my breath and held onto it. Reality was melting me fast, flushing my skin from the inside out. I didn't much care for it. I glanced away, back to Mama, away again.

Was this woman really my mother? Our closely similar facial appearances said she was. I scanned the surrounding, bustling crowds and swallowed hard. I rummaged through my beaded bag, pulled out my large, tortoiseshell sunglasses and slipped them on. And it wasn't to protect my eyes from the sun.

I needed readjustment time, piecing bits together time. When I felt I had enough, I returned to my mother. She was fiddling with her gold-hooped earring, staring at me.

"You had it all planned out."

Mama said nothing.

"You first disguised yourself as some young hoodlum." Normally the idea of a middle-aged woman doing so would've been implausible. But not my mother. Not with her small, slight figure and genetically unlined face. And certainly not combined with the right hooded jacket, dark sunglasses and one of Uncle Al's outdated bombs from his demolition car yard. "You took Papa's gun intending on shooting Alice while she waited outside of Zephyr; make it look like some warped, motiveless drive by shooting."

I could barely believe what I was saying. Not only did it suggest that my mother knew how to use a gun but with a certain degree of accuracy. "But Alice wasn't outside Zephyr, was she Mama? And when you drove by, saw she wasn't there you panicked. Was she then waiting for me elsewhere?"

My mother sipped her champagne, faultlessly, emotionlessly.

I trembled.

Felt ill. The strong smells of a neighboring tuna salad didn't help. "Let me know, at any time, if my over-active imagination gets out of control."

Mama still didn't respond.

"You drove to my school, studied me from the car park. Decided if Alice had already spoken to me, I would've appeared... hmmm... upset. When I looked at you, you sped off. From that point on, you weren't letting me out of your sight. Alice was waiting for me _..._ somewhere."

Sharp pain stabbed my lungs. I heaved in a gush of air. "That now brings us here to The Local. I'm guessing you thought I'd have gone home from school instead."

"It's what you normally do."

"Not that day. Your whole car park spectacle freaked me out and I didn't want to be alone. So you followed me here into The Local. How you must've hated putting yourself in the open like that? Just because there was a small chance, a very small chance that Alice could show up. What were you going to do if she did? Shoot her in front of all those people?"

Her face colored and she avoided my eyes.

"You also didn't account for some stranger taking a curious interest in you. Someone who would coincidently turn up at our home a few weeks later."

Ethan.

He had always believed that the person watching me at The Local was male, someone young. He was actually impressed with my mother's disguise. When he first saw her at my parent's home, it was her eyes, identical to mine that made him stop, relook and put the horrific pieces together.

I sat mute for a while gazing at some boaties in the distance. How uncomplicated their lives suddenly appeared, sailing in zigzag fashions across the blue waters.

"Some family secrets need to stay exactly that. Secrets," my mother whispered.

My mother the cold-blooded murderer.

"You have to understand, Claudia, Alice could've destroyed everything your father and I worked for. When you were in that horrible condition in the hospital after Araneya, your father cautioned me then that someone, someday, may come, someone not in your best interest, someone who may want to do you harm."

Carlo Macanetti/Macey.

"It was why your father taught me how to use a gun."

No surprises there.

"I thought Alice to be that person." I watched Mama's facial movements with some interest, tried to read the unspoken versions of the tale, but in the end, I could decipher very little.

"Papa never would've condoned such a ruthless act. He cared about Alice."

I believed that strongly. I believed the only reason Papa was so harsh about Alice seeing me, was because of my mother.

" _You_ didn't want Alice in your precious life. And Papa sadly complied. He loved you Mama, he loved our family and he had to do whatever was necessary to keep it together, even if it meant hurting Alice. _It's the Cabriati blood_."

My mother swung from me, pulled out her pristinely folded handkerchief from her pristinely poised handbag. She dabbed and wiped, wiped and dabbed.

But I remained scarily detached from her.

And I prayed for my own soul.

Mama glanced at me, twisting her handkerchief. "You've changed, Claudia."

I could've laughed had the situation not been so grim. "The truth will do that to you." But not for one minute, did I believe _all_ those changes were necessarily good ones.

I took a deep breath, allowing my mother time to formulate her next explanation, false or otherwise. Allowing myself time to prepare for my _own_ painful tirade. When Mama said no more, I questioned why.

"There's nothing more to say."

"That's not true, is it?" I raised and lowered my shoulders and looked squarely into my mother's eyes. I was relieved to sense some of my original coldness return. I needed it. "Twenty-eight years ago, you made a choice. I'm not going to pretend to understand the difficult times you suffered with Papa. However, you didn't just decide to disappear with Milo, leaving me with Papa as everyone in the family believed."

Blood eased out of my mother's arrogant face.

"You left me at birth, abandoned at some hospital. _Papa didn't even know I was born_."

I didn't wait for a reaction. "I can't imagine what it was like for Papa to scour the many Sydney hospitals in search of you, only to eventually discover me among a bunch of frantic nurses. I can't imagine what it was like for him to return to a cold, barren home, to missing clothing and you and Milo gone."

I took one small breath. "It wasn't enough that you chose to discard me, that you chose to vanish with Milo, or even that you chose to leave me with a man that you didn't think fit enough to live with yourself. But that for seven whole years you carried on as if I didn't exist, not ever once checking to see if I was okay."

Mama's large, unblinking eyes stared from beneath a now unreadable expression. "Claudia, I always wanted you...."

"Wanted me? You aren't serious, because I know about _that_ too." My voice had now reached new depths, somewhere amidst the dark voids of hell. "I know about your attempt to abort me."

"Claudia, it wasn't like that."

Somewhere in my aching, bubbling brain, I recalled the countless times psychologists allotted my childhood difficulties to my maternal relationship. I had ridiculed them. Now I could only shake my head at how close to the mark they'd been.

"I guess, in due course you were shocked that you could've done such a thing. The fact that I never knew just helped in relieving any guilt on your part. As for Papa, he hid your secret from everyone, a secret far worse than his own."

"He was protecting you, Claudia."

"Yes, he was, but he was also protecting you."

Mama pulled at her earring again, fast, agitated pulls, enough to make me think it'd soon fall off. "How?"

"How do I know all this?"

Her nod was wary, slight.

"Milo."

Mama gasped.

With all Mama's planning and manipulation she had never considered the one other person that had actually been there at the time. A very confused, very aware, very clever eight year old.

And unlike me, one who didn't forget.

"He remembers the blood, Papa yelling at you not to lose the baby. Milo also remembers me in a hospital crib, so excited to have a sister. He imagined all the things big brothers do, how he would teach me to ride a bike and so on. And then you grabbed him and disappeared. You deprived him of his family. And with no plausible explanation."

I searched for a reaction, caring or otherwise.

Nothing.

"Seven years passed before I'm with you again. But I'm not the baby Milo remembered. He sees a girl horribly frightened, with no memory. He hears the gut-wrenching pleas of Alice Polinski, bleating her love for me, only to have a restraining order slammed on her. Milo's fifteen by then, understands a whole lot more.

He doesn't feel comfortable turning to either you or Papa. Instead, he turns to Aunt Lia. Lia connects the dots that a fifteen-year-old couldn't. She reaches out to Alice, promises her unfailing support. Helped her buy the old house outside of Nambour."

When I asked Lia about the Nambour house, its sparse furnishings and disrepair, she told me a story about a delightful little cottage, with vibrant, pristine gardens and a colorful floral archway. "That was Alice's _true_ home," she had said to me. "Where her heart belonged. The Macanettis gave it to her as a gift. It's also where you and Alice lived. It was her life-long dream that one day she could bring you back there."

From that moment on, an unbearable sadness, one I'd never experienced before - other than Simon - permanently implanted itself in me.

I returned to my mother. "Lia kept Alice informed about me, like sports carnivals, school fetes, graduations. And Alice would loyally attend every one of them, watch me from a safe distance."

Mama scoffed, shook her head. Not a hair fell out of place. "Your figures."

Very likely. "Alice never once approached me. To her, I seemed truly happy. And she didn't want to upset that." Alice also feared that meeting me could trigger my memories of Araneya and that the bad memories would far outweigh the good.

"How very noble of her," Mama hissed.

"Yes, it was."

"And Milo told you this?"

I hadn't seen Milo since Christmas day. But Milo had seen Lia, trusted her to tell me everything I needed to know. That it was time for him to search his own path.

I told Mama. She wore the expression of one betrayed.

"Milo encouraged Alice to wait inside Zephyr, argued that it was safer than being on the streets. After you killed her, he suffered tremendous guilt."

Like a startled chameleon, Mama's betrayed look changed colors. Tears, _real_ ones, bubbled and fell; wet, black mascara soiled her once immaculate handkerchief. "None of it was his fault."

"I know that. It would be nice if he did. And for him to hear it from you."

I thought of Milo. Lia explained how, every year, without complaint, Milo would place Alice's hand-made birthday cards under my pillow, how he protected me for Alice's sake, and very likely for the boy who once long ago, stared at his newborn sister and vowed to do that anyway. I still had difficulty associating _that_ Milo with my own, caused by twenty years of conditioning.

"You have to understand," Lia had said to me, "the years away from your Papa and from a sister Milo never got to know, didn't help him. Your mother's family coddled him, worshipped him like some phenomenal god. But Milo was smart. He played their ridiculous games. And his often cool façade was the unfortunate by-product."

Lia had also given Simon the photos for the wedding album, courtesy of Alice. I wonder now, if it had been intentional on Lia's behalf, hoping that once I saw them, I would begin a series of questions that would eventually lead me back to Alice.

With much reluctance, I returned to my mother. "Lia told Alice the truth about my birth, willingly gave her the ammunition to do what she wanted in case you or Papa caused her any problems. When you refused Alice permission to see me, she threatened you with it."

_Alice Polinski's second mistake_.

"Imagine what everyone would think, what the family would think, if they knew what type of mother you really were. That was Alice's true threat to you, wasn't it?"

And one that cost Alice her life.

"Claudia...."

The next part was the hardest. The one that made me sick beyond any talented imagination I bore.

I wished, I hoped, I prayed I was wrong.

"Last night, when I visited Papa, he told me to be careful of whom I trusted. He kept looking over my shoulder as if that person was there. I thought he meant Lia. I was wrong. He didn't know you had already left the room."

"You think he was talking about me?"

She said it with such chaste innocence. I didn't know whether to slap her or clap her.

I continued regardless. "When Ethan came to our home, you recognized him and you panicked. You then turned to the only person who could help you. _Papa._ You told him about Ethan. You told him about how you had killed Alice. And that's when Papa had his heart attack."

I didn't need an answer. It was stamped across every disturbing, foreign line on my mother's face. I didn't know what was worse. My poor, trusting Papa believing that the woman he had strove to protect and love was actually a cold-blooded murderer, or the fact that she so publicly tried to blame his heart attack on me.

"You know what's ironic?" I said. "If you hadn't killed Alice, Iacovelli and Souza would still be alive, Milo wouldn't have felt the need to disappear, I wouldn't have had two attempts on my life and Papa would be home strong and healthy. My discovering your dirty secret seems so trivial now, don't you think?"

I didn't know what my mother thought. I didn't really care.

"You not only deprived Alice of her life, her only mistake being to love the child that you and Papa so easily gave away; you also deprived me of a mother who genuinely loved me. That is a cross I will bear through no fault of my own."

Any sad, repentant expression that followed from my mother, I knew to be false. She apologized, asked me for forgiveness.

My answer was immediate. "No, I think not."

In some ways, it seemed wrong. I could so easily forgive my Papa. It wasn't because of my mother's malicious manner or her deceitful explanations. It wasn't even the fact that she had deserted me at birth.

It was, I believe, because of the cold hearted, manipulative execution of Alice.

"What now?" my biological mother said. "Are you going to the police with this?"

That was the next factor to consider.

" _I'd love to take that burden from you,"_ Saul answered, when I appealed to his thoughts. _"But this is purely your decision."_

I liked how he trusted me.

It was a paradoxical state of affairs, this position I found myself in, being in the same shoes my father had been in several times, the future of the family, _our_ family lying potently in the palm of my newly strengthened hands.

Like Papa, years down the track, I'd perhaps look back regrettably at the decision I'd made. As Papa said, _one is always smarter in hindsight_. But, for now, I believed, as _Papa_ once believed, that I was doing what was _best for the family._

"What do you think I should do?" I asked.

She gritted her teeth; nervous fingers ploughed her brow. "The truth would devastate our family."

The truth had already devastated me.

"Milo, Nathaniel, Marcus... oh my god...." Her head fell into two rickety hands where it remained.

I felt some momentary pity for her. I doubt she had really considered the ramifications of her actions, not just for herself, but also for every other family member. For a glimmer, I could almost feel her anguish. "That's why I'm _not_ going to the police."

My mother's eyes shot up.

Because of Saul, I could make that decision. He would guarantee that Alice Polinski was yet another casualty of Basteros or Carlo Macanetti.

I wasn't stupid. I knew my mother should've been charged, convicted and sent to prison.

But I had one very important fact to consider.

_No more lies_ , my Papa had said. But that tenet bowed and snapped in the beguiling wind of my mother. When it came to her, there were no rules. Papa would always consider his dark days as the trigger of any wrong doing on her behalf.

And for that, he would take full responsibility. Even going to prison for her, convincing the police he had killed Alice Polinski. I knew this without doubt.

And that I could not allow.

I cast cold daggers upon the woman, who by blood, was my mother. "I can't be the cause of any more grief for this already broken family. We have all suffered far too much."

"And your brothers?"

"What you tell them or anyone else in our family is your decision. Fortunately for you, with Papa still in the hospital, I don't believe, at present, it's in their best interests to know."

My mother thanked me.

My stomach lurched. "Whatever you do, do not thank me. This is against any moral principles I was once proud to say I had."

I fingered my wine glass before lifting it to my lips, completely emptying it. I then stood slinging my bag over my shoulder. "But, I console myself with two things. One, that like a true Cabriati, I'm doing this for our family, our blood. And two, how Papa looks upon you from this day on, you'll find hard to bear. That'll be Alice's and my final retribution."

I then left.

Saul met me at the hotel's entrance. He didn't ask how it went with my mother. He didn't need to. No outcome with her would've been a pleasant one.

"I need to remember Alice." I wasn't looking at Saul but to the blue, still waters that had previously given me so much comfort. "I need to go to Araneya."

"You sure?"

More certain than anything else I knew. "I want to remember everything, good or bad. I want to remember Alice _._ "

"It'll mean remembering Carlo Macanetti."

"Fuck Carlo Macanetti."

But, in reality, I couldn't dismiss him. I had to accept that parts of his confession about Uncle Ricky and I were correct.

I recalled the blood.

But I recalled nothing else.

"What are you feeling?" Saul said.

"A whole heap of stuff."

"What's in your head?"

"Too much. It's like shards of a broken vase," I whispered. "You find some pieces immediately, others you discover with a little more effort. But it's when you start to look beneath the couches, against the wall, in places where others wouldn't bother, that you find the remaining fragments, the ones that collectively restore the whole piece and thus give you the answer in its entirety." I turned to Saul. "You know what I mean?"

"The glue," he said, "you'll need the glue to connect the fractured pieces of your life."

"Exactly."

Saul smiled, grabbed my hand. "Let's go find that glue."

"Yes, let's."

And we slid into Saul's new vehicle and quietly, unobtrusively slipped away.

###

# Thanks for Reading!

Write a Review!

Thank you for taking the time to read _Forgotten_ , Book One in the Araneya Mystery Series. If you enjoyed this book, and you would like to show your gratitude to Neven, the best way is to leave a review at your favorite retailer. It needn't be long, just a couple of positive words will help new readers to discover this book, and this will help Neven where it really counts!

Do you have a question or two about the book?

Neven would love to hear from you too!

Connect with Neven!

#  Keep Reading!

Araneya Mystery Series

_Not Forgiven_ , Book Two in the Araneya Mystery Series, was officially released in 2019. Grab a copy from your favorite retailer today!

 Get Not Forgiven Now!

# Loved the Book?

Araneya Mystery Club

Do you want to know when the next Araneya Mystery is due to be released? Be the first to receive the Latest Updates, Special Offers, and Discounts!

Your email address will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Join the Club!

# About the Author

Neven Carr lives in what she terms is an author's haven; a quaint fishing village on the east coast of Queensland, Australia. Her former years as a Primary School teacher provided her with many life experiences, some treasured, some not so treasured, but ones she continually draws upon when writing her novels. Neven Carr now devotes her time to her three passions, her family, reading and of course, writing.

_Forgotten_ is her debut novel.

# Connect with Neven Carr

Araneya VIP Mystery Club

<http://eepurl.com/cRiOM5>

Twitter:

<https://twitter.com/nevencarr>

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/nevencarr

Website:

https://nevencarr.wordpress.com

Goodreads Author Page:

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14756985.Neven_Carr

Smashwords Author Page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/nevencarr>

Gmail:

nevencarr@gmail.com

