her. Would a bloodthirsty psychopath be eating Sunday lunch with a family in Baulkham Hills? She didn't think so.
So it was all good for her. She could get an interview with a police suspect and show that they were still a long way off the mark as far as solving the case. She wondered if this bloke even knew he was under surveillance. She suspected that the cops didn't even know that he'd moved on from the family house in Cabramatta. She smiled to herself as she followed little Maryana's chubby legs into the backyard of the home. Maybe she'd get to present a piece live to camera. The anchor, Deborah, would burn.
'Maryana!'
Chloe heard a call come from inside the house.
'That's my mum,' the little girl said. 'I gotta go. His room's in there.' Maryana pointed to a door tucked beside the stairs leading to the house above them. 'You wanna come up?'
'No, that's okay, Maryana. I should go back around the front and knock on the door. I should introduce myself to your mum properly.'
'Okay, then,' said the little girl, giving her a quizzical look. She ran off.
Chloe decided to have a quick look around before going back to the front of the house. She was surprised at how easy it had been to find this guy and wanted to think of a few questions to put to him before they met, but she wasn't sure whether the little girl would tell her mum she was down here. Chloe didn't want to meet these people that way. She quickly ducked around the side of the rented room and realised that it was partially dug into the ground. She spotted a window on the back wall and tried to peer through. She could see nothing.
She made her way back around to the front of the room.
'Lunch was great, Karen, Ken.' Henry stood. 'Thank you. I might just use the bathroom before I go.'
Ken stood as well. 'You might have to go downstairs, mate. I'm just on my way to use the toilet up here myself.'
Karen smiled at her brother, grateful. For some ridiculous reason she didn't want this man becoming too familiar with her house.
'I don't know why everyone needs the toilet all of a sudden.' Karen tried to laugh. 'And Maryana feeling sick too. I hope it wasn't my cooking. Where has that child got to?' she said, calling to her daughter again before seeing Henry to the back door.
Karen shocked herself by turning the deadlock when she closed it. Must be that closet racism, she thought, forcing herself to open the door again. Her six-year-old scooted past her into the kitchen.
Cutter could smell her.
He moved from the final step of the house onto the concrete that led to the washing line. Not Karen's sweet, ripe tang. No, no. We've had a visitor, he thought. Musky smell. He turned his nose into the light breeze and sniffed again. Why would anyone be down here?
Cutter didn't believe in coincidence. He didn't believe in chance. If something didn't feel right, it was wrong. There was something wrong in Baulkham Hills.
His head whipped around with the sound. There. There she is. Anyone with her? He could see no one. Still, he kept his options open as he moved forward a little to greet the guest.
'Henry?' she said, doubt in her eyes.
Now that was a surprise. No one knew he was here. She didn't look like a cop. Maybe a friend of his landlord – had Karen told people about him already?
'My name is Chloe Farrell,' she said, extending her hand. 'I'm an investigative journalist working on the southwest Sydney home invasion case. I wondered if we could speak for a few moments?'
He took her hand, breathed with her for a few beats. He had to blink to break the spell.
'To me? What about?' He walked closer to his door.
'I don't know whether you're aware, Henry, but the police think you might know something that could help them with the case.'
'Did you get my address from the police?' he asked, putting his key into the lock on his door.
'No,' she smiled. 'I'm pretty sure they don't know you live here. Don't be angry, now,' she said with a big smile. Her teeth are so white, he thought. 'I got your address from the sweet lady at your old house in Cabramatta. Is she your grandmother?'
Cutter grinned and the girl stepped back a little. He lowered the wattage.
'Yes, that's my grandma. Look, I don't think I can help you with any of this, but I wouldn't mind knowing what's going on. You want to come in for a moment and we can talk for a bit?'
28
JILL SAT UP quickly in bed and wished she hadn't. A ribbon of pain that began in her neck and extended down one shoulder pulled her back down to her pillow. After falling quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep within twenty minutes of arriving home from Gabriel's last night, she'd awoken at three a.m. feeling she was drowning. She'd spent the next fifteen minutes blowing her nose, and the hour after that punching her pillow into some kind of shape conducive to sleeping again. She'd ended with the pillow bunched high under her neck, a position that always left her sore the next morning.
Sunday. She could not believe that just a week had passed since she and Scotty had packed her belongings at Maroubra police station. So much had happened. They'd uncovered a lot of important information about the home invasion gang, but they still had no one in custody, and had yet to interview a suspect.
She wondered what Scotty was doing today, and smiled, certain that he would wonder the same thing about her at some stage today. Usually they went for a run or a long bike ride together on Sundays. She thought about the butterfly pendant in her underwear drawer, the jewellery so unlike her. She smiled again, but the back of her throat suddenly ached with sadness. She hoped that the butterfly did not symbolise her relationship with Scotty: a fragile, beautiful, brief life. She considered all of the relationships she'd had. Her habit had been to flit from one to the next, alighting briefly, fluttering away with any minor disturbance or change in the wind. And she'd been so careful with Scotty, never allowing more than a friendship, to try to preserve what they had together as partners at work.
So. She should do something with her day off. She could go out to Camden and see her family – she'd love to see her niece and nephew right now. Even with a red nose and headache, it would be great to have little Lily sitting with her on the bed, prattling on about the most important things in the world to her – frogs, her best friend Tracey Timmons, her Bratz dolls. But Jill could not imagine getting in the car and driving that far.
She could call Scotty. He'd love to see her, and she realised that she missed him a lot. Most weeks for the past couple of years they'd seen each other six or even seven days a week. She convinced herself that she wouldn't call because he'd want to do a bike ride, or a swim, and she didn't feel well enough today. She quickly pushed aside the real reason she wouldn't call: she couldn't bear it if the awkwardness that had ended every past relationship suddenly materialised between them.
She pulled her knees up to her chin, unwilling yet to get out of bed and face the day. She should be able to call a girlfriend, catch up for lunch, she thought. That's what other people did with their weekends. The fact that she didn't have close friends had never bothered her until the last six months or so. In the past, there'd only been time for training and work, but even with her obsessive dedication, they had been mere hobbies compared to her fulltime occupation: keeping herself safe. Safety entailed distance from others. The fewer people you let into your heart, the less likely that one of them would rip and shred and tear it to pieces.
She sighed. Although she'd killed Alejandro Sebastian – the man who'd kidnapped and raped her as a child – his legacy lived on. She'd hoped that his death would burst the bubble that had simultaneously protected and alienated her from the world. Over the past few months she'd thought the bubble was becoming a little more permeable, but she could still feel its barricades at the periphery of her psyche.
The thought of the schnapps at Gabriel's last night suddenly rose like a spectre in front of her. Changing routines meant losing control. She thought about a story the therapist, Mercy Merris, had told her when she had been forced to have counselling several years ago. Mercy had spoken of a Vietnam veteran who'd been an inpatient
