Our conversation replayed in my mind as I walked down her driveway toward the gate.
“Are you sure you want to help me like this, Willow?”
She got up and went to stand in front of the big view windows. She stood there a long while, in silence, her arms folded tightly across her stomach, as if gathering herself. She finally turned to face me.
“I knew someone like Martin once,” she said. “Some guy who was violent with my mum. He moved in after my dad went to prison and he beat her, sometimes senseless.” She rubbed her mouth. “He supplied her with drugs, too. Some bad stuff. I was seven when she died from an overdose—so I know what you’re talking about, Ellie, when you say that was what happened to your mom.”
I tensed.
She inhaled deeply. “I was about to go into the system when my father got out and ‘liberated’ me. We lived on the streets, hustling. He taught me things. Other street people taught me, too. Mostly how to survive. Then he died homeless. I fought out of that bad childhood, El. I went into counseling, and I guess the crusader in me wanted to become a therapist myself, and to never let this happen to anyone else. Or to be there to help them if it did.”
I suddenly felt my own problems pale in comparison. I felt foolish. I felt my privilege. I stared at her. We never really did know people, did we, when we saw them passing by on a street?
She gave a rueful smile. “I like to think I do it all for him, and for my mom. Mostly it’s for me.”
My eyes burned. “I am so sorry. I—”
She raised her hand, stopping me. And gave a smile. “Just let me help, okay? I need you to get away from Martin, so it’s for me, too. You can pay me back one day by paying it forward.”
I reached her garden gate beneath an arch overhung with jasmine. The smell of the flowers damp from the warm rain was fecund. Heady and full with promise. Suddenly I had hope. I had a friend.
I opened the gate. It creaked. I stopped and turned to look back at her house. Willow stood framed by an upstairs window. She had a phone to her ear. She smiled and waved.
I waved back.
Then I stepped onto the sidewalk and saw the brown car at the end of the road.
I paused and watched as the car pulled out and drove away. Yes, I thought. I wanted answers. I was going to get a PI and find out what was happening.
No more passive Ellie.
THEN
ELLIE
Over one year ago, November 14. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.
It was midday. Two weeks since my visit with Willow. Unseasonably hot. From my bedroom window I could see heat shimmering off the road—even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. My T-shirt stuck to my back as I opened Martin’s closet. I had the fan going in the bedroom, all the windows open wide. Tense, I moved carefully, quickly, trying to put everything back exactly as I’d found it. Otherwise he’d notice.
I was off the meds, off the drink. I was doing everything a “good wife” should do. Making dinners. Getting exercise, sleep. Looking my best.
I’d organized my studio, hung up my photographs and art, and was focusing on my work. When I’d struggled with withdrawal symptoms, I’d called Willow. We’d gone for long beach walks on those occasions. Or out for coffee at the Muffin Shop. Never the Puggo. Both Martin and I were avoiding the Puggo, even though Martin insisted there was nothing between him and Rabz. I’d told him I believed him, lulled him into a false sense of security. Meanwhile, Willow had found me a PI. I was having Martin followed.
For his part my husband had done a complete 180 and couldn’t be nicer. It was as though all the bad things had never happened. Almost.
I pulled open his underwear drawer and felt around at the back.
Martin had unlocked his office and invited me to look at the company spreadsheets. He was right—the presales were going gangbusters. The environmental report was solidly in our favor. The shire council had given the first phase a third reading. The rest of the red tape was sorting itself out. Yet he’d relocked his office after showing me out.
And it remained locked while he went up to work at Agnes every day.
He still didn’t trust me. Not fully.
Then five days ago he’d suddenly announced he had to go to Sydney for two weeks. Some emergency with the banks and meetings with an ad agency. He’d left two hours later, rushing to catch the small plane from Moruya. I’d spent the last two days searching for an office key without fear he might walk in.
There had to be a spare key somewhere. Or perhaps he’d taken the only one with him?
I opened another drawer and fingered around the back.
Yesterday I’d hunted everywhere downstairs. Today I’d continued the search upstairs. I opened his sock drawer next. One by one I checked inside his neat balls of socks. Then I felt around the back of the drawer. My fingers touched metal. My heart quickened. I stretched in deeper and closed my hand around something. I’d found it.
His keys.
I fished them out. Three keys on the ring. I stared at them, sweat prickling over my brow. It wasn’t wrong for me to go into his office. It was wrong that he locked his space off from me—an equal shareholder in our company.
I hurried downstairs.
Outside the office door I stopped and calmed myself. No pills. Just deep breaths. He was not due back for another week. I had plenty of time to do this. Nevertheless I still glanced quickly around the room, a residual memory lingering—the echo of a sense of being watched. I could see nothing out of the ordinary.
I unlocked
