Lozza inhaled deeply. This meant any DNA that showed up on the ropes from the crime scene that was a match to Ellie could also be argued to have come from earlier incidents. Crown prosecutors would not be happy. Lozza eyed her, and the sinister sensation of being played intensified. Was this woman a deception artist herself? Like she claimed her husband was? Could it be wildly possible she’d used that first day out on the boat to set up a scenario that would later undermine any police evidence found in a crime? Lozza was getting a feeling that maybe this was less an interview with Ellie Cresswell-Smith than it was Ellie laying out a future defense on the record. An inkier thought struck Lozza—could Ellie have set out to swim with her and Maya in the sea that day? Could she have wanted for some reason for Lozza to see her bruises and meet her husband and sympathize? Could that have been part of some ploy, too?
Lozza showed Ellie the photo of the bald man with the neck tat again. Once more Ellie denied knowing anything about him or any package with drugs.
“I’d like to leave now,” she said.
“Just a few more questions,” Lozza said. “Who was the PI you hired to take photos of your husband and Bodie Rabinovitch?”
“Look, I’m really tired. I’m not feeling well. I’d like to go and buy a plane ticket and go home.” She started to push her chair back.
“Please stay seated, Ellie.”
“You can’t force me, Lozza. I know my rights. If you want to hold me, if you want to ask any more questions, you’re going to have to arrest me and go through my lawyers. I’ve been as cooperative as I can, and I’m in a very bad place with the mess Martin has left me. I need to go home to Canada and to meet with my legal team there.”
Lozza sucked in a deep, long breath of air, assessing her. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“Fine. Go.”
Ellie hesitated, then got up and went to the door. She reached for the handle, paused, turned back to face Lozza and Gregg. She wavered, then said, “There was a car following us. I noticed it soon after I arrived in Jarrawarra.”
Lozza and Gregg exchanged a glance. “What kind of car?” Lozza asked.
“A brown Toyota Corolla,” Ellie said. “It has a dent in the back and a Queensland plate. I remember the last three letters of the plate because they spell GIN, like the drink.”
Lozza’s heart sped up. “You certain it was a Queensland rego?”
“Yes. I even pointed the car out to Martin. He looked really worried when he saw it.”
“Did he know who was in the car?”
“No. He suggested it was a common model and color, and said it was probably different cars I was seeing. But I could tell he was worried about it.” She then stepped out the door and left.
On impulse Lozza followed her out into the street.
“Ellie?” she called out.
The woman turned. Sunlight caught the shine in her dark waist-length hair.
Lozza went up to her and handed Ellie her card. Quietly she said, “If any more memory returns, please call me. Nothing is too small or too insignificant.”
Ellie eyed her. The memory of their time in the waves shimmered between them. Seemingly unsure, Ellie glanced again at the card.
“I can see you’re scared, Ellie. I know Martin hurt you. I understand the confusion and shame around substance abuse.”
Ellie’s big blue eyes watered, and Lozza felt she was going to say something. But she stopped. This woman was either very, very alone or very smart and dangerous. Lozza wanted to give her an opening to reach out. In whatever way. Good-cop/bad-cop–style—and right now she was playing good cop.
“If you do see that Corolla again, let me know. Okay?”
Ellie nodded, turned, and walked down the road.
Lozza watched until Ellie disappeared around the corner at the end of the street.
She turned to go back into the station but stalled. She looked up. Corneil stood in the window. Watching.
THEN
ELLIE
I entered our house followed by Willow, who’d brought me home from the travel agency where I’d purchased another ticket home. I’d called Willow from there. After being grilled by the police and still feeling so weak, I’d suddenly felt so alone, scared. I needed her company. My flight left in two days. I had to cope until then. The cops had told me I could return to my house—it was not a crime scene. They’d photographed everything, and they’d taken Martin’s computers and the files and papers from his cabinet. His office was a mess, drawers still open, things scattered all over the floor.
I stopped and stared, my heart beating fast.
The lock on his office door had been broken. I felt bile rise up the back of my throat. At least I’d made copies of everything. I walked slowly, dazedly, into the living room and sat down.
“Can I get you something to drink, eat?” asked Willow as she set her purse on the kitchen counter near where Martin had raped me. Concern creased her brow.
“Water, thanks.”
She brought me a glass. I sipped with a shaky hand, odd and indistinct, disjointed memories slicing through my brain.
“I can stay awhile,” Willow said. “I can stay overnight—stay until you leave, if you like?”
I stilled as I saw the blank space on the wall.
“The clock.”
“What?”
“They took the clock.” I set my glass down and came to my feet, my heart racing. I made for the sliding glass door.
“Ellie? Where are you going?”
I yanked open the door and marched over the lawn toward my studio. Willow hurried after me.
I entered the studio and stilled.
The clock was gone from here, too. I spun to face her.
“Why would the police take the wall clocks?”
“I . . . I have no idea.”
“There was a clock there.” I pointed. “It was exactly the same design as the
