The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(64)

Aaron jumped as Erik Falk slammed a hand against the steering wheel. His dad looked paler than usual, and his forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat. Erik swiveled in his seat and in one swift movement had reached out and grabbed his son’s shirt. Aaron gasped as hands that had never once been raised at him in anger now twisted the fabric and dragged him closer.

“I’m going to ask you this one time, so tell me the truth.”

Aaron had never heard that tone in his father’s voice before. He sounded sickened.

“Did you do it?”

The shock of the question rippled like a physical force through Aaron’s chest, and he felt like he was suffocating. He forced himself to gasp a breath, but his lungs were tight. For a moment he couldn’t speak.

“What? Dad—”

“Tell me.”

“No!”

“You have anything to do with that girl’s death?”

“No. Dad, no. Of course I bloody didn’t.”

Aaron felt his own heart thudding against his father’s grip. He thought of their best possessions knocking and grinding in a pile in the back of the truck, of his rushed good-bye to Luke and Gretchen. Of Ellie, who he’d never see again, and Deacon, who he even now checked for through the rear window. He felt a thrill of anger and tried to wrench his dad’s hand away.

“I didn’t. Jesus, how can you even ask me that?”

Aaron’s father kept his grip. “Do you know how many people have asked me about the note that dead girl wrote? Friends of mine. People I’ve known for years. Years. Crossing the street when they saw me. All because of that note.” He tightened his grip. “So you owe it to me to tell me. Why was your name on it?”

Aaron Falk leaned in. Father and son, face-to-face. He opened his mouth.

“Why was yours?”

“We were never the same after that,” Falk said. “I tried a few times over the years. He probably did too, in his own way. But we couldn’t really fix things. We stopped talking about it, never really mentioned Kiewarra again. Pretended it didn’t exist, none of it had happened. He put up with Melbourne, put up with me, and then he died. And that was it.”

“How dare you!” Aaron’s father’s eyes flared, and there was an unnameable edge to his expression. “Your mother is buried in that town. That farm was built up by your grandparents, for God’s sake. My friends and my life are back there. Don’t you dare throw this on me.”

Aaron felt the blood pumping in his head. His friends. His mother. He had left almost as much behind.

“Then why are we running?” He grabbed his father’s wrist and wrenched it off his shirt. It came free this time. “Why are you making us run with our tails between our legs? It only makes us look guilty.”

“No, that note makes us look guilty.” Erik stared hard at Aaron. “Tell me the truth. Were you really with Luke?”

Aaron made himself meet his father’s eyes. “Yes.”

Erik Falk opened his mouth. Then he shut it. He looked at his son like he’d never seen him before. The atmosphere in the car had morphed into something tangible and putrid. He shook his head once, turned back to the wheel, and started the engine.

They drove the rest of the way without exchanging a single word. Aaron, burning with anger and shame and a thousand other things, stared into the side mirror for the entire journey.

Part of him was disappointed that Mal Deacon never reappeared.





26


By the time Falk had walked back from the Racos’ place he’d felt an urgent need to cleanse himself. The past coated him like a layer of grime. It had been a long day, and the evening felt later than it was. The bar had still been in full swing as he slunk past and up the stairs.

In the shower, his body bore the marks of exposure to the Kiewarra sun. The skin of his forearms, his neck, the V of his collar. What had been pale was now an angry red.

The first thumps on the door were almost inaudible over the running water. Falk shut off the taps and stood naked, listening. Another flurry of knocking sounded, louder this time.

“Falk! Quick!” The muffled voice was accompanied by another round of bangs. “Are you in there?”

He grabbed a towel and nearly skidded on the wet floor. He flung open the door to find a breathless McMurdo with his fist raised to knock again.

“Downstairs.” The barman was panting. “Hurry.” He was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Falk pulled on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers without bothering to dry himself and slammed the door behind him.

The bar was in chaos. Chairs were overturned, and the floor glittered with broken glass. Someone was hunched in a corner, his hands over his nose slick with blood. McMurdo was on his knees trying to pry apart two men grappling on the floor. Around them, a semicircle of drinkers slowly wiped the smirks off their faces and stepped away as Falk took two strides into the center of the room.

The abrupt drop in volume distracted the two men on the floor, and McMurdo was able to get an arm in. He pulled them apart, and they lay sprawled in their respective corners, breathing heavily.

Jamie Sullivan’s eye was already swelling up, distorted into a bulbous shape. His bottom lip had split, and he had scratch marks across his cheek.

Opposite him, Grant Dow grinned, then winced, feeling his jaw tenderly. He seemed to have come off best, and he knew it.