Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(108)

Instead, Falk found himself reliving his solo drive from Melbourne to Marralee those few long days ago. Heading toward the valley town for the christening, for the Racos, for everything else waiting here for him. The road had been empty and the journey had been long, and so he had stopped for a break. He had pulled off the road and driven up a side track. He had parked in a clearing at a spectacular hidden lookout, and discovered he was not alone.

Rohan Gillespie had been there, too, with his one-year-old daughter, Zoe. Falk felt a small part of the memory start to crystalize with a startling, vivid clarity. Not the view, or the child’s sippy cup or the box of sultanas. Not the glance of recognition or the stilted small talk about the Racos’ christening.

A moment before all of that.

Just a few short seconds. When Falk had pulled in and spotted Rohan standing in the deserted clearing. Alone and unguarded. His back to his daughter. Staring pensively at the view. Falk couldn’t know for certain what had been going through the man’s mind. But if he’d had to guess, both then and now, Falk would bet that Rohan Gillespie had been looking into the void and thinking about his missing wife, Kim.





36

ROHAN




The lookout was empty, as usual.

Still, Rohan felt a stab of relief as the car rumbled to the end of the tight bush track and he saw no one else in the clearing. He parked, ignoring the breathtaking view and instead looked over at his restless wife. Kim sat in the passenger seat, her hands tightly clasped and her eyes determinedly anywhere but on her phone. It was still lying where Rohan had placed it in the center console, and she’d been glancing at it—tiny, secretive looks—ever since the call with Charlie and Zara had ended. They both knew he’d noticed, there was no point pretending, so Rohan simply reached out now and slipped her phone into his pocket as he got out of the car. Kim’s shoulders sagged. Rohan ignored that, too, as he walked around and pulled open the passenger door.

“Get out, please, Kim.”

She didn’t move. She was staring at him, breath shallow and hands poised, fully focused.

“Get out now, Kim.” He took a single step toward Zoe’s door.

Kim got out. Of course she did.

“Rohan.” She was pleading in a way he didn’t like. She’d found her voice, and it was a rolling urgent torrent. “Rohan. Listen to me. Zoe is your daughter. Please. Not Charlie’s. Yours. She is.”

He didn’t reply, but as he stepped closer to his wife she instinctively raised both her hands, palms out, which he hated because all he’d ever done was try to love her. He took another step, closer again, just to talk, but she stumbled back this time, and he felt another burst of something unpleasant in his gut. Rohan had always found it interesting, over the years, when Kim had inadvertently done something that reminded him of that night as teenagers at the reservoir.

Rohan had never understood Kim at school. She was nice-looking and friendly enough and she could have had—well, maybe not anyone, but a decent choice. But all she’d seemed interested in was getting herself worked up over Charlie Raco. Charlie, who didn’t get worked up about her in the same way. Charlie, who would bicker and argue with her over nothing. Who would talk bullshit and joke around with his mates at a bushland party while his girlfriend got so drunk she could barely stand long enough to walk off. The big love story of their year, and Charlie hadn’t even noticed her leave.

Rohan had noticed, though. Kim had been sitting on her own for a while, and he’d been nursing a beer and debating whether to go over when she’d risen unsteadily and staggered away from the campfire. She’d disappeared through the trees and into the dark, and he’d watched the empty space left behind, waiting for her to come back. A minute passed, and then another, and so he’d stood and followed, because it probably wasn’t too safe for Kim to be walking home in that state. He’d caught up with her easily, then immediately wondered why he’d bothered. Kim had been crying hard, mumbling nonstop about Charlie. Rambling, incoherent rubbish. To shut her up more than anything, Rohan had found a tissue and helped her wipe her eyes and she’d seemed so grateful that he’d done it again, running his thumbs over her flushed cheeks until they were completely dry.

They’d walked a little way together, Kim lurching and sloppy, and Rohan had put his arm around her to keep her steady. He’d half expected her to push it away, but she didn’t seem to notice or care, so he’d left it there. Was it even possible, he’d wondered, that she was doing it on purpose? Letting her hip bounce off his as she staggered, gripping his hand in her own sweaty palm? Rohan had still been considering that, when Kim had suddenly stopped, freezing in a dead halt on the track. He’d been able to tell from her face what was coming.

“Quick, this way,” he’d said, and Kim had clamped her mouth shut and let him lead her off the track and deeper into the trees. She’d braced one hand against a trunk, and leaned over just in time as she retched and then vomited. Rohan had stepped back so it didn’t splash on his shoes. He’d waited, and Kim’s eyes had been bloodshot and watery when she’d straightened up. She’d taken a single swaying step back toward the path, before Rohan had reached out and caught her elbow.

“Take a minute,” he’d said, guiding Kim instead to the ground. “There’s no rush.”

He’d sat down next to her, her weight slumped against his shoulder and her skirt bunched right up around her thighs. Rohan had looked at that hem for a full minute, waiting for her to pull it down. She didn’t move.