Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(110)

If Rohan were to do something like that again—and, look, he had no plans to or anything—but if he were to, he’d reckoned with a little refinement he could make things go differently. He’d loved the sense that both girls had learned something about themselves that night. That Naomi had discovered that when the shit hit the fan she wasn’t as rock-solid fearless as she liked to think. And Kim—Rohan had sipped his beer—well. She had no fight in her at all.

Rohan had stood at the fringes of the party, turning those thoughts over in his head as he’d savored both his beer and the sight of Charlie searching unsuccessfully for his girlfriend. Jesus, the guy was a joke. He had never, ever deserved her.

Rohan had thought that back then, and twenty-five years on, he still thought it now. He looked at his wife, who was watching him closely, her lips slightly parted. Her weight was forward, over the balls of her feet. She had backed away from the car, her eyes still fixed on him. Drawing him away from her daughter? Rohan wondered. He felt another flash of fury. Why would she do that? She didn’t need to do that.

“Jesus, Kim.” He reached out his hand to her. “Relax.”

She flinched at the word, ducking as though he’d hit her. She had tears in her eyes. Rohan felt the hot, burning swell of anger again. For God’s sake, he wasn’t that kind of man. Instead, he took a fast step forward, grabbing at her as she tried to pull away, dragging her into a tight embrace. His arm gripped around her waist, and his hand rested on the back of her head. Her hair was soft entwined in his fingers. Her palms were trapped flat against his chest, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Rohan, please.” Kim’s voice was muffled against him, like she was trying to catch her breath. “They’re expecting me. Rohan? Please. Let go.”

Rohan stopped listening and simply held on to her, so tight and close, because there was nothing left to say now. This was the end of them, and she must know that as well. Charlie’s baby, the party at the reservoir. There was no coming back from that. But at the same time, he didn’t want this to be the end. He didn’t want her to leave him. It couldn’t be fixed, he knew that, but he felt a childish protective surge. She’s still mine.

He loved her, he did, even if sometimes this didn’t feel like love but something painful and twisted and dark. But it must be something worth holding on to, because Rohan couldn’t seem to let Kim go.

So he held her, even as she struggled, finding a fight in herself that he hadn’t really thought she had. He was almost proud of her, as he whispered in her ear—butiloveyoukimpleasestopjusttrustme—and pressed her face deeper into the clean cotton of his shirt. His wife’s back was against the wooden safety barrier, and he could feel her bracing against it, still trying to push him away, so he applied a little pressure with his elbow to her neck. They stood there, locked in a macabre convulsing dance until finally, after what felt like a long time, Kim wasn’t pushing him away anymore. Rohan held her for a minute more, and then released her.

Kim slumped slack and lifeless against the barrier and it really didn’t take anything to tip the balance and there was a terrible short pocket of absolutely nothing and then far below, the sickening crack and smack of something heavy plummeting through the thick bushland canopy and hitting the hidden ground beneath.

There was a silence. No. Not silence. Zoe was bawling from the car. Rohan blinked. How long had that been going on? He didn’t know. He stood there, unsure how much time was passing—a minute, ten?—then made himself lean over the barrier and look down.

Nothing.

A hundred meters below, there was only an impenetrable tangle of trees. He was alone, and Kim wasn’t there anymore.

They’re expecting me.

Rohan looked up, out at the valley.

When he faced a difficult problem at work—a crumbling bridge, a bend in a series of support beams, life-or-death stuff if left unchecked—he always did the same thing. He ran through each viable option. It was an instinctive response after all these years, and he almost wasn’t surprised to feel it kick in now, stuttering and stumbling a little in shock before whirring to life. Pros and cons, nonnegotiables. It was all taken into account. And eventually, the best way forward tended to become clear. Even if Rohan suspected the solution from the start, he still went through the process. It helped him commit to the decision, then execute it well.

This situation—high up and alone at the lookout—was different. But also, a strange, tiny voice whispered, not that different.

Rohan stood there, following each path of thought until at last he had a plan. He had a suitcase of Kim’s belongings in the car. Her white sneakers with the scorch mark, her antidepressant medication. It was not a perfect solution, not by a long way, but it was the one he felt gave him the best chance. Rohan closed his eyes and tested it again. He could do this. If he held it together, he could.

The baby was still screaming.

Kim’s daughter, Charlie’s daughter. Not his. And Rohan didn’t owe that child anything.

Rohan stepped away from the lookout, took a final breath, then climbed into his car. The passenger seat was empty. He started the engine and turned the wheel toward Marralee, ready to face his wife’s family and friends.





37


The placid water glinted in the late-afternoon light as Falk gazed out over the reservoir. He was waiting for Joel to arrive, the supplies they needed stacked neatly at his feet. Falk closed his eyes and felt the heat from the sun on his shoulders. The day was pleasantly warm, hinting at what would be in store in a few months’ time here, when spring turned into summer. Back at the vineyard, Falk’s bag lay half-packed on the guesthouse bed. He was due in Melbourne the following morning. He should probably check what the weather was doing there.