Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(118)

“Caitlin was twenty-two when she died,” Falk said at last, when Dwyer still hadn’t moved. “Which would make her seventeen when Dean Tozer was killed. Early morning, the day after the kids’ big opening-night party for the festival. What happened? She was still over the limit trying to drive home?”

“She had a job.”

Falk blinked. He hadn’t really expected an answer. Dwyer’s voice was thick.

“She’d found herself a little part-time job working in one of the breakfast vans on the festival site. Her mum and I had made her take it because she’d been slacking off a bit at school. We’d stopped giving her money, were trying to teach her some responsibility.”

Dwyer turned his chair back, his face twisting as he ran a hand over his eyes. “Christ. I hate that bloody party.”

He exhaled sharply, then dropped his arm. “Caitlin wasn’t supposed to go, wasn’t supposed to drink. But she did it, anyway, of course, because that’s what they all do at that age. And most people around here think it’s fine. But it’s not always fine, is it? She woke up next morning, hungover, going to be late for work. Knew I’d be setting up breath tests on the highway. Knew we’d catch her if she went that way.”

Dwyer’s eyes had fallen on the photo of his wife and daughter, but Falk suspected he was seeing something else.

“She called me first. Afterward. I was already at the station, about to head out to the test site. She was a mess. The scene at the reservoir was—” He shook his head. “Well, you saw it on that video. There was broken glass, by the way. As much as you’d expect. I swept it into the water so we couldn’t test the fragments later.”

Falk looked at him. “What color was her car?”

“Black.” Dwyer shook his head. “Left streaks all over that barrier.”

“So you covered it up?”

A tiny pause, and then Dwyer nodded. “I already had the leftovers of a can from the station in my own trunk. I was going to paint our dog kennel. So I splashed it on. Blue over black. Wasn’t a great fix, to be honest, but it was my job to look closer than anyone else so…” He gave a heavy shrug. “Caitlin’s car was still drivable. I told her to get it home, hide it in the back garage. Told her not to let Cathy catch her.” Dwyer slumped a little at the mention of his wife.

“Does Cathy know?” Falk asked.

“No.” Dwyer was emphatic. “She doesn’t. I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t do it. Still haven’t. I never told anyone, told Caitlin she couldn’t, either.” He shook his head at the memory. “After I did as much as I could do at the reservoir, I came back to the station. Waited for someone else to find it and the call to come in.”

Falk nodded. Dwyer attempted to meet his gaze but gave up. He rested his elbows on the desk, his head down and his face buried in his palms. Falk watched him silently, noticing with some surprise that the anger and disappointment he’d dragged in with him was beginning to soften. It was diluted with an understanding that felt almost new to him as he sat there and thought about Gemma and Joel. Raco, Rita, Eva. His godson, Henry. How far would he go for these people he loved? Falk wondered. He hoped he never had to find out.

“I know how hard the last six years have been for Gemma and Joel.” Dwyer lifted his head now. “The questions, the pain, all of it. You wouldn’t be telling me anything that doesn’t already keep me awake at night.”

Falk sensed that was probably true. There had been a lot he’d planned to say, but the urgency wasn’t there now. Instead, he listened.

“Caitlin wanted to tell them. She argued with me, said that we should.” Dwyer met his eyes now, steady and direct. It seemed crucial to him that Falk understood that. “I scared her out of it. Told her not to, told her what she might be facing if she did. Jesus, she was seventeen. She was a confused kid and it was a stupid, unlucky accident. I did what I honestly believed was best for her.”

Misguided, Falk thought. A decision warped by love. But also probably true. Dwyer leaned back in his chair. His face was gray and his shoulders sagged. He looked ten years older.

“Guilt, though. I’ll tell you, it’s a dreadful thing. It eats you up. You’ve got no idea until…” Dwyer didn’t finish the thought as his eyes locked on his daughter’s photo. Caitlin Dwyer gazed back at them, with a smile that had been captured briefly years ago and was gone forever now. “Some people can find a way to live with it. Some just can’t.”





40


Raco and Rita had brought Falk a rosemary-and-olive sourdough loaf from Kiewarra.

“It’s this new thing McMurdo’s trialing in The Fleece,” Raco said, unbuckling his children from their car seats. Eva and Henry greeted Falk with delight as Rita reached up and kissed his cheek. “He read something about regional gastropubs luring out the cashed-up day-trippers from Melbourne, so he’s got a new chef stocking all this local-artisan gourmet stuff.”

“I bought a tub of honest-to-God tahini in there the other day.” Rita stretched her shoulders and looked out over the vineyard, raising her face to the late-afternoon light before turning back to Falk. “I know we’re always saying it, but you really should come and see this for yourself.”

“You know what?” Falk said. “I think I actually do need to see this. Let me check with Gemma. We’ll put something in the diary.”