Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(7)

How long Kim had lingered after her husband had left the festival grounds was still a matter of debate. As was exactly what had happened over those two and a half hours.

Maybe she had wandered. Maybe she was the woman who had joined the increasingly boisterous festivities outside the ale tent with a group of people who had never come forward, spirits soaring to a point where the overworked barman had been forced to cut her off.

Or maybe she had gone to try her luck on the carnival games, winning a blue stuffed toy kangaroo similar to one later found dumped in a bin. Or maybe she was across the field talking to a man in a beanie. Or crying in the toilets. Or leaning into the open window of a white or gray car in the parking lot, speaking to the driver. Or maybe she’d done none of those things. Maybe she’d parked the stroller, turned away from her baby sleeping inside, and walked alone to the reservoir.

“Hopefully something useful will come out of tonight, anyway,” Rita said now, looking at Kim’s face on the appeal flyer.

Falk nodded. He would love to be able to tell Rita and Raco more about that moment at the ride. It wouldn’t be an answer, but he knew the family would welcome any insight, however small. He couldn’t, though. Most of what Falk could remember now had almost certainly been fabricated after the fact, he knew. Memories were fragile and fluid and prone to error and embellishment. No matter how many times he thought back to that night, how many details he tried to conjure up and how crystal clear they might seem, it didn’t change reality. And in reality, Falk knew, he had barely glanced up.





3


Raco walked Falk across the drive to the vineyard’s small guesthouse. It was just as Falk remembered from last year: a tidy, white-painted weatherboard studio, set a short way from the main cottage and complete with a bathroom and basic kitchen facilities, plus a bonus postcard view of the vines.

“Rita keeps threatening to move in here herself,” Raco said with a smile as he unlocked the door and handed Falk the key. “Bloody kids always find you, though.”

There was fresh linen on the bed and a mini-fridge stocked with cold drinks. A stack of paperback novels lay in a shaft of light on the shelf above the bedside table. Falk put his bag down and had the overwhelming urge to pour a large glass of chilled water, collapse into one of the outdoor chairs on the front porch and close his eyes, and just sit as the golden evening sun grew heavy and low. Raco was leaning against the doorframe and from the tired stoop in his shoulders, Falk suspected he was thinking the same. Instead, Falk rinsed his hands, splashed some water on his face, and they both made their way back to the house.

Raco’s brother Charlie was in the kitchen, chatting with Rita as they set the table for an early dinner. He grinned as Falk came in.

“Welcome back, mate,” he said, leaning over the place mats to shake Falk’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

Charlie, the middle sibling of three, was Raco’s bigger brother in every way. He was stockier than his younger sibling, with a thicker and solider version of the family’s facial features. But both brothers had the same easy smile, and although Charlie had only met Falk for the first time a year ago, he had the Raco gift of always seeming genuinely pleased to see him.

He looked a little rougher around the edges this year than Falk remembered, though. Under the kitchen lights, his shave was patchy, and the fit of his checked shirt suggested he’d gained a bit of weight.

“We thought we’d better eat now.” Charlie leaned over to peer at a bubbling casserole dish in the oven. “I’m not sure we’ll get much chance later.” He straightened and glanced in the direction of what Falk guessed were the bedrooms.

“You want me to get Zara?” Rita said, following his gaze.

“It’s all right.” Charlie opened a drawer and dumped a handful of silverware on the table. “I’ll go.”

He disappeared down the hall, and Falk heard a knock on a door, followed by a muffled conversation. The tone was calm and a few minutes later, Charlie reemerged, a silent teenage girl in his wake.

Zara was striking rather than pretty. She looked more like a feminine version of Charlie and Raco than like her mother, especially around the eyes. They were the giveaway. Falk felt fairly sure that if he’d passed her on the street without context, he would have recognized her as a Raco.

“You remember our friend Aaron, from last year?” Raco said, strapping his son into a high chair.

“Oh. Yeah,” Zara said politely, glancing up from her phone as she pulled out a kitchen chair. “Hi.”

She sat, but didn’t return to her screen immediately, instead running her eyes over Falk’s face. She had been crying and didn’t try to hide it, and there was a familiar but mildly uncomfortable element to her scrutiny. Falk couldn’t immediately put his finger on it, until he realized he’d already been subjected to it once that day. It reminded him of the way Rohan Gillespie had considered him earlier as they’d stood beside their cars at the lookout. Not suspicion—or not exactly—but a distant cousin perhaps. A kind of keen and very specific interest those left behind had in anyone who might be able to shed a ray of fresh light. What do you know?

“You want to run through anything before tonight?” Charlie asked his daughter. “Practice your speech on us?”

Zara finally dragged her eyes away from Falk. “No, it’s okay.”