Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(72)

“Okay.”

“Or maybe someone wanted to take over his business or—?”

“Did someone? Take it over?”

“No. After he died, it just closed.”

“Right.”

“But he used to walk Luna at pretty much the same time every day.” The dog raised her head at the sound of her name. “So people knew he’d be here in the mornings.”

“Okay.”

Falk looked at Joel. He thought he understood what the boy was reaching for. A reason. There was something almost unbearably tragic in randomness. The thought of millions of minor inconsequential events cascading into a single moment.

“The thing is, Joel,” Falk said. “If someone wanted to target your dad, this would be a pretty complicated way to do it. For starters, the outcome isn’t”—what word to use?—“guaranteed, I guess. And I don’t even do traffic, mate, but I can tell you it’s hard to fake something to look like a genuine hit-and-run. It’s not only the collision itself, there are angles of impact, tire marks—”

As he was talking, Joel suddenly pulled out his phone. He started scrolling through, fast, then tapped the screen. He held it out silently. Falk looked down, taking a long moment to process what he was seeing. A video. Of the reservoir, the track, the barrier lying broken and splintered— “Shit. This is the accident?” Falk blinked, blindsided. But yes, he could see that it was. The aftermath, more accurately. “Where did you get this?”

“I took it myself. From up there.” Joel glanced at the bushland. The clearing was once again invisible to Falk.

“Does Sergeant Dwyer know you have this?” Falk looked up from the phone. “Does Gemma?”

Joel nodded. “Now they do, yeah. Not at the time, though. I was supposed to wait at home, but—” He stopped and shrugged. “I came here, anyway. No one would tell me what was going on.”

Falk took the boy’s phone and, after a moment, tapped his finger against the screen.

The video started playing, but at first the image barely moved. The only change was in the way the light caught the gentle ripples on the water. The barrier had been violently wrenched from its holdings, and what remained hung at a jarring angle. Part of the track was roughly marked off with police tape, but there was no sign of life. Falk watched on, almost startled when a figure suddenly appeared at the edge of the screen.

Gemma.

Very slowly, she walked to the Drop. Her back was turned to the camera and her face hidden. She stopped where the barrier should have been, almost exactly where Falk himself stood now. Her hands hung loose by her sides as she stared down into the water. It was a very intimate moment, and Falk felt uncomfortable seeing it without her permission. He touched the screen and moved the video on. A full minute later, Gemma still hadn’t moved.

Sergeant Dwyer had, though. He appeared initially in the corner of the screen, then worked his way steadily across the visible area. Falk watched as he carried out his silent work. Examining the posts, moving slowly from one side of the track to the other. He made a short phone call, then, finally, he also stopped. Dwyer stood a few paces behind Gemma, his arms folded across his chest.

Falk paused the image. He couldn’t see the sergeant’s face at that angle, but his body language was clear. He was watching Gemma’s reaction, Falk was certain. It wasn’t an unreasonable response from the police officer, he knew. Necessary, even. But it still bothered him a little to see. He started the video again.

Dwyer must have asked Gemma to move back from the open gap because at last she turned. Her posture was rigid, a sense of shock radiating from her. Dwyer said something and, finally, she nodded and took a few hesitant steps and then a few more. The edge of the screen sliced through the path and she was gone.

Alone now, Dwyer walked over to the Drop himself and stood on the brink. His hand brushed against the smashed barrier, and he withdrew it quickly, examining his palm for a moment. Then he leaned over and stared down into the water for a long beat. At last, he straightened, lifted his phone to his ear, and stepped back onto the track. He walked a few paces and the camera lost him, too. The Drop was deserted. No one appeared again, and the video ended.

Falk exhaled. He went to hand the phone back to Joel, then stopped. The final scene was still on the screen and he scrolled back to those last empty frames, pausing and pinching the images to enlarge them. He frowned. He felt like there was— “What is it?” Zara said. She was watching him closely, Falk realized, and he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

But something did feel a bit—what? Off. Falk frowned. Did it? Or was it just a reaction to seeing footage so confronting? He scrolled back again, uncomfortably aware of the kids’ scrutiny as the seconds ticked on. He could sense their hope building and shook his head. He wasn’t going to do this to them.

“No. I’m sorry. It’s nothing.” Even as he said it, he could almost believe it. On the screen he could clearly see the trademark signs of an accident. The skid in the dirt where the tires had failed to grip. The vicious edge of the broken barrier.

He clicked the screen off and handed the phone back to Joel. The boy looked disappointed, and Falk hesitated again. Because somewhere, buried deep beneath a dusty pile of long-unused basic police training skills, a faint alarm had been activated. Falk waited. The alarm continued, soft but insistent.