“What’s at the other end?”
“Quick detour.” Raco had grinned. “Trust me. It’s worth it.”
He’d been right. It had been worth the stop, both then and now.
With no Raco beside him this year, Falk had slowed to an almost crawl and still managed to slide past the turnoff. He’d caught it in his rearview mirror and, again reversing farther than ideal even on a clear road, had bumped up the track that looked like it led exactly nowhere. At the end was a small clearing and one other car.
Falk came to a stop and switched off the engine. He sat for a moment, staring ahead to where the heavy bushland parted. The sky was a bright dome, glowing with the vibrant blue of spring. Nestled below was an intricate patchwork of greens that made up the Marralee Valley. Falk had felt last year that the view had been all the more beautiful for being so unexpected. But now, lit up by the late-afternoon sun, it was even better than he’d remembered, if anything.
He climbed out of his car and stretched, the movement stirring the owner of the other vehicle. The man was standing a sensible distance from the lookout’s wooden safety rail. He was also staring out at the view, but his arms were crossed in a way that suggested he was taking in none of it. A child’s sippy cup dangled from one hand and, behind him, a sturdy toddler sat straight-legged on the wooden picnic table, scattering a box of sultanas across the battered surface. At the sound of Falk’s car door slamming, the man unfolded his arms and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He turned and handed the cup to the toddler.
It was the husband.
The recognition came to Falk all at once, followed by a jolt as he realized the little girl now smashing a fistful of dried fruit toward her mouth must be Zoe Gillespie, who up until this moment had remained frozen in his mind at six weeks old.
The man nodded at Falk and as his daughter swallowed her last mouthful, he hoisted her up and carried her to their car. He seemed to sense he’d been recognized, and his body language didn’t invite questions or conversation. Fair enough, really, Falk thought. The bloke would have had plenty of questions thrown his way at the time. The husbands always did.
“You’re here for the christening.” The man spoke suddenly, catching Falk by surprise. He’d stopped between the two cars and looked a little relieved, like he’d worked something out. “Is that right? For the Racos’ son?”
“Yeah.”
Kim Gillespie had been part of the extended Raco family for close to twenty-five years, Falk knew. Since that long-ago autumn afternoon when she’d first ridden her bike past the Racos’ house, teenage ponytail swinging, until the night last year when she’d disappeared under the bright festival lights. The christening had been immediately canceled after Kim went missing. It had taken the Raco family a full twelve months to reschedule.
Falk took a step toward Kim’s husband and child and held out his hand. “Aaron Falk.”
“Rohan Gillespie. Did we meet?”
“Only briefly.”
Rohan was nearly as tall as Falk, and while he would only be forty-two now, he looked to have aged a fair bit over the past year.
“You here for the christening, too?” Falk asked.
“Yeah. Well, no, the appeal, actually.” Rohan looked tired as he fastened his daughter into her car seat. “But we’ll go to the christening as well.”
“When’s the appeal happening?”
“This evening. Festival grounds.”
“Festival opens tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Good time to do it.”
“I hope so.” Rohan clicked the seat buckles and patted his daughter’s leg. He turned back to Falk. “I thought you looked familiar when you pulled up. Greg Raco’s mate? You were on the witness list?”
“Yeah.”
Rohan tilted his head, trying to remember. “Remind me. Near the entrance?”
“The ferris wheel.”
Rohan nodded as he thought back. “Yeah. That’s right.”
Falk was surprised the man remembered him after a year, but only a little. Falk had been a visitor in town, one of hundreds, but still worth following up. Rohan had probably flagged Falk’s presence to officers himself—There was another bloke there, tall, fortysomething, short hair, gray-blond maybe. Friend of the Racos but on his own, kind of hanging around—dredging up whatever information he could hours after the fact.
“You’re police, too, aren’t you?” Rohan tucked the sippy cup in next to Zoe before shutting the car door. “That how you know Greg?”
“Yeah, but we don’t work together. I’m AFP, financial division. He’s with the state police, back in Victoria.”
“Right.” There was a muffled wail of complaint from inside the car, and Rohan sighed. “Anyway. Better keep this one moving. Good to see you. You’re staying at the Racos’ place?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll probably see you at the appeal. They’ll all be there.”
“Probably. I hope it goes well.”
“Thank you.” The reply was reflexive, and Falk recognized the apprehension. It was exhausting to keep hope alive. How well could a missing person’s appeal really go after twelve whole months? There were no good answers left out there.
Falk watched Rohan reverse and disappear down the track, then walked over to the barrier. He leaned both hands on the railing and let himself relax for a minute, soaking up the sight in front of him. Light wisps of cloud moved across the sky, throwing delicate patterns of shadow below. From that height, the town looked small, its surroundings vivid and lush. Long rows of grapevines stretched out, their man-made perfection drawing the eye. Far in the distance, he could make out the aggressively imperfect crack where part of the giant Murray River carved its way through the land.
Rohan had the look of a man who did not sleep well, Falk thought as he let his gaze settle. That wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances, plus the demands of parenting a one-year-old. But still, Falk wondered what specifically was keeping the guy awake at night, in those hours when he could be snatching some precious rest.
A few things, probably. The statement from that young bloke who’d been manning the first-aid station, for one. What the kid reckoned he had or, more crucially, hadn’t seen. A couple of the alleged sightings, almost certainly. The drunk woman at the bar, maybe. The crying heard from the toilets. Confirmed or not, those were the kinds of things that played on your mind.
Falk took one last look at the view, then dragged his eyes away and walked back across the clearing. He climbed into his car and checked the directions for the last leg of the journey.
Most likely, Falk guessed as he started the engine and reversed carefully, Rohan Gillespie spent those dark early hours trawling through the choices he himself had made that night. That short stretch of time in which his movements remained uncorroborated, definitely. How long had the gap been? Falk tried to remember. Not huge. Eight minutes? Seven? Either way, long enough to cause headaches for the spouse of a missing woman.
The decision Rohan had taken to leave the festival. That moment when he’d waved goodbye to his wife and child and turned alone in the direction of town, heading into the night. The hours leading up to that moment. The days and months leading up to that night. Those things that you didn’t even notice at the time. Little decisions that ultimately added up to something so much bigger.