Badenhorst pulled his jacket away from his hip holster, unclipping the retention on his firearm, unfolding himself from the chair slowly. His eyes flicked back and forth between Murphy’s. ‘Prove me wrong,’ said Badenhorst, voice level. ‘Come to the station.’
‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Murphy shouted, feeling the floodgates of his anger start to release.
‘Calm down, Murphy.’
But Murphy was too far gone now: he shoved the detective. ‘No one is gonna stop me from going up there and searching for my —’
The blow to Murphy’s solar plexus was so fast he didn’t even see it. He bent over, wheezing, and Badenhorst’s leg swept his own from under him. He fell to his knees with a heavy thump, and then the detective was across his back, pulling his arms up behind him and into the cuffs.
‘You’re not making this easy for yourself, you know that, right?’ said Badenhorst. He wrenched Murphy to his feet. ‘Not that you care, but I’m not having a great day myself.’ He dragged him towards the door.
By the time the handcuffed Murphy was led roughly from the house, red and angry, the crowd on the footpath had grown. Kevin’s friend was still recording the whole thing. So were the journalists.
In minutes, the footage was uploaded to Facebook. And then broadcast on the news. In half an hour, the whole town knew that the body of Georgia Lenah had been found, that she’d had a bag of marijuana in her pocket potentially linked to Murphy’s weed business, an operation he’d basically admitted to on camera, and that after that he’d been arrested by police.
Within an hour, the first death threat arrived in the Murphys’ mailbox. Only Butch was there to receive it.
CHAPTER 14
ELIZA
Eliza sat on the couch as Monica rubbed her back. She kept repeating Detective Pakinga’s phone call in her head: ‘I’m sorry, Eliza, but we have news . . . We’ve found Georgia’s body. It looks like she fell from a cliff . . .’
‘Eliza . . . talk to me . . . How can I help?’ said Monica, her own voice raspy from tears.
‘I have to go back,’ Eliza said woodenly.
‘Where?’ said Monica. ‘The hospital?’
‘I have to find a way to remember.’
I have to tell them about the fight, part of her screamed, but it was a very distant part, almost like someone else’s voice. I have to tell them about Tom and Cierra. This changes everything! She pushed that thought away. She had to do what was best for Wren. I have permission to be strong.
‘Eliza, you can’t go back up there. It’s dangerous. Let the searchers do their job . . .’
‘I need to go to Georgia’s family. I have to explain. I have to . . . I have to apologise.’ Suddenly that was all that mattered, the most vital thing in the world.
‘It’s not your fault!’
‘I left Georgia alone!’ she shouted, turning on Monica. ‘When I went back to search for the others, I left her all alone!’
Monica didn’t flinch. ‘You had to search for the others,’ she said. ‘Stop blaming yourself! Eliza, you can’t save everyone!’
‘Me, my fault, my own fault!’
‘Not if she fell off a cliff —’
‘You really think that’s what happened?’
‘Of course! Wh-what do you think happened?’
The flare of anger had faded. New emotions pressed on Eliza’s skin, external and distant. Memories, thoughts, things she didn’t want to remember. Grief.
‘Up in the hills, he hides and kills . . .’ she said.
‘No. Impossible.’
The memories made her feel dizzy now. ‘Terror. I was so scared, I would’ve jumped off a cliff to escape. And I ran, I ran so fast . . . I can’t remember . . . it all feels so close to the surface . . . I think there were footsteps . . . but . . . Will you take me to Georgia’s house?’
‘Are you sure that’s a good —’
‘Monica. Please.’
‘I’ll grab our jackets.’
The Lenahs’ home was a rundown fibro house that backed onto the bushland of the mountain’s escarpment, sassafras and wattle trees encroaching over the fence. It sat at the end of a long gravel driveway lined with waratahs, and a white picket fence ran around a yard, overgrown and full of squat native laurel.
It had started to rain when Monica pulled up behind a police car parked out the front. On a short flagpole in the front yard hung an Aboriginal flag, limp in the rain.
‘Want me to come in with you?’ said Monica.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Eliza, hugging herself. She was familiar with this house: she had come a few times before, to help Georgia with her museum project. She felt another sharp pang in her gut as she realised that would never happen again.
When she opened the car door, she could hear wailing from inside the house. A sudden grip of nausea rolled through her, and she had to hold on to the edge of the little gate at the side of the footpath. It was the sound of a woman in pain.
She heard the car door open behind her. ‘Eliza?’ called Monica. ‘Are you okay?’
Eliza nodded. The air smelled clean and full of waratah. She pushed through the gate and knocked on the door. A man answered it. He was tall, with blonde hair, a blonde moustache, a crooked nose. He looked dazed.
‘Are you family?’ he said, not unkindly.
‘No, I’m Eliza Ellis. The teacher who . . .’
‘Miss Ellis. Sorry, we haven’t met yet.’ He opened the door. ‘I’m Detective Stuart Coops. I’ve been working closely with the social worker at the school. We’re just waiting for Rosie’s family to arrive, but it’s good you’re here. Rosie might be glad to see a familiar face.’
‘I’m here to apologise to her.’
But Detective Coops had already walked off deeper into the house. ‘Pakinga? Eliza Ellis is here.’
Gabriella Pakinga appeared at the end of the corridor. She smiled at the sight of Eliza. ‘Come in. It’s good you’re here: Rosie needs someone she can hug, and she’s not too keen on police.’ She leaned in close to whisper in her ear. ‘Do you know about Sorry Business?’
‘I teach some of the Indigenous Studies curriculum at the school,’ said Eliza. ‘And Georgia taught me a lot.’ Her voice broke. ‘I shouldn’t say the name of the dead.’
‘Then you’re further ahead than Coops,’ Gabriella said darkly. ‘Alright, come on through.’
They entered the dining room, where Rosie Lenah was sprawled across the table, her back heaving with grief. She had grey in her dark hair and wore a big floral dress.
At the sight of her anguish, Eliza’s own guilt nearly made her retch. ‘Rosie?’ she said. ‘I’m so . . . so sorry . . .’
Rosie turned and in one movement swept Eliza up into her arms, her words incoherent. All Eliza could do was hold her, letting her own tears fall. Rosie smelled of perfume and baking. Eliza’s mind returned to Denni, to the moment she’d heard of her death, and her own grief was amplified in Rosie.
Finally she heard Rosie speaking through the crying. ‘The mountain needed my girl,’ she sobbed. ‘We needed her . . . Why did it take her . . .?’