Claire
Now
“I did what she asked. That next day, when we were looking for her, I led us to the spot we’d been the night before, but it was no use. There were heavy winds earlier that morning. They must have covered her blood with dirt and blown the lock of hair away.”
I’ve sat here and explained all of it to Declan. I keep waiting for him to turn away in disgust, to run and never look back, to leave me in the mess I’ve created for myself. But he’s stayed, listening intently to the entire story, even taking my hand when I described how Phoebe had grabbed my arm, dragged the knife blade against her skin.
“I remember how quiet you were that day,” he says now. “I could tell there was something wrong, but I figured it was the shock of Phoebe going missing.”
There was so much wrong, where would I have even begun?
“I waited for her to contact me after that,” I continue. “When I didn’t hear from her after a few days, I knew something wasn’t right. Phoebe did a lot of screwed up things, but she would have made right on her promise. She would have found a way to contact me.”
I think back to those days, the unknown sitting heavy around me, wrapping around my neck like fingers.
And there was no one I could talk to. No one who would understand what I had done. How I’d just let her go, shedding her identity. I’d been an accomplice in the murder of Phoebe Barton. In name at least.
“It was my fault,” I say now. “If I had stopped her, if I had tried to talk sense into her, I could have made her turn around that night. We could have gone back to the Inn. She would still be alive. But I was so…stupid. She was basically a child. And I just let her go all alone into the middle of the Outback. I knew it wasn’t safe and I let her go anyway. I—I killed her.”
“You didn’t,” Declan says, shifting closer to me on the bed.
“You don’t understand, Dec. She was pregnant. That’s what Villanueva said.”
Declan jerks back like he’s been punched, and something unidentifiable flashes across his face before he manages to compose himself.
“Who was the father?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking that’s it connected to her murder somehow. And how did I not know? I was rooming with her for God’s sakes. Was I that completely oblivious?”
“You’re not to blame,” he says, taking my hand in his. “You were a child yourself. You did what you thought was best. AndPhoebe was strong-willed. When she made up her mind, there wasn’t any stopping her. Her murder had nothing to do with you. Nothing.”
Declan’s so sure, but it doesn’t assuage the guilt that has built up over the years, like a parasite eating me from the inside out.
“I also feel like I need to say this. So you don’t have to ask. What happened between Phoebe and me was a one-time thing. It hadn’t happened before. I wasn’t the father of her child.”
“I know,” I say gently.
“So what happened with the knife?” he asks after a moment.
“I did what Phoebe suggested. I wiped the handle off on my T-shirt and dug a small hole on the way back to the Inn. I thought I was safe. Randy never reported it missing, and it wasn’t like the Jagged Rock police ever searched for it.
“My mind was a mess back then though. I must not have done a great job of making sure the handle was completely clean of my fingerprints. And after all the years of wind and erosion, the knife must not have been too difficult for the AFP to find after Phoebe’s remains were reported.”
I take a deep breath, which rattles in my lungs, and tell him what they found.
“You can tell them the truth,” Declan urges, ever the optimist. “You can explain.”
“No, Dec,” I say, my patience thinning. How does he not understand? “I had motive, a weapon, opportunity. Isn’t that the trifecta for proving any murder case?”
“Wait.” I can see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. “You had aweapon, but notthemurder weapon. The police said themselves that Phoebe wasn’t stabbed, that someone fractured her skull.”
I nod, thinking of Villanueva’s blunt delivery back in the AFP offices in Sydney.
“That weapon was never found,” Declan continues.
“Maybe they think I used the handle of the knife?” I muse.
“And what, held on to the blade when you beat her?” I flinch at the image, but Declan continues. “Then it would certainly have cut your palm. And they didn’t find any of your blood on it. No, it had to be something else.”
