Free The Dry by Jane Harper

home. Her father had given her a night to cool whatever teenage impulse might have been keeping her away. When she didn’t come home on Saturday, he’d raised the alarm.
    It had seemed like an age before emergency workers arrived at the river. The girl’s body was taken to the hospital. The investment banker was sent home. Within a month he’d moved back to the city.
    The doctor examining Ellie Deacon’s body reported the cause of death as drowning. Her lungs were soggy with the river. She appeared to have been in the water for several days, he noted, most likely since Friday. He reported some bruising on her breastbone and shoulders, and abrasions on her hands and arms. Not inconsistent with damage caused by debris rushing past in the water. There were some old scars on her forearms, possibly evidence of self-harm. She was not, he noted as an afterthought, a virgin.
    At the mention of Luke’s name there was a ripple around the room, and even Dow seemed to sense he’d gone too far.
    â€œLuke was my friend. Ellie was my friend.” Falk’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. “I cared about them both. So back off.”
    Deacon stood up, his chair squealing against the floorboards.
    â€œDon’t you talk to me about caring for Ellie. To me, she was blood!” He was shouting, his hands shaking as he thrust a finger at Falk in accusation. Out of the corner of his eye, Falk saw Raco and the barman exchange looks.
    â€œYou reckon you and your boy had nothing to do with it,” Deacon said. “What about the note, you lying bastard?”
    He said it with a flourish, like a conversational trump card. Falk felt the air go out of him. He felt exhausted. Deacon’s mouth was twisted. Next to him, his nephew was laughing. He could smell blood.
    â€œNot so quick with an answer to that, are you?” Dow said.
    Falk forced himself not to shake his head. Jesus. That bloody note.
    The cops spent two hours picking apart Ellie Deacon’s bedroom. Thick fingers awkwardly probed through underwear drawers and jewelry cases. The note was almost missed. Almost. It was written on a single page torn from an ordinary exercise book. It had been folded once and slipped into the pocket of a pair of jeans. On the page, written in pen in Ellie’s distinctive handwriting, was the date she had disappeared. Underneath that was a single name: Falk.
    â€œExplain that. If you can,” Deacon said. The bar was silent.
    Falk said nothing. He couldn’t. And Deacon knew he couldn’t.
    The barman banged a glass down on the counter. “Enough.” He looked hard at Falk, considering. Raco, holding his police badge visibly in his palm, raised his eyebrows and gave a tiny shake of his head. The barman’s eyes instead settled on Dow.
    â€œYou and your uncle, leave. Don’t come back for two days, thanks. Everyone else, buy a drink or get out.”
    The rumors started small and by the end of the day were big. Falk—sixteen and scared—holed up in his bedroom with a thousand thoughts clamoring. He jumped as a tap sounded against the window frame. Luke’s face appeared, ghostly white in the evening gloom.
    â€œYou’re in the shit, mate,” he whispered. “I heard my mum and dad say. People are talking. What were you really doing on Friday after school?”
    â€œI told you. Fishing. Upriver, though. Miles away, I swear.” Falk crouched by the window. His legs felt like they wouldn’t hold him up.
    â€œAnyone else asked you yet? Cops or anyone?”
    â€œNo. They’re going to, though. They think I was meeting her or something.”
    â€œBut you weren’t.”
    â€œNo! Course not. But what if they don’t believe me?”
    â€œYou didn’t meet anyone at all? No one saw you?”
    â€œI was on my bloody own, wasn’t I?”
    â€œRight, listen—Aaron, mate, are you listening? Right, anyone asks, you say