Free The Dry by Jane Harper Page B

sky. The pub noise had ratcheted up a notch. Deacon and Dow had taken their time leaving, and the hint of aggression still hung in the air.
    â€œYou should’ve told me earlier.” Raco took a drag. Suppressed a cough.
    â€œI know. I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou have anything to do with it? That girl’s death?”
    â€œNo. But I wasn’t with Luke when it happened. Not like we said.”
    Raco paused.
    â€œSo you lied about your alibi. Where was Luke?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou never asked?”
    â€œOf course I did, but he—” Falk paused, remembering. “He always insisted on sticking to our story. Always. Even when it was only the two of us. He said it was safer to be consistent. I didn’t push it. I was grateful to him, you know? I thought it was for my benefit.”
    â€œWho else knew it was a lie?”
    â€œA few people suspected. Mal Deacon, obviously. Some others. But no one knew for certain. At least that’s what I always thought. But now I’m not sure. It turns out Gerry Hadler knew all along. Maybe he’s not the only one.”
    â€œDo you think Luke killed Ellie?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He stared out at the empty street. “I want to know.”
    â€œYou think all this is connected?”
    â€œI really hope not.”
    Raco sighed. He stubbed the cigarette out carefully, then doused the butt with a splash of beer.
    â€œAll right, mate,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now. Unless it needs to come out, in which case you sing like a canary and I knew nothing about any of it, right?”
    â€œYes. Thank you.”
    â€œMeet me at the station at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll go and have a chat to Luke’s mate Jamie Sullivan. The last person who admits seeing him alive.” He looked at Falk. “If you’re still in town.”
    With a wave, he headed off into the night.
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    Back in his room, Falk lay on his bed and pulled out his cell phone. He held it in his palm but didn’t dial. The huntsman had disappeared from above the lamp. He tried not to think about where it was now.
    If you’re still in town, Raco had said. Falk was all too aware he had the choice. His car was parked right outside. He could pack his bag, pay the bearded bartender, and be on the road to Melbourne inside fifteen minutes.
    Raco might roll his eyes, and Gerry would try to call. But what could they do? They wouldn’t be pleased, but he could live with that. Barb, though—Falk could picture her face with unwelcome clarity—Barb would be dismayed. And he wasn’t entirely sure he could live with that. Falk shifted uncomfortably at the thought. The room felt airless in the heat.
    He had never known his own mother. She had died in a seeping, hemorrhagic pool of her own blood less than an hour after he was born. His dad had tried—tried hard, even—to fill the gap. But any sense Falk had growing up of maternal tenderness, every warm cake from the oven, every over-perfumed cuddle, had come from Barb Hadler. She may have been Luke’s mother, but she had always made time for him.
    He, Ellie, and Luke had spent more time at the Hadlers’ house than at any of the others’. Falk’s own home was often silent and empty, his father trapped for hours by the demands of the land. Ellie would shake her head at suggestions they go to her house. Not today, she’d say. When he and Luke had insisted for variety, Falk always found himself regretting it. Ellie’s house was messy, with a whiff of empty bottles.
    The Hadlers’ place was sunlit and busy, with good things coming from the kitchen and clear instructions about homework and bedtime and orders to turn off that damn TV and get some fresh air. The Hadlers’ farm had always been a haven—until two weeks ago, when it had become a crime scene of the worst kind.
    Falk lay unmoving on the bed.