‘He told me to go home, back to Melbourne, and he sent Eddie back here, to the house. He told us we should never talk about it. Not ever. But I … He didn’t do it. He got arrested and he didn’t do it, and I can’t—’

‘Yes,’ Abby said. ‘You can.’

The boys were staring at her dumbly, so she closed her eyes tightly and in the deep, still darkness behind them, she saw her husband. Promise me something. Survive. You, Lori, Eddie. Promise me.

Ray was right, she felt suddenly. She inhaled deeply, then, as calmly as she could manage, said, ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. John, you’ll spend the night. Tomorrow morning I’ll drop you at the ferry and you’ll go home.’

She looked hard at both boys.

‘We’re going to bury this,’ she continued. ‘Do you know what I mean by that? We’re going to bury this someplace so deep and far away that we’re not even sure it really happened. You’re young. Both of you. You have long lives ahead of you.’

‘But, Dad,’ Eddie started. ‘He—’

‘Your dad made a sacrifice, Eddie. Now be a good boy and make up the couch for your friend.’

She stood up, sighed deeply, and went to the fridge to fetch a beer. She left the boys where they were and strode out onto the front verandah to drink.

Milt Street was quiet and dark. The sawhorses were finally gone from the low intersection of Brown and Delahunt streets. It was finally dry. Dry enough to drive on, at least.

Abby sat down on the top step, wondering if she’d rescued those boys or cursed them. A new weight settled on her shoulders. She’d have to carry it a long time, she knew.

A long time.

29

THE WIDOW

Full dark was creeping over Belport when Kate followed Ed Gilpin’s truck onto Milt Street. He pulled into the driveway of a small, two-storey weatherboard house, set back from the street across a sweep of lush green lawn. A homemade sign was posted on the grass with Caretakers written in big black print.

Ed drove the truck inside the garage. The roller door rattled down behind him.

Kate parked across the street and started up a narrow stone path that cut across the lawn.

The house was in desperate need of some TLC. The paint was chipped and peeling, there was a crack in the picture window above the front door, and a board had come loose below the verandah and dangled by one steel nail at a forty-five-degree angle.

The yard, on the other hand, was immaculate. There was not a blade of grass out of place. A vegetable garden ran the length of the verandah, and there were potted ferns hanging from hooks, shifting slightly in the breeze.