Nat rubbed her back. “I don’t think he did it. He might be the guy living on a cliff but it’s Alison who’s not mentally stable.”
Foley sat upright and shifted to face Nat. “You’re getting this from the cops?”
“It’s police records we’re looking at. But you can thank Toby for digging it up and sharing it.”
Foley blinked in surprise. “He shared it?”
Nat nodded. “Happens more often than you think. Our papers aren’t in competition.”
But this didn’t gel with Drum’s obvious guilt. He’d reacted as if he’d known this would happen, as if he’d been waiting to be caught. “What if he’s guilty of something else?”
Nat frowned. “What are you worried about?”
Nat couldn’t know Foley had seen Drum after she knew about the arrest warrant, unless she wanted to strain the friendship beyond any reasonable boundary. “He thinks he’s done something bad. He carries this dreadful guilt. I was ready to believe it was about this, but this is not what put him in the cave. There’s something else.”
“If there’s a warrant in another state or he does have a record that’s sealed for some reason, the cops will turn that up. Like I said, don’t get too excited. An arrest over one thing can turn into a conviction on another.”
Despite that, there was enough of the flavour of relief in what Nat said to settle Foley’s nausea. She phoned another update through to the office.
It was close on 5pm when Alison exited the building, again under escort. This time she kept her head down, turned away, and none of the shouted questions were answered.
After all the sitting around, Foley almost missed it. “What happened?”
Nat walked back to her side. “Dunno. But we’re all on deadline.”
The sound of the doors opening again caught their attention. Nat moved forward, Foley’s feet were fused to the pavement. Two cops walked out on either side of Drum. He looked for her, found her, then one of the cops walked in front of him and he was forced to turn aside, going with them to a police car and getting in the backseat. He wasn’t handcuffed, but they were taking him away.
She looked for Nat, for an explanation, and found Toby. Any hint of pretence she was the lunch girl had long worn off. He made for her and the doors opened again, a cop walking out with a piece of paper in her hand. Toby dropped Foley like she was five-day-old fish and spun around.
The cop read a statement, formal words, cop speak, but all that mattered was the charges had been dropped. It was over and Drum was free.
She should’ve waited for Nat, but she’d waited for two miserable days. Foley bolted to her car, fingers crossed it would start; the parking ticket would be that much more painful if it didn’t. It kicked over. There was only one place Drum could go that was safe enough. He’d know the cave wasn’t; that his curiosity value would be too high.
She drove to the house on Tamar and parked outside. The entrance foyer light was on. She got out of the car and then her momentum stalled, her own battery dead. She’d effectively finished it with Drum the last time she was here, accusing him, backing him into a corner, then turning informant on him. It was enough to know he didn’t attack anyone. It was enough to know he was safe.
If she went back inside the house she was starting things up again, she was asking for trouble. There was no guarantee he’d want to see her anyway, given she’d served him up to the cops. The smart thing to do was get back in the car. Nat would approve. Drum wasn’t her job anymore and she’d been kidding herself about loving him, about him being part of her life.
The light in the house was a steady glow, the one around her heart flickered, faltered. She got back in the car and started bargaining with herself. If the car didn’t start, she’d go inside, only for five minutes, just to see him, convince him to enrol in a program, get help, tell him the cave was going to be boarded up, wait for road service.
The car coughed and then did its best imitation of a Ferrari. So, that was it. She let a song play, no idea what it was, something about saying Geronimo. That might’ve been her motto, a catchphrase for a less ordinary life, for jumping in and taking a chance. Sitting in the car in the dark she didn’t feel like an adventurer. She felt like a failure. A starving hungry, anxiety sick, love struck, career blocked, hesitant fool. And she didn’t much like that collection of feelings.
She turned the engine off and got out of the car. She locked it and leaned against it. She was going into the house. She was going to find out what Drum’s story was and then she was going to say goodbye properly with one of those sense resetting kisses, a last great one for the hell of it. Then she’d get back in the car, drive home, eat something so her stomach lining didn’t dissolve, turn corrosive and acid burn through her body, and start thinking about how she could fix her work situation. That’s what a smart person would do.
Bombs away.
She went to the gate and it clicked open before she pressed the buzzer. The front door opened before she got both feet on the tiled path. He stood in the doorway. Same rock star torn jeans, same shapeless grey t-shirt under a washed soft zippered hoodie, he was barefoot, the wind had been in his hair, he was clean-shaven, and his eyes were full of storm damage, but he smiled.
She was in his arms before the door closed; hands exploring him for kno
cks and dents, for injuries to his pride and conscience, and face tucked into his chest, breathing his welfare. His cheek went to the top of her head, his arms banded her ribs, a tremble in his body spoke to how the last few days had wounded him.
“I didn’t know if you’d come.” That vibration was in his voice too and it raced under his skin, twitched in his hands.
“I didn’t know if I should. We have to talk.”
He took a deep breath and his hold went slack, but only so he could bring her chin up. Her being there was no insurance and he knew it. “I’ll tell you everything.”
She closed her eyes to block out the fear of what she’d learn, the certainty it would put her back in the car, back on her way to getting over him, and he kissed her; the gentlest, most hesitant press of dry, warm lips on hers. It should’ve been a comfort. He pulled back and she chased him, a hand to the back of his neck, because it wasn’t enough, not near enough, to banish the terror of thinking he might be someone else, a man whose hands had hurt, whose lips had lied, whose body had harmed another.