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“Then it’s really not your fault, Theo.” She pulled a fry from the plate before them. “Gus calls these chips, you know. Refuses to acknowledge they’re fries.”
“It’s not fair,” Theo said. She was aware she sounded like a child, that fairness or the lack of it meant little in the wider world.
“Oh, Theo, Gus will work his way through this. Philip Hayes is an asshole. And your brother is an exceptional attorney. He’ll be all right.”
“But—”
“There is nothing you can do, Theo. Even if you were to get another attorney, people would then wonder why you fired Gus. We just have to ride it out.”
Theo nodded, struggling against the creeping onslaught of tears. Tears were not what Gus needed. There had to be something she could do.
Jacqui pushed the plate of fries toward her. “For God’s sake, eat some before I end up the size of a barn… For what it’s worth, Gus loves having you here. I think being an Australian in America can be lonely sometimes. I know Gus likes America, but he thinks we’re all a little mad. He’s probably right.”
Theo smiled faintly as she recalled the times Gus had lectured her on the peculiarities of the American condition—observations delivered with affection and a kind of amused bewilderment. She helped Jacqui finish the fries, and they talked about the Kansas City Chiefs and Christmas.
It was to be Theo’s first Christmas in the U.S. The previous year she’d been home, to spend the holidays with her parents in the middle of an Australian summer. This year, neither she nor Gus would return for the crazy communal barbecue to which her parents invited everybody they had ever met—wishing them all a “Happy Saturnalia” and feeding family, acquaintances, and virtual strangers with equal warmth and generosity and celebration, until they all lay in food comas under the shade trees. A prick of homesickness. She and Gus had explained the current situation with enough vagueness to make it sound more like an administrative difficulty than a murder investigation. They’d both promised to come home for the Winter Solstice, which in Australia took place in June.
“I’d better get back to work,” Jacqui said, checking her watch, “or that jerk Hayes will want to sack me too.” She saw Theo into a cab first. “I know Gus has got you on some kind of lockdown. He seems to think Dan Murdoch’s readership is armed and dangerous.”
Theo sighed. “I wish I could say he was wrong. Don’t worry, I’m heading straight back.” She embraced Jacqui. “Thank you, Jac. Really.”
Theo paid the cab driver in cash, not wanting to leave an electronic trail of her movements. She laughed at herself. Perhaps she was becoming as paranoid as the Etheridges. She got out a couple of doors from Mac’s house, telling herself it was a precaution. It was probably more to do with the fact that she wanted to walk outside, to enjoy the cold on her face and gaze at the magnificent houses in Mac’s neighborhood like it was just another Friday. The sidewalks had been shoveled, but they were treacherous nonetheless. Like many of the sidewalks in Lawrence, they were made of cobbled brick rather than flat cement and prone to unevenness and ice. Theo had always found them charming, and she’d learned to walk carefully.
Some houses were decorated for Christmas. Indeed, Theo had noticed that morning that Mac’s door, too, had acquired a wreath and the porch, swagging. She was sure they’d not been there when she arrived. Perhaps his mother, armed to the teeth, had decorated the house before she left in the middle of the night.
Theo smiled. Poor Mac. Still, at least Mrs. Etheridge was not wishing everyone she met a “Happy Saturnalia.”
Theo let herself into the house, punching in the appropriate code. She was surprised by how much she breathed out when the door was once again locked and the security system armed. They had never locked the doors when she was a child. Her father used to say that doors should always be about possibilities, and locks were an anathema to that. Of course, they had never owned anything that a thief would regard as a “possibility” either, and more often than not, there was no actual door on the tent, or the caravan, or the pub in which they were living. She eventually learned to lock doors, but this was different; this need to hold out the world was recent. Not irrational or excessive, considering the circumstances, but definitely recent.
Staying with Mac had been a precaution. There was no reason to think anyone cared enough to look for her beyond the fracas at Gus’s, which, after all, had been stirred by the article in the Star and the presence of the media. They would all have moved on by now.
She made a sandwich, gave half to Horse, and returned to the tower to gaze listlessly at her notes as she thought about Gus, and his partners, and the demise of his practice. As much as her brother claimed his passion was surfing, she knew Gus liked being a lawyer, that he was proud of the career he’d built. “Oh, Dan, what have you done to us?” she said into the quiet. But it wasn’t Dan’s fault. It wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t Dan’s fault.
In the end, Theo gave up trying to write and stared out of the window, watching as one of Mac’s neighbors hung lights on his roof. It was only because she was watching, because the street was laid out before her, that she noticed the car that drove past twice, and then a little later came back again and parked across the street. A woman stepped out.
Theo recognized Mary Cowell’s sharp haircut immediately. The reporter held up a phone. For a moment Theo thought she was trying to get reception, and then it became clear that she was taking a photo. Of Mac’s house.
Theo pulled away from the window. She started down the staircase, furious, intent on going out to confront Mary Cowell, to make her understand what her article had done. By the time she got to the ground floor, she’d calmed enough to stop. Theo took out her own phone. She didn’t even think of calling Gus. She would not interrupt his work again—not now, not for this.
Theo hesitated before she dialed Mac’s number.
“Etheridge here.”
“Mac, hello…it’s Theo. I’m so sorry bother you…and I’m perfectly okay, but I thought you should know because it’s your house and—”
“Theo, what’s happened?” Calm, practical Mac.
She explained. “I think she took photos of your house.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“No, Mac, I’m all right. You don’t have to—”
“I was about to call it a day anyway. I’ll see you soon.”
Theo ran back up to the tower where she could see the street clearly without opening a curtain. The car was still there. Mary was sitting behind the wheel talking on the phone. Theo started to panic. What if she was phoning in another story, one that involved Theo Benton’s current address? A black Mercedes pulled up behind her, and Mac climbed out. He approached the reporter’s car briskly. Theo saw Mary turn sharply and Mac step back and show his hands. She could see his lips moving. Slowly, he moved closer, and then he leaned against the car with his arms folded. Theo watched as he and Mary talked. It began to snow again, and still Mac stood by Mary’s car chatting. It seemed an age before he stepped back and watched her drive away.
Theo frowned, unsure of what to make of what she’d seen. She went back downstairs. Mac Etheridge walked in, dusting snow from his hair.
