“I don’t see how the jury will convict if Kelly’s evidence is thrown out,” said Rachel.

“Precisely,” Alkins responded. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. It might carry more weight if they hear it from someone without any stick in all of this. An outsider,” he told Rachel. “You’re influential. I gather Dan Moore is a fan of your podcast. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

Rachel looked up at Alkins. Her eyes searched his face to see whether he was serious. All she could see was her own face in the dark lenses of his aviator sunglasses. As if realizing that she needed confirmation, he took the sunglasses off and leaned against the steel railings so he could look directly at her. “If you think Scott Blair is guilty and deserves to be punished then talk to Kelly’s parents, Rachel. Convince them to let their daughter return to the stand.”

“I shouldn’t get involved.…” Rachel hesitated. “I’m supposed to be a neutral bystander.”

“All I can do is ask you,” he said. “Ultimately, the decision is up to you. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in my life, it’s that a good person’s conscience usually leads them to do the right thing.”

“I’m not making any promises,” said Rachel carefully. “But I will think about it.”

“I’m not asking for promises,” he said. They could hear the rising roar of the speedboat engine as Cooper steered the boat back to shore over the choppy waves.

“I want to make one thing clear,” he said as his cousin pulled the boat up to the rickety jetty and tied the ropes. “Unlike Dan Moore, I’m not a fan of your podcast. I don’t understand people’s fascination with other people’s tragedies. It’s modern-day rubbernecking. Ghoulish. Podcasts like yours feed that obsession. If I’d had my way, Judge Shaw would have never allowed you to cover the trial,” he said. “I want you to know that, because even if you do get Dan and Christine Moore to listen to you, I will still be on your case. I don’t do quid pro quo.”

Rachel appreciated Mitch Alkins’s honesty. At least she knew where she stood. Down on the beach, Cooper was looking up at them as if asking Alkins’s permission to return. Alkins inclined his head slightly and Cooper then crossed the beach and traversed the steep path back to the house.

Detective Cooper drove Rachel to town the way they’d come, along the scenic coastal road. This time, he drove at a leisurely pace, slowing to point out panoramic views and points of interest. As they reached the outskirts of town, Rachel’s phone beeped. It was a text message from Pete to let her know that Hannah had sent another email.

46

Hannah

Dear Rachel,

It’s hard to put into words what happened that night. I’ve never written it down or told a single person. All my adult life, I’ve tried to forget. The memories inevitably return. Always at the worst possible time, when something good is happening in my life. Sometimes the pain of remembering is so bad that I consider giving up. Letting myself slip away.

I still remember seeing the forest floor sway unsteadily under my bare feet as I was carried away from the clearing, from Jenny, trapped in the steel grip of a stranger. I couldn’t scream or call for help. There was nobody there to hear my calls. Nobody who could save Jenny, or me.

I heard drunken laughter. Nasty and cruel. Someone threw a beer bottle against a tree trunk. It shattered. Laughter followed. More bottles broke as they turned it into a game. And then pitiful cries. It was Jenny. They were hurting her. There wasn’t a thing that I could do to stop it as I was carried across the forest like a rag doll, my feet dancing helplessly in the air.

“Please,” I tried to say. My words were muffled by the hand over my mouth. “Please, stop hurting her.”

We came around a large tree trunk. I could hear Jenny whimper like an injured kitten too weak to let out more than the softest cry. I struggled to wriggle out of the iron grip. I wanted to reach out to her. To touch her. To reassure her that somehow it would all be all right.

But her cries were becoming more distant. We were moving away from her. He held me tighter, locking me in the unbreakable manacles of his arms as he changed course. Moving in a different direction. Deeper into the forest. Away from Jenny. I tried to kick him, but I was no match against his strength and my legs hung limply in the air.

He stopped very suddenly not long after. I felt myself being lifted up and then lowered until I was lying on a hard metallic surface. Metal ridges dug into my skin. I was lying in the back of a truck.

His hand was on my mouth. I couldn’t scream. But I was no longer being restrained by those powerful arms. I lay faceup and looked into the eyes of my captor. Gray eyes that I recognized, even in the gloomy light of the forest.

I flinched in terror as Bobby lowered his face to mine.

He lifted his finger and pressed it to my lips.

“Shh,” he said.

He pushed me down so that I was lying flat. He pulled the canvas sheet over my head. That’s when I understood that he was hiding me. Protecting me. Not long after, I felt the vehicle sink under the weight of people getting into the truck.

Bobby climbed into the back with his legs outstretched along side me and his back pressed against the cab. There was a light thud as someone was lowered into the back of the truck next to him. I heard a whimper. It was Jenny.

Doors slammed shut. Someone threw an unopened beer can into the back of the truck. It slammed against the metal and bounced onto my leg. It hurt so bad.

We drove off in a loud skid. Jenny was trembling so badly I could hear her teeth chattering. I peered out from under the canvas sheet. Bobby was unbuttoning his shirt. It frightened me to see him get undressed. When he’d removed his shirt, he put it over Jenny and tucked it under her like a blanket. He reached for my hand and squeezed it reassuringly as the truck tore through the forest road, lurching violently when we hit potholes.

“Bobby, make sure she doesn’t fall out. We’re not done with her yet,” someone shouted through an open window. Drunken laughter echoed.

With a squeal of tires, the truck turned sharply onto smooth asphalt. We were on the main road. The drive was faster. Less bumpy. The wind rushed in my ears.

Bobby’s hand was on Jenny’s back. She was lying next to him. He seemed to be comforting her. I tried to lean over to comfort her, too. He pushed me down abruptly as we drove faster along the road. When the truck eventually stopped, I heard the roar of the ocean and smelled the unmistakable smell of sea and salt.

“Where is she?” It was a male voice. Thick and unsteady. He was leaning over the side of the truck. Drunk. I flinched as he almost touched me.

“She’s over there.” Another slurred voice.

“Maybe we should let her go now.” A deeper voice. This one inflected with fear.

“Why would we do that?”

“Yeah, man. We all want to have another go. Maybe Bobby will change his mind and take a turn? What do you say, Bobby?”

My heart pounded. I lay without moving, terrified they would discover me under the canvas sheet. Bobby sat next to me stiffly. It felt as if he was shielding me from them.

“No. Not again. Please. I can’t.” It was Jenny. “Let me go. I want to go home now.”

“Stop crying, you slut,” someone shouted. “Get up.”

Jenny scrambled to her feet. The truck shifted again as she jumped down. They trampled through the sand onto the beach with Jenny.

Bobby, who’d climbed out of the truck, lifted the canvas so he could see my face. “Run,” he whispered. “I’ll try to get them to leave her alone, but you need to get out of here.” I stared at him as he lifted up a crate of beer cans and bottles. “Run,” he urged again, before turning to join his friends on the beach.

I didn’t listen to him. I hid in the bushes. I couldn’t bring myself to leave my sister. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the familiar outlines of the Morrison’s Point jetty. It was strangely reassuring to know our location.

Light flickered from the beach, followed by the noxious smell of gasoline as they built a bonfire on the sand. Their dark silhouettes were set against the fire as they stood by its flames and drank beer, clinking the bottles together.

There was a public phone booth across the parking lot, near the toilet block. I didn’t have money, but I figured that I could dial the operator and ask her to call the police. I walked across the lot quietly, hunching down so there was no chance that I could be seen. My shoes had fallen off when I was in the forest. I was in my bare feet. The dirt parking lot was littered with sharp stones that dug into the soles of my feet. Despite the pain, I didn’t cry out or make any sound at all.

I had to run out into the open to get to the telephone booth. I did so quickly but was delayed getting inside as I fumbled to open the door in the dark. Finally, I pushed my way inside. I lifted the receiver and dialed the operator, my hands shaking so badly that it took a few attempts to press the correct buttons.