Conspiracy Girl (16 page)

She gives me this look then: one that tells me that she gets it, and that she’s sorry. She knows. She knows how it feels, and for the first time since it happened I feel this lightening in
my gut. And then, out of nowhere, a torrent of sadness rises up, coming from a place I never even knew existed. I’ve been so angry at my brother for so long that I’ve never let myself
feel sad about him dying. But now really isn’t the time for a grief-fest. I blink a few times to clear my eyes.

‘What was his name?’ Nic asks.

‘Rob.’ And just like that I find myself telling her all about him . . .

Half an hour later we’re laughing as I recount stories about Rob pretending to be Father Christmas one year when I was about five and he was ten, all because our mom was too high to
remember to buy us anything. He’d got up in the night and filled an old sock with things he’d stolen from a ninety-nine-cent store, but I caught him laying it on the end of my bed.

Nic tells me stories from her childhood, about her mom and her life in England, which sounds a world away from my roach-infested apartment and a childhood spent playing truant, hanging out in
the laundromat to keep warm and scrounging food from a dumpster behind a KFC. She stops when she gets to the part about moving to LA, though.

I feel a sudden urge to reach out and stroke Nic’s hair behind her ear, to pull her close, but I don’t. The closer I get to Nic, the more important it’s becoming to keep her at
arm’s length.

We both fall silent, as though the sky is pressing down on us through the roof of the car. The conversation we just had was purely a distraction from the present, from talking about our
situation, which is somewhere between dire and pretty damn terrible. Nic is chewing her lip, no doubt thinking about Goz, and I force myself to start concentrating, focusing on the problem.

And by the time we’re close to the farm I think I’ve figured it out.

Finn stops talking. I stare at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s tense, focused, his arms locked rigid and his hands gripping the wheel tightly. For a brief moment I
remember his hands on my waist, tugging me closer. I know he was just pretending for the cops, but remembering the way his body felt against mine makes my blood warm and my skin tingle the same way
it does when you stand in front of a roaring fire after having been out in the snow for hours. Just being near him does that in fact. Despite everything, being near Finn makes everything more
bearable.

Trying to get my head around all he just told me about his childhood is difficult. It doesn’t fit at all with the idea I had of him. I had assumed he came from a privileged background. I
mean, he acts like he does; he’s well educated, well dressed, lives in a loft in the West Village which must have cost a fortune. I can’t imagine him digging in dumpsters for food.

He was just a kid. I have an unexpected urge to reach over and take his hand. It’s just a thought though. Not one I’d ever act on. That story about his brother makes my heart
ache.

I know he was only telling me stories and making me laugh in order to distract me. And it worked. For half an hour I didn’t think about Goz, or my apartment, or the fact that we’re
in a stolen car fleeing God knows whom.

But now the fear is back, magnified by the oppressive heaviness of the slate sky above us and the spiked, black-trunked trees pressing in on either side. At any other time I’d probably be
struck by the stark, wintry beauty but right now it just feels dark and sinister, like we’re stuck in a Tim Burton movie. Though it’s nearly midday it could be dusk out, the light grey
and pallid.

About an hour off the highway, we’ve passed through two small towns, stopped very quickly for fuel and I’m wondering how far into the middle of nowhere exactly we’re headed.
But then we round a corner and Finn turns down a small, almost hidden track, the only marker a rusting mailbox with the flag down. The snow is piled thickly into banks on either side of the narrow
path, but it looks like a snowmobile has been down the road that morning, as the tracks are still clear.

In the distance there’s a small house, wood framed, with a porch wrapped around it. There’s a barn off to one side. I take it all in, trying to picture Finn growing up here, but I
simply can’t imagine it. He seems like he belongs in a city, surrounded by tech and coffee machines and AstroTurf roof gardens. I shake my head. Every time I think I have a handle on Finn
Carter, the very next moment I’m forced into an about turn. Nothing I thought about him is turning out to be true. I thought he was an arrogant, smug arsehole, but now when I look at him I
can’t help but notice the splinters of pain in his eyes and the invisible weight of the past that he carries on his shoulders. I know exactly what that feels like and it makes me wonder at
how similar the two of us actually are, despite all appearances to the contrary.

As soon as we pull up in front of the house the door opens and a woman who looks to be in her seventies walks out on to the porch. She’s wearing men’s jeans and a thick sweater and
her posture is guarded, her chin raised and her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Her grey hair is cropped short and she’s scowling at us in a way that makes me think she doesn’t
welcome strangers on the property. But then Finn opens his door and gets out, and straightaway the scowl vanishes and becomes a look of consternation.

‘Hey, Grandma,’ Finn says, his eyes darting momentarily towards the barn and then over his shoulder. I follow his gaze. Does he think we were followed?

‘What are you doing here?’ his grandma asks, suspicion lacing her voice, even as she walks down the steps, holding her arms out wide to embrace him.

Finn walks over and hugs her and I open my car door and get slowly out.

‘I’ve been calling all morning,’ I hear Finn say.

His grandmother pulls back, though keeps hold of him by his arms. ‘You know I never have the phone on ringer, it’s always those blasted sales people, wanting to know if I want to
subscribe to this, subscribe to that. And I don’t want cable television. I don’t even own a television, I tell them, and I don’t want any insurance either.’

‘I barred those calls for you.’

She isn’t listening though. She’s staring over his shoulder at me. Her gaze flits the length of me, appraising me before she turns back to Finn. ‘So,’ she says,
‘you going to introduce me to your friend or have you completely forgotten your manners?’

Finn turns and sees me, then waves me over. ‘Grandma,’ he says, ‘this is Nic Preston. Nic, this is my grandmother, Iris Carter.’

She appraises me some more. Her eyes are piercing blue, just like Finn’s, and sparking with the same fierce intelligence. Only hers remind me of a magpie’s – small and beady.
She offers me her hand to shake.

‘Well, pleased to meet you, Nic,’ she says, gripping my hand with enough force to crack the bones. Her hand is rough, the knuckles thick and scarred as blocks of wood. Dropping my
hand, she glances at Finn. ‘You look tired. Come in the house. I was just about to start fixing some lunch for the girls.’

The girls? That stops me in my tracks as neatly as a bullet. I shoot a glance at Finn but he’s studiously avoiding my eye.

I walk behind them up the steps to the porch. Girls? Whose girls? Finn holds open the door and I follow Iris nervously into the house. It’s like stepping back in time – the
décor looks not to have been updated since the fifties. There’s a grandfather clock in the hall, a worn rug, a faded watercolour on the wall. To my right is a living room; I spy a
fireplace and a couple of sofas – old but well cared for, with those doily-type things covering the headrests.

We walk on into the kitchen, which looks like a replica kitchen from a fifties TV show. There’s even a cast-iron kettle on the hob that looks like it might have been around since pioneer
days, and an old-style refrigerator that makes a noise like a truck in reverse. Sitting at the large wooden table by the window are two girls aged about six, dressed in dungarees and aprons.
They’re both up to their arms in cookie dough mix, one standing on a chair and the other sitting and attempting to roll out the dough with a rolling pin almost bigger than her.

When we walk in they both scream, the rolling pin hits the table and clatters to the floor, and the next thing I know they’re leaping from their chairs and flying towards us in a cloud of
flour.

Finn drops to his knees and gathers them both into his arms, picking them up and swinging them around. He holds one on each side and they throw their arms around his neck, squealing.

‘Uncle Finn! Uncle Finn!’ the first one yells.

‘You came to visit!’ the other one cries.

Finn grins at them. ‘Yes I did. I said I would, didn’t I?’

‘Who’s she?’ the first one asks, noticing me. They both have long, straight dark hair with blunt-cut fringes and liquid-brown eyes, and looking between them I realise they must
be twins, as they’re pretty much identical. But whose children are they? They called him uncle. Which means they must be Rob’s daughters, I guess.

Finn turns awkwardly to me. ‘This is Nic,’ he says, setting the girls down.

The first one, the more confident of the two, struts over to me with her hands on her hips. ‘Are you Finn’s girlfriend?’ she asks.

‘Er, no,’ I say, struck by the forthrightness of one so young.

‘Isn’t Nic a boy’s name?’ asks the other one, who’s holding Finn’s hand and swinging on it.

‘No, it’s a girl’s name too,’ Finn says, cutting her off. ‘Where are your manners?’ He looks up at me then for the first time, apprehension in his eyes and I
wonder why. It’s as if he’s afraid of my reaction. ‘Are you going to introduce yourselves to our guest?’ he asks the girls.

The louder one sticks out her hand. ‘I’m Melia,’ she says, ‘and that’s Grace.’

I shake her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She skips off, flicking her hair over her shoulder and shooting me a suspicious-looking smile. Like grandmother, like granddaughter.

‘What are you making?’ Finn asks as Melia throws herself into his arms once again. ‘Chocolate chip cookies, for me?’

They both squeal. ‘No! They’re for us!’

‘Oh, come on,’ he says, ruffling their hair, ‘you never heard about sharing? I just drove through a blizzard to get here.’

I shake my head slowly in bewilderment, watching him.

‘You want some tea? Coffee? You look like you could use some.’

I turn around. Iris is behind me, standing with her hands on her hips. She comes off as gruff to the point of surly, but there’s a tenderness I see in the way her gaze falls on Finn
playing with his nieces.

‘Um . . .’ I say, noticing Finn glancing at the clock.

Iris strides to the stove anyway and lights the gas beneath the kettle. I follow her, wondering whether or not Finn is planning on telling her why we’re here, and what I should say if she
asks.

‘I didn’t know Finn had nieces,’ I say to make conversation.

‘They’re Rob’s girls. They’ve been with me three years now. Since they were three.’ She reaches for the coffee in a tin to my right. ‘He tell you about the
accident?’

‘Yes,’ I say, my eyes drawn back to Finn and the girls. He’s helping them roll out the dough. ‘But he didn’t tell me there were children involved.’

Iris nods to herself, smiling ruefully.

‘They lost both their parents. Rob was drunk. They were coming home from a bar. He lost control of the car and hit a tree.’ She sighs heavily, shaking her head. ‘There’s
been a lot of tragedy in this family, but I guess that topped it all.’ She stops spooning coffee into the mugs and then looks up and fixes me with a cold blue stare. ‘But I guess you
know all about tragedy,’ she says.

I am so shocked my mouth falls open. Of course she knows who I am. She recognises me from the trial coverage and Finn gave her my name. She nods her head at me, her lips still pressed together
in a grim smile. ‘So you’re the girl,’ she says, still nodding.

I frown at her.

‘I don’t read the papers as a general rule and there’s no TV in the house, but Finn told me all about you.’

That takes me aback. He did? When? Not in the last day I’m assuming, so when? And what did he say exactly?

She turns back to the kettle. ‘He tried so hard to find them, you know.’

What is she talking about? ‘Find who?’ I ask, confused.

‘The people who did that terrible thing to your family.’

I open my mouth to ask her what she means, but just at that moment Finn appears at my side.

‘Can we talk?’ he says to his grandma.

‘Sure, I’m just making coffee,’ Iris answers with a steel edge to her voice. I can see where Finn gets his grit from.

‘It’s urgent,’ Finn says under his breath so the girls can’t hear.

‘I can make the coffee,’ I say, interrupting them.

Iris looks between us, but then she purses her lips and nods. The two of them leave the kitchen and I watch them go, wondering what Finn plans on telling her and feeling a surge of guilt.
I’m putting them all in danger just being here. We should leave.
They
should leave.

A little hand suddenly taps me on the back. It’s Melia. I can tell only because she’s the precocious one, and now I see she’s also missing two of her bottom teeth. Grace is
busy pressing out cookies at the table, humming to herself.

‘Will you help us?’ Melia asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, heading to the table.

‘Here.’ Melia hands me a cookie cutter and I start pressing out rounds, remembering with a sharp pang of sadness doing this same activity once upon a time with my mum.

‘So, no school today?’ I ask to make conversation and so I don’t let my thoughts get the better of me.

‘We don’t go to school yet,’ Grace tells me. ‘Grams is teaching us how to read and write and we’re going to go to school next year.’

‘Where is the nearest school?’ I ask, glancing out the window. The sloping garden gives way to woods and in the corner I see the barn. I wonder how far the nearest town is.

‘It’s pretty far,’ Melia pipes up. ‘But Grams says we have to go, and one day I want to be an astronaut so I have to learn science, and Grams says that’s where the
limit of her knowledge lies.’