You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

‘She’s right,’ he says darkly, glaring down from the ladder. ‘They did ruin us.’

It’s not fair to blame the police. They did everything they could, including prosecuting when there was probably not enough evidence to get a conviction. If anything, it’s the legal system that let them down: the impossibly high level of proof, the rigidity of the court process, yet the creativity afforded to lawyers to craft their own narrative. But in Roslyn’s eyes – and Seb’s too, apparently – the legal system and the NSW police are all the one entity.

Megan and Seb continue to work, assuming that their mum will return when she’s ready. Megan is overdue a discussion with her brother, too, but there’s a risk of their voices carrying inside and Roslyn overhearing. Once again, the brushstrokes are satisfying, therapeutic. Clean paint obliterating the grubbiness of what went before. Thomas Malouf is dead. How does she feel? Not sad. Not even that curious.

When Roslyn finally reappears, she’s sullen and begins work down the side of the house. By 6 p.m., they’ve finished the entire front façade and both sides. The difference is both dramatic and validating; Megan is starting to feel more optimistic about the achievability of the sale price.

‘We should get going soon, Seb.’ Megan is mindful of the fact that traffic to the airport can be unpredictable.

‘Yeah, I’ll just have a quick shower. Are you coming, Mum?’

‘I’ll tidy up here.’ This means Roslyn is still out of sorts.

Half an hour later they’re on the road. It’s the first time brother and sister have been properly alone all weekend. Megan doesn’t intend to waste it.

‘I’m worried about Mum,’ she says bluntly.

‘Me too.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t remember her being so easily riled.’

‘It’s the trial. Anything to do with it makes her go crazy. Even after all these years.’

Seb wasn’t there for the trial; he was travelling in South America. Megan is glad he wasn’t there, glad he didn’t hear all the gory details, or experience the full, crushing impact of the verdict. He’s the only one of the family who’s normal.

‘Seb, I found some stuff on Mum’s phone. She had a map open. The street where William Newson lived. And she’s been reading all these articles about the shooting.’

She glances at her brother just in time to catch his frown. ‘Maybe she’s curious?’

‘Yeah, I guess she is, but it looks bad. The detective asked me where Mum was on the night of the shooting. She was in bed when I got home, so I didn’t actually see her …’

He gets where she’s heading. ‘Which means she doesn’t have an alibi, plus she’s got all this incriminating stuff on her phone.’

‘So, you can see why I’m worried?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I can. But Mum wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun, or ride a motorbike. I don’t think she’d stand up as a suspect for very long.’

True! It’s good to talk, get perspective.

Traffic is sparse; they get a pleasing run of green lights until the M2.

‘Have you spoken to Jess recently?’ he asks quietly.

‘Yeah, I went to see her a couple of weeks ago. She’s working in a gym in Artarmon.’

‘Still fighting?’

‘Nah, she’s a trainer now.’

Seb’s interest in Jess has always been solicitous. She used to fancy him in the way seventeen-year-old girls fancy unattainable men in their twenties. In the way seventeen-year-old girls think there’s nothing sexier than a boy with brooding eyes and long hair, who plays the guitar. In the way that seventeen-year-old girls think they’re being subtle when they are, in fact, being utterly transparent. Jess used to dress in ripped jeans and black T-shirts, the same uniform as Seb. She engineered it so she was in the same room as him whenever possible. In fairness to Seb, he always gave her time. Asked her about school and karate, never made her feel like a pest. He even sent her the occasional postcard from his travels.

Seb is staring ahead, still frowning. ‘So, I guess the police have been to see Jess, too?’

‘Apparently. But I’m not the first person she’d tell. Things have never been the same between us.’

They’ve entered the Lane Cove Tunnel. The radio goes scratchy; Seb turns it off. An articulated truck trundles past in the next lane, scarily close. Neither of them speaks, both thinking about the same thing: their father’s funeral. The ugly scene between Roslyn and Jess outside the church that turned a painful day into an excruciating one. It signified the end of Megan’s friendship with Jess and a fault line in her relationship with her mother.

On exiting the tunnel, Seb changes the subject to something easier. Cassie is talking about returning to work now that Tia is approaching her first birthday. Seb will be the primary carer for his daughter and continuing to pick up whatever night-time gigs he can get. Finances will be better (Cassie earns a lot more than he does), which means he’ll be able to come to Sydney more often.

‘What I really want is for Mum to get down to see you,’ Megan says, flicking on her indicator to overtake. ‘Once the house is sold, there’s nothing to tie her to Sydney – she could live in Melbourne for a while. A change of scene would do her good. Might help her let go of all the sadness and anger.’

‘Cassie and I would love to have her. An extra pair of hands would be brilliant, short term or medium term or whatever she decides.’

‘Great! We’re on the same page. Now all we have to do is get the damned house sold.’

Fifteen minutes later they’re pulling up outside the domestic terminal. Seb leans across to peck her cheek before jumping out. The boot of the car opens and closes as he extracts his bag. Her brother: the only person she has in the world, besides her mum. It feels slightly dissatisfying every time they catch up; it’s never quite enough.

When Megan gets home Roslyn is already in bed. It’s only eight; she