“That’s not what I asked.”
He met my eyes. “It hurts. But I can move. So, let’s go.” He turned and walked back down the hallway.
As I followed, I asked, “Where would Frank go, Kayden? If he killed those men last night, he’s been on the run ever since.”
Kayden stopped near the dining table and turned to face me. “Frank doesn’t go anywhere. I didn’t even know he’d come here, or the police station, like you said. I didn’t even realize he’d left Koolaroo.” He shook his head. “Clearly, I was wrong.”
I photographed the bodies from a distance, getting perspective of their positioning in the kitchen.
“What about friends? Was there someone Frank would trust enough to hide with?”
He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Frank’s only friend just tried to have him killed. So that’s a dead end. Literally.”
“Any other family he could go to?”
“Nobody. We didn’t even know he had a brother until an hour ago, and he’s been dead for seven years.”
I moved into the sparsely furnished front room. Nothing looked disturbed, and I saw nothing useful. “What about somewhere Frank has worked before?”
Kayden leaned against the doorframe and watched me work. “Sapphire, you can ask me every version of that question there is, and the answer isn’t going to change. Frank had no life outside of Koolaroo.”
I walked back into the kitchen and saw the blue-ruled foolscap notepad and a biro sitting beside it. The top page had been torn off, leaving a small, ragged piece caught on the right-hand corner.
Had someone written a note?
I crouched and studied the pad at an angle under the kitchen light. No writing on the surface, but when the light caught it right, I could see indentations of writing from the page that had been torn out.
Kayden leaned in with me. “What do you see?”
“Whatever was written on the page above left indents through to this one.” I tilted it again, trying to read the ghost lines. “Maybe Frank left a clue to where he was going. If I can shade over these grooves with a soft pencil, the writing should come up.” I eased back. “We need a pencil. You check in the kitchen. Be careful of that blood.”
“Got it.” He dashed into the kitchen.
As he rummaged through the kitchen, I hit the living room, both of us pulling open and shoving shut drawers. I raced to the sideboard with an empty pottery bowl on top. Inside the cupboard were dozens of old farming magazines as if someone had been collecting them. But no pencil.
An old Chivas Regal wooden box sat on top of the sideboard. I lifted the lid.
Inside was a stack of folded foolscap pages. The top one was covered in a note written in blue biro. I read the first lines.
* * *
Title: Every problem has a price
Date: 3 years ago. Hottest summer ever, I remember that much.
The air went out of me. Was this Frank’s handwriting?
“Kayden.” My voice came out strange. “You need to see this.”
I carried the box to the table and turned it so he could see inside.
“That’s Dad’s handwriting.” He lifted out the top page. “What is this?” He unfolded the page.
I should have stopped him. That was evidence. But I, too, was intrigued. If Frank had written that note, we needed to read it.
I pulled out the next one, unfolded it along its creases, and laid it flat on the table. The heavy handwriting was done with a ballpoint pen. Probably the one next to the pad on the table.
The title stopped me cold.