Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“You arrested someone? Who?” I flicked through the Rolodex of everyone I’d seen since boarding the train. I swore I’d seen the others board. Maybe with the exception of Wyatt. Had he really been killed before we left the station? I knew Hatch put little stock in my medical opinions, but even he would likely admit I could tell the difference between fresh and dried blood. “I don’t understand who else you could have arrested in Alice Springs.” I turned to Aaron. “I don’t think we’re safe at all.”

“She’s in custody,” Hatch assured me. “You’re safe.”

“She?”

Hatch’s eyes shrunk with his mistake. Suddenly I understood. Why he’d wanted to talk to me. Why I hadn’t gotten a call or a text message back before I lost phone reception. Why he’d been worried about Aaron telling me too much.

I blanched. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Juliette left the dinner before you. Did you see her again before departure?”

“That’s ridiculous.” I made to stand.

Hatch put a heavy hand on my shoulder and pushed me down. Despite his ill-fitting clothing, he carried some serious bulk, and his strength surprised and overpowered me. “I need you to answer the question.” He squeezed slightly. “And it’s not ridiculous. Juliette was the wearer of the scarf that a dead man had wrapped around his fist. Unless you can explain that away, I need to know if you saw her between dinner and departure.”

“You’ve got it wrong. The scarf is Simone’s, Juliette was just borrowing it.”

“So Juliette gave it back to Simone, then?”

“Well . . . no . . . but she left it behind at breakfast.” A memory struck me. “Wyatt picked it up! Because he recognized it was Simone’s. He told me he was going to give it back to her.”

Hatch set his eyes on mine. “So the only person who can back you up that Juliette was no longer in possession of the scarf is a dead one?”

“It’s the truth,” I pleaded. “And no. I didn’t see her after the dinner.”

“But she left before you, right? Caught a cab. I’ve talked to the driver already—he dropped her at the station in Alice.”

I was shaking with incredulity. “Maybe because it’s the center of town? Her bags were still in the cabin, untouched. She didn’t get back on.”

“Or that’s what she wants you to think. Why would she leave the train? People dream of going on this trip and she leaves early? Unless she’s running from something.”

This question was acidic. Hatch must have known the real reason she’d left. Juliette would have rationally explained her motivations when they’d questioned her. Surely.

I’d had enough. “Can I go now?” I asked firmly.

Hatch released the pressure on my shoulder and replaced it with a gentle pat, the type a doctor gives a child getting a needle: See, it’s not that bad. “Sure. Thanks for your expertise.”

I couldn’t resist having the last word as I stood up. “My fiancée is not a murderer.”

“Fiancée-ish, though,” Hatch snarled. “Isn’t it?”

I didn’t entertain it. Not even for a second. It didn’t cross my mind.

Juliette was innocent—she had to be. And that piece of blind faith, which Juliette had so wanted me to have twelve hours ago, one knee in the dirt, awoke something new within me. A Golden Age detective doesn’t really need characterization or motive, so to speak: intellectual curiosity is their raison d’être. It’s enough for them to scratch an itch, to solve a puzzle simply because it’s there to be solved. I’d started in that place, merely curious at the piecing together, not invested in what the answer might mean. My motives had broadened—I’d wanted to build my book out of it—and then, Wyatt’s death being so much more violent than McTavish’s, plot seeking had given way to fear. But all these motives—curiosity to cashing in to safety—are selfish ones. It’s exactly what Juliette had said about whose story I thought this was. Mine.

I pictured Juliette sitting on a cold aluminum bench in a holding cell. The detective act was no longer a charade. I didn’t just want to solve this, I had to. Fast.

I had this revelation as two things happened simultaneously. The first was that Aaron’s voice floated over the intercom, announcing the tracks were clear and we would depart Manguri for the final stretch to Adelaide in five minutes. The second was that I noticed that Detective Hatch’s Land Cruiser had a broken window, and a shadow was sitting in the driver’s seat.

I darted from the room. I didn’t have to go all the way to the bar to bump into Hatch, who was peering into Wyatt’s room, tutting as he examined the scene. Cynthia, now awake, stood up as I approached. Hatch turned around and put an arm out, blocking me.

“I think you’re better off in your cabin,” he said. But I could see through the gap between his arm and body, and I saw enough to confirm what I’d suspected. “Come on, mate,” he added. “This is better done with lawyers and courts now.”