Page 33 of Mad Mabel

“You thought if you gave it something, it might finally leave you alone?”

“Yes,” I say. “I suppose so.”

Daphne had opted not to stay for the interview. That surprised me—and, in truth, unnerved me, even though deep down I knew this wasn’t her story to tell. She was part of it, yes. But the mess? The history? The consequences? Those were mine.

“Well, I sincerely hope it has that effect,” Libby says. “Last question before we start recording. Why us? I’m sure plenty of people were clamoring to talk to you.”

They were. Over the past few days, I’d had emails from respected journalists offering generous sums, podcasters flaunting their download numbers like poker chips, even one who claimed their last series got an innocent man out of prison. I’d heard from a famous Australian author who’d built her reputation on solving cold cases—her latest was that fifty-year-old kidnapping of Ida McCabe, now reopened thanks to her keen investigative nose.

And I’d decided to go with Libby and Adeem, who look too young to be drinking tea.

“I thought you two would be easier to manipulate than those big film networks.”

“Full disclosure,” Libby says, “we can only be manipulated for large amounts of cash.”

“No problem. I’ll give you the coordinates of my treasure andyou can dig it up after the interview.” I lean forward and lower my voice. “It’s buried with the bodies.”

The pair exchange a look, and I find that I’m smiling. I stop before they notice.

“Right,” Libby says, putting her tea on the table. “Now that that’s sorted. Any questions before we start?”

“My face will be blurred, right?” I say. “And no details of my whereabouts will be released? The whole purpose of this is to get rid of people, not attract more of them.”

“Absolutely,” Libby says. “And as we said, you will be shown the edited footage before it’s posted, so we’ll have the ability to cut anything you’re not happy with then.”

I nod.

“Mostly you will be talking freestyle about your childhood. We won’t interrupt unless we need something clarified. If I do interrupt, don’t look at me, keep looking at the camera—okay?”

I look at the camera, which isn’t, in fact, a camera at all, it’s an iPhone, propped up on its tripod on my dining table. Then again, an iPhone is a camera, isn’t it? An iPhone is everything. It even has a little buzzer that reminds me to take my pills.

“Okay.”

“But before we start, I’ll do my lead-in. Are you ready?”

I nod again.

Libby takes a deep breath, and Adeem counts her in. When the light goes red, she morphs before my eyes into another person. A mature person. It’s very impressive.

“In 1959, at just fifteen years of age, Mabel Waller became the youngest Australian in history to be convicted of murder. The media interest around the case was enormous, due to the aggressive nature of the crime. Rumors abounded that this was not her firstmurder, and this has remained the topic of debate for decades. She is known around the world as Mad Mabel. But is she mad? More importantly, is she guilty?

“In a world first, at the age of eighty-one, Mabel Waller is speaking.”

20

THEN

Two days after my mother died, my father came to the hospital.

He wore brown slacks and a red-and-blue checked shirt. His trilby hat dangled from one hand, and his jacket was draped neatly over his arm. His shoes were polished. His shirt was ironed. His expression was neutral—not quite solemn, not quite blank. Just… emptied out.

“Your mother,” he said, “has passed away.”

For a moment, I thought he might be joking. Or senile. Or had wandered into the wrong hospital room. It had been two days since she went over the balcony of my seventh-floor room. Two days since the nurse with the trembling hands and watery eyes told me she hadn’t made it. Two days since Cess arrived, chalk-pale and crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

Now, here was my father, delivering the news as though I hadn’t been there. As though I hadn’t lived it.

“I’m aware,” I said.