Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,13

the December school holidays that hint at any kind of plan to run away.

Toggling to Facebook, I click through to the Have You Seen Henry Weaver? page. Sabeen’s updated the banner with a different photo of Henry, the same one I’ve used on the new MISSING posters. It’s a selfie he took with my phone outside Shallow Vintage Wares, the most recent photo we have of him. In the uncropped original, Uncle Bernie is unintentionally photobombing through the shop window.

Every time Sabeen posts a new image, the page receives a flurry of comments. Mostly people citing their postcode and declaring they’ve shared it, or a few words like ‘Still missing?’ and ‘Geez, I hope he’s found’. There are always a few angry questions about why police aren’t doing more to find him, theories from armchair detectives who speculate about everything from religious cults to serial killers. A few even claim to have seen Henry sleeping rough in underground train stations or eating out of rubbish bins in Kings Cross.

Even though I’m co-admin, I almost can’t visit the page anymore.

The new header image has attracted about thirty new comments. My pulse skips when I recognise one of the profile pictures. His comment is four days old, nestled in among kind sentiments from strangers.

Rafi Nolan: Miss your corny jokes mate. Please come home.

My thumb wavers over the like button. I picture the way Raf was with me in the pizzeria, how he could hardly meet my eye. Is he embarrassed about what happened at the bush hut? How we kissed and fooled around? Has he decided it was a mistake? He seemed very okay with it at the time.

I close the app without liking the comment, and toss the phone onto my pillow. Moving to the window, I ease the curtain aside for a better view of the Nolans’ house up the hill. There’s no light in Raf ’s window at this hour, and I wonder, not for the first time, if he ever glances down here seeking a light in mine.

I tug the lower half of the window upwards and it jams in the usual place, creating a four-inch gap above the windowsill. I hear, rather than feel, a gentle breeze hissing through the overgrown field beside the motel. My gaze is drawn to the nearby bushland, a sombre mass of vegetation like plumes of black smoke billowing from the horizon.

A quick movement catches my eye. Three shadows – either birds or bats – burst abruptly from the dark treetops and take flight. Directly below this, a pale object hovers near the entrance to the reservoir trail. Barely illuminated by the glow from the motel and streetlights, it’s a struggle to make sense of what it is. I squint for more definition. It sort of looks like—

It could almost be—

A person in a white T-shirt.

Watching my window.

I duck away from the glass. The curtain resettles itself as I lunge sideways to switch off the table lamp. Only when my bedroom is dark do I drop to my knees and move back over to the window. Slipping under the curtain, I peer through the gap at the night outside, willing my eyes to adjust. At first I see nothing. Then … a pale shape moves deeper into bushland along the reservoir trail.

My chest tightens.

Henry?

A ridiculous thought.

Or is it?

Maybe he’s back. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone finding out.

Mr Milburn’s words echo in my mind: ‘Ever consider the young lad might not want to be found?’

Henry knows I’ll be here for the school holidays. Is he doing reconnaissance to confirm that’s the case? There’s really only one way to find out.

My hoodie slips easily over the top of my pyjamas, and I rummage under my bed for my sneakers. I don’t know why I feel such a strong urge to follow. It’s the same feeling I got that evening when Mum said she was going to Julie Somerton’s house for book club, and when I followed her on my bike she drove to Doherty’s neat little weatherboard instead. I was twelve at the time, and all I had to go on was a subtle shift in Doherty’s behaviour, which had set off alarm bells. Sometimes you’re handed clues and you don’t even realise it. Other times you feel that pull in your gut but you talk yourself out of it and go back to bed.

This is not one of those times.

I move quickly to the hallway and then pause, listening for Dad’s snoring. Sure