Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,35

stop talking about Raf ’s unbelievable ghost story, and he challenged everyone to come up with a better one of their own.

‘It’s like a game,’ Mason said. ‘You have to make people believe you.’

‘There should be rules,’ Tom pointed out, always insisting everything was fair.

‘We need teams of two!’ Sabeen added.

‘I’m with Chloe then,’ Raf said before we’d even figured out how to play.

The whole thing morphed from there. A silly story where one fact was true. A true story where one fact was false. Eventually the game became a handful of made-up words on scraps of paper drawn out of a hat, every liar for themselves.

Whichever form the game took, the key to winning was understanding one fundamental question.

How well do you really know your friends?

It plays on my mind now as I trudge up Railway Parade, past the library Henry used to visit so regularly. What was he really doing in there on the computer when he wasn’t emailing me? I can’t stop thinking about the postcard, how he referred to the Facebook page. If Henry did write it, maybe he really does have a Facebook account I know nothing about.

I mull this over for another two blocks, finally steering myself to an empty wooden bench outside the Criterion Hotel. I sit and pull out my phone, open Facebook and type Henry’s name into the search bar. A number of results for Henry Weaver fill the screen, but as I scroll through them, none of the profile pictures are of my Henry. Some are cartoon characters, others are scenic snapshots. A few listings don’t have profile pictures at all, just the generic white silhouette in a pale blue circle. It occurs to me that Henry might not even be using his real name, which widens the net even further.

I log out of my account and it takes me back to the Facebook login page. I type in Henry’s email address. He’d entered his middle name and birthdate as a password when we set it up in Gmail. I type it in now and Facebook tells me it’s incorrect. The cursor blinks expectantly in the password field.

My conscience reminds me it’s a breach of privacy to hack into someone else’s account. But if Henry’s on Facebook, that’s a lead Doherty can actually trace. I try Henry’s birthdate by itself. That doesn’t work either. How many attempts can I make before Facebook locks me out?

A dark car rolls by on the road in front of me and my attention drifts along with it. It takes a second to register Mason’s blue station wagon pulling into a car space a little further down the road. Mason gets out of the car and starts striding up the footpath in my direction. He’s dressed in the same red and black polo shirt and dark work pants that Stu Macleod wears whenever we take our ute into his workshop for a service. Mason must be on his lunch break.

I’m partially hidden from his view by a row of trees in planter boxes at regular intervals along the kerb. As I lean back and peer around the greenery, I see him headed straight for me. Sabeen must have told him about the postcard. Or Henry’s note. Hopefully she didn’t blab about my suspicions he was lying on the morning Henry disappeared, or things will probably get heated. I put my phone away and steel myself.

Before he reaches the Criterion, Mason unexpectedly diverts across the road. He checks left and right for cars as he jogs across to the footpath on the other side. Keeping his head down, he walks the length of the block before crossing back to my side of the road again and approaching the post office from the other direction. It seems like an elaborate ploy to avoid me except I’m not sure he’s actually seen me at all. Behind me, the two-storey Victorian pub looms large with its dark iron lacework and imposing panelled windows. Is Mason giving it a wide berth because of his fistfight the other night? Or maybe because his mother is inside?

Curious, I watch him disappear inside the post office with one more furtive glance at the pub. I walk quickly towards the post office and head around the side of the building where the PO Boxes are located. Peering through a side window, I watch as Mason steps up to the counter to be served.

I’m unable to hear what he’s asking through the glass. The postal