Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,39
to be fobbed off. The worst part is, I feel like a traitor to my dad for being civil with Doherty at all.
Once I’ve aggressively scrubbed the shower, I move on to the vacuuming. I check Luisa’s not on the phone before dragging the vacuum cleaner down the hallway and through the door that separates our residence from the motel office. With drooping pot plants and a faded couch, it’s pretty drab for a reception area, made significantly more cheery by Luisa’s hibiscus-patterned shirt and matching scrunchie. She also brought a large bunch of orange chrysanthemums with her this morning, gifted to her by the florist on the ground floor of her building.
As I plug the vacuum cleaner into the power point, Luisa glances up from the computer. She throws her hands in the air, gold bangles jangling together at her wrists.
‘It’s not working again,’ she says. ‘Now I’ll be on the phone with tech support for an hour.’
I straighten up. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Não, querida. It’s okay. Just this new booking software.’ She mutters something under her breath in Portuguese.
‘It’s giving you some trouble?’
She spins around in her swivel chair to face me, as though grateful for the break. ‘The first two weeks? It works fine. Now the admin screen ices up and we get nowhere.’
I stare at her in confusion for a moment. ‘Oh, it freezes?’
‘Freezes! Yes! David and I were here till one o’clock in the morning last week trying to fix it.’ She stands and stretches, reaching for a ceramic mug covered in bright yellow stars. ‘I’m going to need more coffee if I have to talk to the tech man. You can cover the phones?’
She trots off towards our residence and it occurs to me how personal it is, the way we leave the door unlocked so Luisa can come and go as she pleases. She must use our kitchen and bathroom several times a day, as though she lives here too. However, she did just reveal why she was here so late on Thursday night, and I feel kind of silly for assuming she stayed over. I mean, we’re talking about my father here – he hasn’t asked anyone on a date since before he was married. If he had any moves back then, I seriously doubt he can remember them.
I drag the vacuum around every inch of the reception area, switching it off every now and then to listen out for the phone. Getting right under the old couch with the cleaning head, I hear all sorts of dirt and grit shoot up the metal rod, possibly some tiny shards of glass that were missed when cleaning up the broken window. The rod clangs into a solid object and the cleaning head catches behind something heavy. Crouching on all fours, I flip up the fabric sofa cover and inspect the space beneath. A softball-sized rock is tucked under there, like a wombat in a burrow.
It must be what Mason lobbed through the window. I suspect there’s a matching indent in the soil of the garden bed outside. I’m reminded of a documentary we watched last year for a forensics course at school that showed footage of a murderer’s interrogation. The guilty man, who had lied constantly throughout the interview, was confronted with the rock he’d used to bludgeon his victim. The guilt he felt was so strong he couldn’t bear to look at it, as if it made him feel physically ill, and this is what finally elicited a confession. In the detective’s piece to camera he referred to every guilty person having their ‘rock’, something from the crime scene they struggle to have in their presence.
How would Mason feel if I presented him with this? Would he show remorse? Would he be able to look at it? Instead of returning the rock to the garden bed, I carry it over to Room Three where Dad is painting. I want him to explain exactly what happened last Thursday night, and why Mason asked me to tell Dad to back off. As with everything at the moment, I feel like I only have half the story.
‘Hey Dad,’ I say, stepping into the room among the drop-sheeted furniture. The air is thick with paint fumes and the smell of recently laid carpet. ‘Look what I found.’
I place the rock on the small breakfast table by the window. Dad glances up from where he’s cutting in around the bathroom door.
‘Ah,’ he says, returning to his