Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,47

his face. It’s like giving him a gift and snatching it away again. This is why Sabeen didn’t want me telling anybody. ‘Doherty says it’s likely to be a troll who got my details from Facebook somehow. They’re probably doing it for a reaction.’

Tom frowns. ‘Really? That’s the scenario Doherty’s going with?’

‘You really think it could be from Henry?’

‘Absolutely. Why not?’ He rubs at his eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s emotional or just tired. ‘What did it say?’

‘That he’s okay and not to worry about him.’

‘Maybe he actually did it,’ Tom says.

‘Did what?’

‘Found his dad.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Henry doesn’t know where Wayne is.’

Tom rests back in his chair, his face now much smaller on my screen. ‘He asked me about Sydney because he knows I have an aunt there I stay with sometimes. He was particularly interested in knowing more about the Northern Beaches area.’

‘That’s where he thinks Wayne lives?’

‘When I questioned him on it,’ Tom says, ‘he explained he was trying to locate his dad.’

‘He never once asked me about it,’ I say, stung.

Tom shrugs. ‘I guess he was trying to keep it quiet. I can’t imagine Ivy would be happy if she found out.’

I don’t want to burst Tom’s bubble by explaining the doubts Sabeen and I have about the handwriting.

‘Chlo,’ Tom says, leaning forwards again. He breaks into a smile. ‘Don’t look so worried! A postcard from Manly is a good thing. We have to cross our fingers he reaches out again.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s late and you must be wrecked. I need to let you get home.’

‘Can we catch up for a coffee or something soon? I feel like I’ve barely seen you since we arrived.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say. ‘I’ll text you tomorrow.’

I slide my phone into my pocket, then head back outside into the night. It’s not until I’m halfway across the motel forecourt that something occurs to me. I never actually told Tom the postcard came from Manly.

* * *

I pace up and down in front of the reception window, my gaze bouncing back and forth between Henry’s note in my hand and the garden bed with the rock I returned a few hours ago. Things are getting sketchier by the minute around here. How is it possible I just caught Tom, of all people, being dishonest? It’s clear Sabeen’s already told him about the postcard, but why did he pretend not to know?

Shivering slightly, I pull my light jacket close and continue up the driveway until I reach the front lawn, then cut across to the side path that runs down between the motel and the field. I purposely left my curtains drawn and window unlocked so I could test Sabeen’s theory about Henry tossing his note into my bedroom.

I’ve just managed to shove my window open when I hear a noise behind me. Not close. At the far end of the field, somebody is coughing.

I stiffen, holding my breath. The coughing stops as quickly as it started. I scour the tree line like I did a few nights ago, and sure enough I can make out the shadowy form of a figure disappearing up the walking track towards the reservoir. There’s nothing vague about it this time.

Scrambling over the motel fence, I cut through the field and hit the dirt trail at a run. I refuse to leave this question unanswered; I’m sick of having only half the information. It doesn’t sit well with my need for resolution. Sabeen calls me a fixer. She thinks it started when my parents split up because I couldn’t repair my broken family, so now I try to fix everything else. ‘You don’t cope when things are beyond your control,’ she told me once. ‘When things go sideways, you have this obsessive need to put it all right again.’ I don’t deny it, but it started long before my parents’ marriage fell apart. Ever since I was little I’ve had trouble processing things and moving past them unless I could understand the reasons why they occurred. The one phrase I’ve heard probably more than any other in my life is, ‘Let it go, Chloe.’

But I refuse. Especially when it’s something as important as finding Henry.

When I reach the point on the track where I stopped the other night, I find myself hesitating again. This time it’s to listen. It’s a clear night with a whiff of chimney smoke in the air, no breeze hissing through the trees. I hear