Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,52

come up with anything else plausible enough to gain entry. I’m banking on Ivy having no real idea which books are Henry’s and which aren’t. Most of them were gifted to him by me anyway, and the others were second-hand sci-fi and fantasy titles Tom put aside whenever they got donated to the shop.

To my surprise, Ivy holds the door open and jerks her head for me to come inside.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m—’

She walks away from me, into the kitchen.

Guess I’m on my own. Which suits me fine. I know which bedroom window is Henry’s from outside, so I orientate myself and head towards the first door on the left. I’m tempted to follow Ivy into the kitchen so I can confirm what Raf revealed last night about her missing Wedgwood plates, except she’ll question what I’m doing. Maybe I can ask for a glass of water on my way out.

Henry’s bedroom is not very large, with some built-in bookcases taking up most of one wall. It means the furniture is a slightly odd configuration, with the single bed jutting into the centre of the room. His bed has been made with straight edges, neat tucks and precision corners, and I struggle to picture Ivy or Mason being responsible. It seems so small and lonely, a forlorn piece of furniture wondering when its owner is coming home.

Something is poking out from underneath the pillow. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Ivy’s not close by, then reach over and pull it out. A white envelope, stamped and addressed to Henry. I flip it over to find the back blank. But I know who it’s from. It’s Henry’s birthday card from his father – he sends one every year. There’s something really heartbreaking about him mailing this year’s knowing Henry isn’t here to receive it.

This jolts me.

If Wayne Weaver posted his son a birthday card, then surely Henry can’t be in Sydney with him.

I hear Ivy moving around across the hall, so I slide the envelope back again and hurry over to Henry’s bookshelves. I pretend to scan the spines of the books, but instead my eyes dance over the wooden figurines and china animals, a small stack of school exercise books and a half-assembled New York City skyline made from Lego. It’s a special set we all put money in for at Christmas, under the guise of Secret Santa at the Nolans’ place. Henry and Mason told us once they’d never had any Lego as kids. It’s the first Lego set Henry’s ever owned.

Ivy appears in the doorway with her arms crossed. ‘Find it?’

‘Still looking.’

And I am looking, letting my eyes scour the walls, the shelves, the floor in search of anything that might support the idea that Henry ran away.

Or didn’t.

‘Maybe Henry took it with him,’ I suggest. ‘He had his backpack, right?’

Ivy leans against the doorframe. ‘A backpack, toothbrush and the clothes he was wearing. Maybe another T-shirt or two. Hard to tell. Doesn’t seem like anything else is missing.’

‘His green Lucky-7 cap,’ I add. ‘The one from his dad.’

Ivy scoffs. ‘Is that what he told you?’

‘He bought it with last year’s birthday money. From the card.’

‘What?’ Ivy says. ‘Wayne’s had nothing to do with Henry since the day he left.’

I frown. ‘You don’t know about the birthday cards? Henry gets one from his dad every year.’

Ivy stares at me like I’m delusional.

‘I just assumed you knew,’ I say quickly, ‘because you put this year’s under his pillow.’

Ivy strides past me to flick the pillow aside. She snatches the envelope off the bed, scrutinising it front and back.

‘No postmark,’ she says, holding it up to prove it.

I hadn’t noticed that. Before I have a chance to stop her, Ivy shoves her finger under the envelope’s back flap.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘You can’t—’

She tears it open and yanks the card out, letting the mangled envelope drop to the floor. When she flips open the card, an orange twenty-dollar note flutters out and lands on the bed. Ivy scans the card quickly, then thrusts it towards me. I fumble to grab hold of it as she reaches down and snatches up the twenty dollars. Beneath the card’s printed message are three words in black felt pen: Love from Dad.

‘Wayne didn’t write that,’ she says. ‘Looks more like Mason’s handwriting.’

She tucks the twenty dollars into her bra and walks out of the room. I follow close behind.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘How do you know?’

‘Wayne cut ties years ago,’ she says. ‘His new