Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,55

then drops to a crouch, only his head visible from my vantage point. It’s not long before he’s on his feet again, and the shovel is back in use.

Chloe, you need to leave.

I have no way of hiding here without him hearing me thrash through ferns and dead leaves. The trail is too narrow for me to hide behind one of the closer trees – Mason would spot me in a second. Doubling back along the trail, I walk quickly with light footsteps, glancing over my shoulder once or twice to check for the torchlight. I’ll never make it up to the carport without being seen on the open ground. As soon as the tin shed comes into view I head straight for it, ducking around the back and squatting close to the ground.

As I suspected, Mason isn’t far behind me. Footsteps scrape up the bush trail, and then nothing. No movement. I strain to listen, hearing only the pounding in my own ears. A few seconds of agonising silence stretch on. Staying low and holding my breath, I glance up at the corner of the shed, expecting to see Mason standing there watching me.

Squeeaakk. The shed door opens. I press my ear to the corrugated tin and hear a dull thump on the other side. The door squeaks shut and Mason’s footsteps retreat until I no longer hear them at all.

I don’t know how long I stay crouched behind the shed until I feel it’s safe to move. By the time I sneak back past the Weavers’ house, the night has well and truly set in. As I’m retrieving my bike, my phone vibrates with new messages, and I’m relieved I put it on silent. It has a signal again at least.

Pumping my legs briskly on the ride home, my mind is spinning along with the wheels, as though I’m trying to shake the bad thoughts chasing me down. I know Sabeen would say I’ve been listening to too many crime podcasts, but I can’t help circling back to the same three questions.

Why is Mason applying for a passport?

Why was the Weavers’ kitchen floor so clean the morning after the storm?

And … what the hell has Mason buried in his backyard?

Two weeks before the storm

He hadn’t meant to push Henry in. It all happened so fast. It was like the pressure in his head needed releasing, a means to vent the frustration.

The worst part was, it had started out as a completely different kind of day.

Raf and Sabeen had brought the Christmas leftovers for a Boxing Day picnic and laid it all out on the flat surface of Devil’s Rock. The picnic ground was busy with tourists, most of them staying at the nearby motel. There were shrieks of laughter as people took sneaky paddles in the reservoir, somebody’s iPod playing Christmas carols, a family cricket match in full swing. It was a good kind of racket; a cheerful buzz. Mason kicked off his shoes and leaned back on his elbows, the rock warm and firm beneath him, the soaring sky a contented shade of blue.

Tom mirrored his pose, leaning back beside him, his bare legs growing pink in the sun. The two of them had finished Year Twelve now and the pressure was off – no more teachers, no more exams and no more Darren bloody Foster. Apart from Mason’s work days, they had the rest of the summer to kick back and hang out together. This was the perfect start. Rina had gone to Wollongong with her mum for the day, so she wasn’t here insisting Mason put sunscreen on her every five minutes, and Henry was at the Lawsons’ place helping Uncle Bernie work on his caravan. Mason felt unencumbered. Relaxed. No one needed anything from him and he could just … be.

It was the first time in a long time he’d felt something approaching happy.

And then Chloe stood up to brush breadcrumbs off her lap, the warm breeze catching hold of her short floral dress. It rippled briefly in a way that exposed her upper thighs, and Mason realised Tom was watching her intently. His eyes travelled the length of Chloe’s legs before he averted his gaze, slightly embarrassed. Tom was watching Chloe, and Mason was watching Tom. And Mason realised he really, really didn’t want Tom looking at Chloe in that way.

Chloe was Raf ’s girl. Not officially. Raf was too hopeless to have made any kind of move even though he’d clearly had