They stopped walking and sat on the kerb in the shade. For a few minutes, they sat listening to the cicadas chant, their lazy pace gathering momentum until it reached a deafening cacophony, then stopped abruptly. Silence crackled in the air momentarily before the slow chant began again.
‘What’s this stuff about Mum’s past got to do with you, anyway?’ Georgie asked.
‘I think Chrissy’s sister is my mum.’
‘So we would be …’
‘Cousins.’
Georgie frowned. ‘I didn’t know Mum’s sister had a baby before she died.’
‘If I’m right, she didn’t die.’
Georgie looked at Meg. ‘You think she just … left?’ A crease formed between her brows that made Meg think of Jenny.
‘Yeah.’
Georgie looked down at her purple toenails. ‘But why?’
‘That’s what I want to know. Your mum said there’s a box of her sister’s things somewhere in your garage.’
Georgie looked up. ‘She did?’
Meg nodded. ‘Apparently some guy came here to tell them she’d passed away and gave them a box of her stuff.’ A long silence. ‘Do you reckon you could help me find it?’
Georgie bit her lip, considering the request. ‘Nah, I don’t think I should. If Mum didn’t want to …’
‘I’d pay you, obviously, for your time and effort.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Meg saw Georgie’s eyes light up. ‘A hundred bucks?’
‘Two hundred,’ Georgie said.
‘Done.’
‘Come around on Saturday morning. Mum’ll be at the café.’
When Meg got back to her room, she called Pete.
‘Hunter!’ he said, over background noise. ‘Hang on a tick.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The pub.’
‘Are you evernotat the pub?’
‘I do my best work here.’
Meg scoffed. ‘I stumbled across something interesting today.’ She recapped her conversation with Georgie about the empty houses on Barton Drive. ‘Weird, don’t you think?’
‘I dunno, maybe.’
‘It’ll be easy enough to find out who’s bought them, won’t it?’
‘I’ll do a title search,’ he said. ‘It might turn up a name.’ A beat. ‘So have you made any progress on the story?’
‘Not really.’ She sighed, heavily. ‘Every lead ends up going nowhere. The Ashworths are probably buttering up the local councillors to get approvals, but that doesn’t sound like much of a story to me. The protesters have left town. No one seems very willing to talk. I think I’ll head home on Sunday, if nothing changes.’ If she was honest, the only thing keeping her in Hartwell was the promise of going through the Baxters’ garage.
‘Have you managed to talk to anyone at the jail?’
