Chapter 43
Someone followed me,Meg thought, as she opened her eyes, soft morning light illuminating the lounge room. It was the only explanation. They knew where her mother lived. They knew where Pete lived. How else could they know those things? She never posted anything personal on social media. She wasn’t one of those morons who paraded her life online for anyone to see. Someone must have followed her. It was the only explanation that made sense.
She looked at Pete, who lay on a makeshift mattress on the floor, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep, dark hair just visible from beneath the quilt. After the brick incident, they’d agreed it was best for him to sleep in the lounge room. His DIY skills and building materials had come in handy to secure the house. He’d boarded up the window with plywood and put a lock on the outside of the bedroom door so they could lock it from the hall. It was a flimsy one he’d bought for the bathroom he was currently renovating—if someone wanted to get in, they probably could—but they told each other it would be fine. That the brick was just meant to scare them.
She got up and made coffee, hoping the sound of movement would wake Pete, but when she returned, a mug in each hand, he was still a stationary lump under the quilt.
‘Pete,’ she whispered. ‘I made coffee.’
He stirred, a lazy hand scratching his messy hair, then sat up. ‘D’you sleep okay?’
‘Yeah, all things considered. You?’
‘It’ll take more than a brick through the window and a lumpy bed to keep me awake.’ He yawned, scratching his bare chest. ‘I’m an Olympic-level sleeper.’
‘I noticed that.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘I’ve been thinking … someone must be following me.’
‘You think?’ he replied, reaching for the other mug.
‘Ear tunnels guy. He must have followed me from Hartwell when I drove to Rosedale the day before Christmas Eve.’
‘You reckon this guy is working for Ashworth Property?’
‘Yep, I think they want to drive me out of Hartwell.’ She thought of Dan James, the peace-loving yogi protester she’d found on Instagram. ‘One of the protesters who was arrested at the jail said he left town because he was sick of having his tyres slashed.’
Pete raised his eyebrows, took a sip of coffee. ‘But how would they know you’re here?’
‘That day before Christmas, I drove from Hartwell via Rosedale to my apartment. When I saw it was a cesspit, I came here. He must have tailed me the whole way.’
‘But how would he know you were here last night?’
Meg thought about that. It was two days since she’d received the phone call about Jenny and driven back to Sydney. He couldn’t have followed her all that time, could he? Issy Ashworth knew she was going back to Sydney. Meg had texted her to change the hotel booking. She might have told Hugh. Innocently perhaps. Or not.
‘Maybe it was a coincidence,’ she said, eventually. ‘The brick could have been for you.’
Pete rubbed his chin stubble, looking unsatisfied with the explanation. ‘Maybe.’
She finished her coffee. ‘I need to get going.’
‘Where to?’
‘Back to Hartwell. I want to speak to Georgie about our mate.’ Seeing Pete frown, she added, ‘I saw her talking to ear tunnels guy at the pub. Maybe she can shed some light on what’s going on.’
‘Where will you stay? I don’t like our chances of gettingThe Timesto cover it.’
‘I’ll message Issy and see if she’s still happy for me to stay at the Ashworth Park.’
As she drove towards Hartwell, Meg’s mind travelled through the events of the last few weeks. So much had changed since she’d first made this trip. What if her mother had never mentioned Hartwell? Meg might have lived her whole life oblivious that the answers to the questions about her family lay just ninety minutes down this three-lane motorway. Would that have been better or worse?
The brick had left her rattled. It was so explicit, so brazen, so clearly intended to intimidate. She’d always regarded her mother’s suspicious nature as slightly unhinged, but what if it wasn’t? What if Jenny’s fears were well founded? The memory of Christmas Day flashed in her mind, as it had so many times over the past few days, only this time it felt different. This time, Jenny was the victim. Meg’s gifts were hand grenades she had lobbed carelessly into her mother’s lap, unaware of the damage they could do.
Meg sighed. Had she been wrong to ambush her mum with the pen and the locket like that? Maybe. Actually, wherewasthe locket? She hadn’t seen it since she took it from the table on Christmas Day. What had she done with it? She’d been so shaken, so furious about the never-ending lies, that she couldn’t remember.
Dread settled in her stomach like a stone. Had she lost the only thing she had that was real?
She pulled onto the shoulder of the road and reached for her bag. She took out her laptop, then tipped the bag upside down, shaking it until her belongings covered the passenger seat, and clawed through the pile of crap. Her card wallet, old car-park tickets, keys, headphones, sunglasses, petrol receipts, Blistex, loose Tic Tacs that had spilled in her bag. Ah, there it was. Thank God. The chain was twisted into a tight knot, but at least it was—
She inhaled sharply, reaching for a black disc that sat among her belongings. She turned it over in her fingers. It was glossy black on one side, silver on the other. What the hell was it? She squinted to read some fine engraving on the silver side:iTrack. Was this … was this a tracking tile?
