Hand shaking, she reached for her phone to google it. An Amazon page came up:iTrack GPS tracking device for vehicles, kids, dogs, motorcycles. 4G real-time. Smallest and lightest. Unlimited distance worldwide.
Her heart hammered in her chest. They weren’tfollowingher, they weretrackingher, and she’d led them right to her mother. She thought of the break-in at the Red Lion the night of the gala at the Ashworth Park Hotel. The open door. The breeze billowing in through the window. Was that when this stalking device had been planted in her bag? Or had someone casually dropped it into her bag as it hung over the back of her chair at the pub?
She didn’t know, but she felt sick. She needed to get rid of it. She wound down the window, intending to throw it out, but stopped herself just in time. If she threw it away, they’d know that she knew. What would they do then?
Slowly, she put the tracker back in her bag.
Once she’d checked in at the Ashworth Park, Meg pulled out her laptop. Her thoughts had been spiralling ever since she’d found the tracker. Whowerethese people? If they would use a tracking tile to intimidate a journalist and threaten her sick mother, what else would they do? She thought about Georgie’s dad’s accident. Was it before or after Chrissy had started theSave HartwellFacebook group?
She googled theHighland Heraldand typedChris Baxterto search the archives. There were pages of results, but when she read the list she realised it was picking up any articles that mentioned a ‘Chris’ and the surname ‘Baxter’. There was no advanced search option, so she waded through the results to find the ones that referred to Chrissy.
There were more than she expected. She ignored one about a charity event at the Apple Tree, a story about the Hartwell Spring Festival that quoted Chrissy as a local business owner, and a couple of others that were more of the same, before she found one with the headline, FACEBOOKGROUPUNITESLOCALS OPPOSED TOHARTWELLGAOLDEVELOPMENT. Yes, that’s what she was looking for. She clicked and checked the date. Two years ago.
She messaged Georgie.When was your dad’s accident?
The reply came quickly:It was the week before my birthday, so it will be two years in March
Meg swallowed. That meant Chrissy had started the Facebook group before the accident and it was already galvanising local opposition by then.
She typedhow to see date Facebook group was createdinto Google and watched a YouTube tutorial, then followed the simple instructions on the Facebook app on her phone to access the group history. A ripple of adrenalin ran through her as she saw the date: six months before the accident in March.
Thinking of Dan James with his slashed tyres, and the other protester, injured in a motorcycle accident, she opened Instagram to send Dan another message.
Chapter 44
All afternoon, Issy’s thoughts went round and round in circles. Rereading her father’s email, outrage pulsated through her. How dare he! Replaying the conversation with her mother, contempt burned inside her. Patronising cow! But she kept coming back to Georgie’s father and her sheer disbelief that her family would leave a man in this town injured and out of work.
She was on her second bottle of chardonnay when she decided she needed a mental image of this man, Georgie’s father. He was listed on Facebook as Robbie—broad shouldered, leather-faced, a twinkle in his dark eyes that made him seem playful, the sort of father who would watch the footy with a beer and take pride in the quality of his dad jokes. Nothing like Malcolm.
That night, she dreamt about the accident. The slick road, the heart-thumping skid as the car spun out of control, slamming into a wall. In the dream, she wrenched at the limp figure slumped in the passenger seat, but instead of Stella, it was Robbie Baxter she saw, his eyes empty and cold.
She woke with a jolt, breathless, her silk pyjamas drenched in sweat.
Her head pounded as the room came into focus. Outside, currawongs made their strange guttural morning song. She went to the kitchen, ran the tap and drank out of her hand. The empty wine bottle sat by the sink. She flicked on the kettle, cursing herself for drinking so much.
Again, she thought of Robbie Baxter. It must be a mistake, surely. A simple oversight. Maybe if she brought it to her father’s attention, he would rectify it so the family had the financial support they needed and deserved. Although, on second thoughts, he would probably tell her to speak to Spencer about it. And if she raised it with Spencer directly, he’d just accuse her of terrible idealism, which everyone considered a fatal flaw in her character.
She took her cup of tea and sat on the lounge. Her laptop was open on the coffee table. She clicked on Robbie’s Facebook page again and noticed a photo she’d skimmed past last night, when she was looking for pictures of him. He stood with a dark-haired woman, sea cliffs in the distance. Was that …? She enlarged the photo as much as possible. It was! It was the woman from the café. The woman who had turned Issy away on her first day in Hartwell.
Issy pulled into a parking spot in front of the Apple Tree Café and cut the engine. Inside she could see Georgie’s mum taking chairs down off tables, setting up for the day. When she flipped the sign on the door from closed to open, Issy took a few deep breaths and stepped out of the car. Hopefully she would get further than the front door this time. A quick chat was all she would need to confirm her suspicion that Georgie had exaggerated the situation.
The bells jingled as she pushed open the door. Chrissy looked up, smiling warmly, but when she saw Issy, the smile disappeared.
‘I thought I’d been clear—’
‘Please,’ Issy said, raising her hands, open palmed. ‘I just want to talk.’
Chrissy pressed her lips together and gave Issy a sharp-eyed stare, then picked up a cloth and started wiping down the coffee machine.
‘Georgie told me about your husband.’
‘So?’
Issy cleared her throat. ‘She said … she said he’s not well. I just wanted to know if he’s … okay.’
‘No, he isn’t okay.’ Chrissy turned her back again and picked up a milk jug. A piercing sound filled the room as she frothed the milk.
‘Is there—’ Issy stopped.
