He stopped opening the door after the first week. The phone rang and he never answered. It was fantastic. He’d spent his life lurking in the shadows, and now he was exposed and couldn’t bear it. One night, he simply left. He hasn’t come back.
It’s a quieter town now, but the silence isn’t as heavy these days. It’s lighter. The shadows have shifted.
At the Geelong cemetery is Chris Cooper’s grave. There’s no body in it. I can’t bring myself to visit him there. I like to speak to him on the shore, instead.
Yesterday I sat on the sand, wordless and listening to the wind. I finally told him about the article I was writing, and as I was leaving, I swear I heard his voice in the echo of a seagull:Make sure to use the spellchecker.
He’s home.
And so is Donny Granger.
They found his body in the Wicked Woods, not far from Mum’s. Dad is considered the suspect in his death. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but of course they won’t find him. Dad drowned the night I took his knife. Only I know that.
Donny’s mother released a statement: “We are deeply saddened and relieved to finally know what happened to our son. We ask for privacy so we can finally and fully grieve his loss.”
Tomorrow I’m going to the shore again to speak to Chris. I’ll read out the first few lines of my article and hope he likes it:
I want to acknowledge the contributions ofDailyjournalist Chris Cooper, who went above and beyond for this story in the relentless pursuit of truth. His legacy will forever be defined by the difference he made in exposing the truth and bringing about real change.
Chris Cooper was a fine journalist and friend.
I angle the phone screen to the trophy, then pan it around the room like a victory lap. I hope my mum sees this. I hope she’s peeking down from the windows of heaven, watching. And I hope my father, wherever he is, can read the three words atop the headline that I can’t stop staring at.
By Minnow Greenwood
I place my phone on the floor and take a slow, deliberate breath. My muscles loosen, and for the first time in what feels like forever, my mind stops sprinting. The light from the window stretches across the floor in soft shifting patterns, almost like the surface of the ocean from beneath.
I see myself as a child, diving into the water like a dolphin while Mum watches me from the shore, smiling. Heath’s knee-deep in the water, calling out, “I got a fish! I got a fish!”
I surface, salt water dripping from my chin as he reels it onto the sun-warmed sand. Its scales flicker in the sunlight. Kingfisher blue,sunset pink, poppy red. You’d swear it contains all the colors in the entire world.
Heath crouches beside Mum, offering the fish to her like it’s his whole heart.
Dad stands hatefully at the water’s edge, salt water gushing from his ears and mouth. When he calls my name, the ocean roars.
I hesitate.
Then I swim toward my mum and Heath. Dad slips away like a falling star, burning as he leaves until not even a smear of him is left. I reach the shore and Mum pulls Heath and me into her arms. A cormorant glides above us, and its wings seem to stretch across the whole sky.
I stare at the news article again, smiling.
By Minnow Greenwood
My story. Finally. All of it.
Except for one thing.
I lean back on my elbows in my new bedroom, feeling like I’ve crossed a finish line nobody else can see.
Mum’s silver fish pendant glints softly in the light, the delicate chain wrapped tight around my wrist. I like to feel it there at the base of my wrist. But what I like most is that each time my hand moves, the fish pendant responds with a subtle flicker. A flash of light that feels intentional. Like my mother’s right here with me. Always will be.
My heartbeat slows down as I reach for the knife. The kangaroo bone handle, the sharp black blade.
I can never think of my father without a knife in his hand.
No, not anymore.
Now when I think of my father, he’s drowning. Drowning in that dark ocean at night, all alone without a soul to help him as the water pulls and pulls, dragging him toward its hungry mouth. Roaring.
