“It’s not illegal to change your name.”
“No,” he agrees, eyes flicking up to mine. “But it’s curious.”
I gesture to his car, changing the subject. “What happened to your hubcaps?”
“I’ll find them.”
“They lost?”
“Like I said,” he says sternly, “I’ll find them.”
“These people…You don’t know what they’re like.”
“Then tell me.”
“Checked your car lately?”
“I don’t give a shit about the hubcaps,” he says tightly.
“I meant the tooth.”
“The what?”
I freeze. “You didn’t see the shark tooth under your windshield wiper?”
His mouth parts slightly, and there’s a pause where his brain is clearly replaying what I said. “Excuse me?”
“Go see.”
He gets to his feet and heads outside. Through a gap in the blinds, I catch a glimpse of him standing over his car windshield. A moment later, he’s back, agitated. Before he shuts the door, he peers outside, scanning the car park. “That wasn’t there this morning.”
“They don’t like people asking questions in Kangaroo Bay.”
“Why not?”
Because we have so damn much to hide.
“If you’re going to stay here,” I tell him, “you need to find somewhere else to rent, quick smart.”
He looks at the navy carpet, frowns. “Yeah,” he says, “all right.”
“Listen,” I say, leaning forward, “I’m a local, and I can tell you why there’s so many sharks around the bay. There are higher rates of shark sightings and attacks in fishing towns. Same with Sorrento, Angelsea, Coogee Beach.” I list them off. “Coogee had two attacksin the last seven years. Why? ’Cause it’s a snapper town and the vibrations on the lines bring them in. The tourists still come down, and some of them are so stupid they jump in the water, thinking it won’t be them. Then it is.”
Silence.
“That’s your shark story,” I continue. “But I’ve got a better one. Two, actually.”
He pauses, reluctant to let it go, but I’m telling him the truth. He can continue being stonewalled and threatened by the Kangaroo Bay locals, or he can pivot and take down Joy Marriot…and uncover an almost-thirty-year secret that will make national news.
“I can help you. But first—” I hesitate. “—you need to do something for me.”
“Such as?”
“I need an income. Writing blogs, copyediting, whatever.”
He leans against the wall, considers. “That depends.”
My blood pumps so hard, I hear it throbbing in my ears. “On?”
