The final drawer. With the heavy waders half stuffed in, it’s a struggle to pull it open. I reach inside instead, shoving my hand under the waders, feeling for anything else in the drawer. But I find nothing.
I kneel down. It’s so dark that I reach for my phone and flick on the torchlight. I shine it at the base of the wardrobe. I peer inside the other two pairs of boots, even lifting them up and shaking them to see if anything falls loose. But nothing does.
I sit back on my heels, hands on my knees, frustrated. And that child part of my brain urges me to finish up and leave the monster’s lair.
Leave, leave, leave.
No.
I stare at the waders, thinking. I yank the drawer open, and the hinges yell in protest. I tug and tug until the drawer comes tumbling out. It falls at my feet, and I pull the waders onto my lap, inspecting them. I reach my hand inside the left pocket: nothing. I try the other pocket, and my fingers finally touch something. It’s palm-sized, the edges sharp. Heart thumping, I pull it out.
A diving club membership.
I shine my torch on it, staring at the small photo on the front. Black hair, dark eyes slightly narrowed. I pull the license closer to my face. Yes, that’s my father’s photo.
But that’s not his name.
Michael Hunt.
I read the name over and over. Michael Hunt. Down Under Diving, Doncaster, Victoria. Doncaster is two hours away. Fifteen kilometers east of Melbourne.
She’d made a bunch of new friends through her diving club…
Dazed, I place the license on my knee and google Down Under Diving. The homepage is a wide, vivid shot of open water, sunlight streaming down into deep blue. Photos are scattered across the site: wrecks draped in shadow, close-ups of masked faces grinning through mouthpieces.
I call Kat and she picks up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
I lick my lips, suddenly breathless. “Hi, Kat. This is Melanie Greenwood.” My voice is too high, strained. “I came to interview you the other day.”
Eagerly, she asks, “Have you got an update?”
I pause, picking up the license, rolling it in my fingers. “Do you remember the name of Hannah’s diving club?”
She pauses for a long time, and I add, “The one where she met her Water Mates.”
She clicks her tongue, and I hold my breath.
“It’s been twenty-plus years,” she finally murmurs. I can almost see her shaking her head. “I don’t remember the exact name. It was in Melbourne, though.”
“Doncaster?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll search her room. See if I can find something?”
“That would be great, thanks.” I stare at Dad’s license. “It wasn’t Down Under Diving Club, was it?”
Silence. I press my lips together.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “Maybe.” A chair squeaks and Kat groans. “I’m going to look now. Why do you need to know? Has there been an update?”
“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “Let me know if you find the name.”
She agrees, and I end the call, staring at my dad’s license and the fake name on it.
What were you up to, Dad?
What have you done?
Chapter 18
