I roll over, mouth pressedinto the seatbelt. I wake slowly, my lips tasting like plastic. Outside my back-seat window, the sun burns through, the seatbelt buckle iron-hot. The back of my neck drips with sweat as I snatch my phone up. I scan the screen, holding my breath. No missed calls from Chris. From anyone. My last two texts to him have gone unanswered.
On my way to Bethanga. We could meet up after?
Chris?
Nothing. I drove past his Airbnb this morning; his car was gone. I haven’t heard from him since I stumbled out of his bedroom.
I throw my phone onto the passenger seat, climb into the front, and start the engine, stewing. I pull out of the rest stop, swiping at the sweat on my cheeks. The steering wheel’s so hot, I have to hold it with the pads of my fingertips.
Bethanga is on the southern border of New South Wales, sandwiched between Melbourne and Sydney.
I’ve been there once, years ago, a last-minute road trip with housemates. I spent most of the weekend looking out the window as the Murray River snaked past, smiling at the short-necked turtles as they poked their heads up in the coffee-colored water.
On the left side of the Hume Highway are fields of canola flowers, butter yellow and burning. On the right, thirsty stretches of sunburned fields. The famous highway is 840 kilometers long, I’m one nap and three coffees in. Just over an hour to go.
I pass the exit for Glenrowan, deep in the dark heart of Kelly Country. Thousands of sheep chew absently in stationary groups, and the bony branches of skeleton trees claw at the hazy sky. In 1880, bushranger Ned Kelly was captured here in his homemade armor at the Glenrowan Inn after that infamous, bloody shootout with police. The Kelly Gang’s Last Stand. We call him a hero.
Of course we do.
Five months later they hung him in the Old Melbourne Jail. They took us on a school excursion to see his hangman’s noose. We were five.
I glance at my phone again in case Chris has messaged.
He hasn’t.
—
The double-brick home is perchedatop an elevated block. An expansive redwood deck runs the length of it, overlooking golden-green rolling hills. The house is barely visible from the valley road beneath, and it’s so quiet here, just the soft whoosh through the golden elm trees and the distant clucking of chickens.
But there’s something very wrong here. I can feel it.
I shut the driver’s door but can’t seem to untuck my fingers fromthe safety of the door handle. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, and text Colleen.
I’m here.
I hesitate, wanting to add,If something happens to me…
What’s going to happen to you, Minnow? You’re chatting to a bereaved mum. You’ll spend a probing hour with her, leave before 2p.m.You’ll be home at seven, propped up in bed, Jessie breathing softly beside you.
I’ll message you when I’m done. Should be an hour.
I wait for her to message back, glancing nervously at the silent house, mutteringCome on, Colleen,under my breath.
She texts back,Ok. Good luck.
My shoulders relax, but my eyes survey the porch, uneasy. I tuck my phone back in my pocket, lock the car door. I walk stiffly up the hill, feeling like I’m diving off a life raft and paddling into a stormy sea.
—
She presses a sweating glassof cordial into my palm and tells me to call her Deb. She didn’t ask me if I wanted the drink. Didn’t ask me to remind her what newspaper I work for. I called her on the way, gave vague answers to her vague questions.
Who do you work for?
I work forTridentmag. Before that, I worked for theMill.
When journos shoot their shot, I’m always surprised how few questions are asked. No one wants to look stupid. You tell them who you work for, and they just nod silently, wait for you to lead.
And I did.I’m not far from Bethanga. I’d love to talk to you about Rachel.
