Deb peers in, “Evil, isn’t it?”
Evil is what people do to each other. All this shark knew was that it was hungry, and she was there.
I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up from the screen, Deb inspects me from the doorway, tight-lipped and suspicious. Uncertain, she takes a small step forward as if she’s changed her mind about having me in her house. She repeats, louder, “What are you doing?”
I’m filming the video with my phone. For a moment, the room is entirely silent except for the tinny sound of the woman’s screams.
“Recording it.” I gesture to my phone, avoiding her eyes. “Just in case.”
We wait in strained silence as I record the entire twenty-seven-second video. I study the screen, blood rushing in my ears. When it’s done, I click my phone off. “Do you know who the woman in the video was?”
“No. I told you, I haven’t watched it. I can’t.”
“I do. I know who it is.”
Purple wet suit. Pale eyes.
I raise my head. “This is Hannah Striker.”
Chapter 23
This is what happens to rule breakers.
I know what everyone thinks,Hannah’s mum hisses,but her death wasn’t an accident.
Was Hannah an abalone poacher, too?
I hear myself saying, “Hannah Striker was taken by a great white in Kangaroo Bay in the late nineties…” I pause. “Something came for her, too. Shark jaws. Her mum always believed her death wasn’t an accident.”
“My God,” Deb mutters, pressing a hand to her throat, sinking hard onto the bed. “Are you sure it’s her?”
This is what happens to rule breakers.
“I think so.” I stare at the screen. “Did Rachel ever mention that the girl was Hannah?”
“No,” Deb says, frantic now. “If she’d known who it was, she wouldn’t have gone back to that damn town…” She trails off, stares at the sign on the door. “Tell me about that night. You said it was an accident.”
“Itwas,” I say, thrown. “I saw it…” I add guiltily, “She was alone in the water. We were the first on scene. It trulywasan accident.”
Blood burns in my ears. I reach dully for my phone: 2:21p.m.I need to text Colleen, need to head home. But I can’t get up.
“Have you shown this to police?”
“Only you.”
“You didn’t show Chris?”
“Who?”
“The other journo,” I mutter, looking up. “Chris Cooper. From theDaily.”
You know. The boy with the brick hair and milky skin. Freakishly clean. Snobbish. Smiles at my fish puns and pretends not to.
She shakes her head, dazed. “I haven’t heard from him.”
