“We vacuum-seal it. Transport it by car to wholesalers, food markets, duty-free shops in Sydney and Surfers Paradise,” he confesses, before pausing. “In Melbourne, though, we sell direct to one source.”
“Down Under Diving.”
He arches a brow. “Yes. The owner has a network of buyers.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking it in. “Hannah was an abalone courier.”
“Not just abalone,” Heath admits. “With the sharks, we sell the jaws and fins. And the teeth. You can charge thousands for the jaws, especially.”
The jaws.
I sink in my chair. The jaws in Hannah’s room. What if no one sent them? What if Hannah simply kept them for herself? But then I think of the shining teeth left for Chris, left for me. And the video sent to Rachel.
“I spoke to Hannah’s mum,” I finally admit. “Hannah was friends with Donny Granger. The guy you don’t remember,” I add pointedly. “Was he a courier, too?”
“I never knew him,” Heath insists. “I never met Hannah, either. But I did ask Terry about it.”
“And?”
“Yeah,” he says shortly. “He admitted that Hannah worked for Luke’s dad…and Donny worked for ours.”
I lean back, relieved, piecing it together. “So Donny and Hannah were members of Down Under Diving in Melbourne. They met Dad there. Maybe they found out he was selling the abalone. And maybe they offered to courier.” I pause. “That’s why no one saw Donny here. He would have been in and out. And anyone who did see him here…”
Wouldn’t have told the police, because they knew what he was doing.
“Then why would Dad kill him?” I ask.
“I honestly don’t know,” Heath says. “I woulda been sixteen, seventeen at the time. I never knew Donny. I never knew Hannah, either. Yeah, I told Rachel off a few times, but that’s it.” He pauses. “I’m sorry she died.”
I bite the inside of my lip, dig into my pocket for my phone, pulling it out. “Heath. There’s a video of Hannah’s attack.”
“What?”
Wordlessly, I aim the screen at him. He frowns. “Do I wanna see this?”
“No, but you’re going to.”
I pressPlay,watch it with him. Looking from him to the screen, the screen to him. That feeling rises again:I’m missing something. There’s a clue in the video. I know it. But what?
I frown at the screen, taking in the gory details. Hannah raises an arm to fend off the shark. It takes her under.
“If Hannah was just a courier…” I say, “then why was she in the water?”
But Heath’s not listening, he’s staring at the screen, eyes glassy with that hollow look that comes from staring too long at something you wish you hadn’t. His mouth falls open, face pale as he inches back. “Bloody hell.”
I watch him carefully. I think of Trav eyeing the bloodied surfer.Of Luke chopping hunks of roo meat in the cabin, whistling as he did it. Of Terry punching my dad on our doorstep, watching his head rattle on the floor with a satisfied and righteous nod. Of the men in the shark shed, clutching stubbies and boiling with violence. All the blood boys in the woods.
I’m not that surprised Heath is hunting sharks or poaching abalone. Some would see it as an offense. He sees it as his birthright.
Isn’t that what he said about Jonah on the beach?
That’s my son’s legacy.
Our family has been fishing these waters for three generations, soon to be four. It’s ours, and if Heath bends and breaks the rules…are they truly broken? They were never our rules, anyway. It’s a lawless sea. For us.
I’m not sure if he’s right or wrong.
I watch him pale at the video, and I know he’s never seen it before.
