“What do you know about Chris?”
He frowns. “The journalist? He called me after Rachel’s attack. Asked for a comment. I said no.” He shrugs. “That was it.”
“He went missing.”
“I heard.”
“And?”
“And nothing, Min,” he insists, voice final. “Wasn’t his car found up north, anyway? InViolet Town?” He stretches the words. “There’s some bad sorts up there.”
“And here.”
“We’re not bad people. These beaches belonged to our grandfathers, our dads…now they’reours,” he pauses, before adding, “Mine.”
Silence.
I wait, watching his face harden as he stares at the table. And I wonder if he, like me, can feel the echo of Dad’s violence—rumbling through the wood like a current. Is Heath remembering himself as a child, losing the daily war against Dad’s rage, and the battle to protect us from it?
“One day, they’ll be Jonah’s, just like they should be,” my brother continues softly. “God knows I fought for them.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him acknowledge the weight of everything he fought for—the hardship, and the cost.
God knows I fought for them.
I fall into silence, lost in thoughts. All those years with Dad, enduring his moods, his silences, hisabuse.Because that’s what it was. Abuse. Heath fought to keep the house after Mum and Dad were gone. Fought to keep food on the table. Fought to keep theDeep Sea.And he did. Heath was just a teenager competing against grown men when he took over the boat. He fought and fought and fought. For me, for him, for Jonah.
Do I blame him for what he’s done?
No, I realize. I really don’t. Maybemylegacy is letting Heath keep his.
Don’t I owe him that?
I sigh heavily, exhausted. Heath hesitates before reaching for my hand, squeezing it.
“Maybe this journodidfind out about this business down here,” he finally says. “But so what? You think we’re gonna kill him for it?”
“Yes.”
Wounded, he mutters, “I’m not a murderer, Min.”
“Someone is.”
“Dad was. Dad’s gone.”
“They’ll take your fishing license,” I finally say. “You’ll be banned throughout Australia. And the fines…” I look up. “What do you reckon the fines are for illegal shark hunting and abalone poaching? You’d lose it all,” I say, looking around the house. “All of it.”
“Who says they need to know?”
It runs in our blood, Minnow.
Maybe it’s time it runs out.
I know you. And I know you don’t mean that.
“How much do you earn?” he asks carefully. “As a journo?”
“Why?”
