My gut clenches, and I slump onto the bed. Shewasn’ttrying to deceive me. She wasn’t trying to photograph me. She really didn’t have any clue who I was when I found her.
Jesus, I’m a fucking idiot.
I launch myself off the bed, shove my phone in my pocket, and bolt for the front door, letting out a curse as my phone bursts into life. It’s set on Do Not Disturb since the first journalist contacted me. The only calls allowed are from members of the brigade.
Shoving my phone to my ear, I yank the door open. “What?” I growl, looking outside. Please let me see Waverly out there walking down my driveway.
I don’t.Fuck.
“I know I told you we’d be okay without you, mate,” Tony says on the other end of the connection, “but that fire I mentioned when I called earlier has jumped containment and is threatening the old convict church. It’s all hands on deck, I’m afraid.”
My chest constricts. “Gibbo, your timing fucking sucks.”
He grunts. “Tell me about it later. Just get your arse to the station now.”
I get my arse to the station. There’s no sign of Waverly on the drive down.
Sitting in the back of the engine on route to the fire, I stare at my feet. I have no clue where she is staying in the Ridge. The backpacker’s hostel? The small ten-room motel? Or maybe she’s camping out in her car? As soon as I finish with the callout, I’ll contact Robert and remind the sergeant he owes me one. Maybe he can help me find her.
The callout to the bushfire takes the rest of the day. With the extreme heat of summer and the lack of rain, the terrain is a tinderbox waiting for one spark. It seems a tourist walking the track to the remains of the church built by convicts back in the 1700s didn’t think twice about tossing their spent cigarette. By the time the blaze is out—and the centuries-old church saved—the sun is heading for the horizon.
The crew is packing up, exhausted but buzzing with the adrenaline of a successful job. I cast a look at Tony. He’s adjusting something on the RPAS, the aerial drone he uses for situational awareness in inaccessible areas.
“You can’t fly over the village with that, can you?” I ask, removing my helmet and scratching at my hair. I’m dripping sweat. Normally, all I’d want to do after a callout is take a shower. Now, all I want to do is find Waverly. If she hasn’t already left.
Packing the drone into its case, he snorts. “Not unless the village is on fire. Why? You lost something?”
Someone.
My gut clenches, and I huff out a sigh.
He frowns. “What’s going on, mate?”
Letting out another sigh, I run my gaze over the mountain, settling on the jagged rise of Talisman Peak. “I fucked something up.”
“Then unfuck it,” he says, as if telling me water comes from a tap.
“I’m not sure I know how,” I confess. “Not without potentially becoming a stalker.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You having girl problems, Conroy?”
Replaying in my mind my reprehensible behaviour upon discovering Waverly’s Instagram following, I claw my hands through my damp hair. “I’m having Jake Conroy problems. I treated someone incredible very badly because I’m a fucking wanker, and now…” I trail off. It hurts too much to finish it.
“Now your fragile male ego doesn’t know what to do?”
I snort.
He claps me on the shoulder with a firm grip. I’ve seen him tear open a crumpled car door with that hand to rescue an accident victim trapped inside. “Mate, the only advice I can give you is to be you. Be the real you.” He fixes me with a level look. “You know who that is.”
Returning to packing up the equipment, he leaves me standing alone.
Chest feeling crushed, I pull out my phone and check out Waverly’s Instagram account again. I need to apologize to her. In person. Maybe I can figure out where she?—
Cold tension crawls over me.
Five minutes ago, she posted a story. A ten-second video of a magpie warbling on top of a bronze statue. I know that statue.It’s of one of the original Hartley Ridge convicts who escaped and became a bushranger that robbed only wealthy English governors.
It’s located in the small park in the center of the village.
