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The house hadn’t stopped feeling wrong since Dad was taken last Tuesday. It was like all the furniture inside had been shifted slightly off-centre, and was waiting for me to put them back in their rightful position, but I had forgotten where everything was supposed to be. Evie sat on the lounge room floor with her back against the couch, arms wrapped around her knees as the TV played some shitty daytime soap. She hadn’t moved much in five days, but Jackson got her to smile yesterday, so that was something.
Five days.
That’s how long it had been since the police car left the street and never came back with any answers as to what we did now. I dragged a hand down my face and stood in the kitchen, pretending I knew what I was doing in a house that no longer felt like mine. I mean—the pot had boiled itself dry before I even noticed it. “Shit,” I muttered, turning it off. If Dad could see me now, he’d piss himself laughing and tell me to go sit down before I “poisoned the whole bloody family.” Except, I almost did yesterday.
Left the lamb on high in the oven after we all fell asleep on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring again. The smell of it burning jolted me awake. Evie hadn’t even reacted, and Jackson just quietly turned it off and opened every window like he was trying to air out more than just smoke. There was this constant feeling in my chest now, like I was bracing for something that had already happened. One second I was fine, trying to be rational and make sure our world kept turning. And the next, it was like something heavy dropped behind my ribs and stayed there.
Knock. Knock.
For a second I just stood there, staring at the door, imagining it was Dad was on the other side to tell us he had been playing a joke this whole time. Then I forced myself to move forward and unlock the latch before I pulled it open. “G’day, Pete,” Wayne said, his eyes flicking past me into the house. “Just came by to check on you lot. See if you’ve had anything to eat.”
I swallowed. “Yeah…we’re alright.”
He gave a small, knowing nod that said he didn’t believe me for a second. “Reckon you’re not,” he muttered. “Brought some stew over. Nothing fancy, but it’ll help.”
I hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in.”
He didn’t waste time. Just walked inside like he belonged there, boots heavy on the dusty floorboards. “Evie alright?” he asked as he moved toward the kitchen. I glanced back at her, seeing her still curled up on the couch.
“She’s…not really talking.”
Wayne nodded once, already opening cupboards. “Yeah. Fair enough.” I felt strange as I watched him move like he already knew where things lived. “She eaten?” he asked.
“…Not…really.” My brows furrowed as I watched him grab a bowl and walk into the lounge, crouching in front of Evie.
“Hey, darl,” he said gently. “Got you something to eat. Just a couple bites, yeah? That’s all. Don’t have to force it.” Slowly, like it cost her something, Evie reached for the spoon. “That’s it. Good girl.” I had to look away for a second, because something in my chest cracked in a way I didn’t have words for.
“You have to eat too, Peter.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not.”
“I can’t…” I started, then stopped short. Because I didn’t know what I couldn’t do. I just knew everything felt like it was happening slightly out of reach.
Wayne nodded toward the kitchen. “Eat. Then sit with her.” He stayed for a while after that, but didn’t say much. Just sat in the kitchen like he had nowhere else to be. And for the first time in five days, the house didn’t feel so empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
PETER
Present Day
December 21st, 1992
How can you capture a ghost, since ghosts don’t leave footprints?
No prior convictions.
No recorded arrests.
No outstanding warrants.
No history of domestic disturbances or complaints.
Sixty years old, and his record was spotless. I leaned back in my chair, eyes scanning the same file for the hundredth time, searching for something that didn’t fit. A week had passed since the thought first took hold in my mind.
Wayne Gatz was The Skinner.
