Page 5

I sat down and pushed myself in, glancing at the food on the dining table and trying not to laugh. Neither of us could cook. Dad had always handled that. But we kept trying anyway. Even if we were always burning, undercooking, and over-seasoning everything—because we’d do anything to keep pieces of him alive in that house.

Whether it was attempting his recipes, watching his favourite shows, or following the same routines that made it feel like he might still walk in at any moment, we made every attempt to never erase his presence. We didn’t want him to be another faceless victim whose memory fades over time. So though the holidays were hard without him, keeping these practices brought us comfort, even if it was just fleeting.

Dinner was predictably terrible. We laughed as we ate, because the mashed potatoes were cold and lumpy, the meatloaf was burnt, and even the vegetables were barely edible. But when he brought the Woolworths ice cream cake out, I forgave him for the stomach ache I'd undoubtedly have later on.

“Happy birthday, dear Evelyn,” he sang, dragging out my name with a grin. “Happy birthday to you!” I leaned forward and blew out the candles as he cheered, “Hip-hip-hooray!” Only after the smoke curled into the air did I realise I hadn’t made a wish. I always made a wish. Maybe missing one wouldn’t matter. He leaned across the table and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Eighteen,” he said, shaking his head. “God. I remember when I was that age.”

“You’re nineteen,” I deadpanned, licking melted cream from my thumb before I cut into the cake, careful not to hit the bottom, before I slid the bigger slice onto his plate. He noticed immediately, grinning as he dug in.

“Remember when Dad gave me the Ford? Jackson was so jealous.” His words came out half-garbled through a mouthful of cake, but I smiled anyway at the mention of my boyfriend's name. “Speaking of…I still can’t believe Jax pulled his head out of his arse last night,” he said, and my stomach took a plunge.

”What does that mean?” I murmured as I sunk my fork into the chocolate part of the ice cream.

”Anyone with a pair of eyes could see he was in love with you Eves, he just needed a little push from yours truly,” he confessed, gesturing towards himself.

“Yours truly?" I asked, the fork hovering in front of my mouth as I gaped at him.

“Who do you think went with him to pick out the necklace?” He grinned, his eyes lighting up. “Besides—” he shrugged “—if anything it was more for my benefit. If I had to keep watching you two dance around each other any longer, I think I would've lost it.”

“Evie! You're going to be late!”

I huffed as I stood in front of the mirror, a coat hanger hooked under my chin, tilting my head as the yellow dress draped over me. Then I switched it out for a pale pink one, the cotton creased from months buried at the back of my wardrobe. It pooled softly over my frame, catching the light from the bedside lamp. I squinted, studying my appearance, imagining how I might’ve looked in his eyes. My lips twisted as I weighed the options. This was exactly the kind of moment I wished I had girlfriends for—someone to laugh, to advise, to just…tell me what looked right.

Making friends never came easily to me. Keeping them was even harder. Growing up, there was Ashleigh. We never saw each other outside of school, but we always sat together at lunch, gabbing about boys and the latest Cyndi Lauper track. She was even one of the few who knew about my crush on Jackson. But then she moved to Melbourne a year ago, and before I could gather the nerve to find my place in another group, Dad died.

I held the yellow dress against me again and tossed the pink one aside. The hanger clattered somewhere behind me as I stepped into the dress, pulling it up over my legs. I adjusted the thin straps, smoothing my hands down the front, and turned sideways, trying to see myself the way he might.

Would he think I looked beautiful?

I drew in my stomach, held it, then let it fall with a quiet exhale. “Better than nothing,” I said under my breath to my reflection, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Evie!”

“I’m coming!”

Ten minutes later, we were only meters away from the arcade where Nicola, Peter’s girlfriend, was working her first shift. “Come On Eileen” hummed softly through the speakers, barely filling the silence between us before Peter broke it again, repeating himself for what had to be the fifteenth time.

“Stay close to Jackson tonight, okay? I mean it, Evelyn. No wandering off,” he said, glancing at me like I was seconds away from disappearing into the night.

“I heard you the first time,” I reassured him as I leaned across the console and turned the volume up, letting the music swell and swallow the rest of his grumblings about runaway teens and roadside abductions. “Come on, Eileen. Oh, I swear. At this moment, you mean everything.” I was so lost in the song, the baritone voice of the news reporter cutting through barely registered. Until it did.

“In breaking news, police have confirmed that the body of missing Swanford woman, Liana Curtis, has been found, three months after she was first reported missing. Authorities say the forty-seven-year-old was discovered just five kilometres from where she was taken. She is believed to be the sixth victim of The Skinner, following the discovery of Robert Rosen’s body—” Peter swore under his breath and snapped the radio off, our eyes connecting for a split second before he focused his back on the road.

My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms as Peter rolled down his window, letting the cool air rush in. “Breathe, Evie,” he said softly, reaching over and prying my fingers open.

I dragged in a sharp breath, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes, because I was there again. Back to that night. Back to the letter. I could still hear myself screaming, the sound trapped somewhere deep inside me.

No! He can’t take him, he can’t! Dad! Dad, where are you?!

I couldn't eat, I hardly slept, I was always crying. I lived in Dad’s jumpers the first few weeks. Having his scent wrapped around me reminded me that he was real. He was a real person, with emotions and purpose. But when someone you love is taken, it feels like…like maybe you made them up. Maybe they never even existed, because how are they just…here one day, and gone one night?

“He’ll take another tonight,” I whispered.

Tomorrow—it would be someone else tomorrow.

Someone else pacing their house, making frantic calls, checking all the usual places. Clinging to hope. And it would all be pointless. Because the letter would already be waiting for them, sitting in their mailbox like a certified death sentence.

“Hey,” Peter said gently, pulling into the parking lot. “Don’t think about that, okay? Just try to enjoy tonight.” I wiped at my cheeks, forcing myself upright, scanning the rows of cars, searching for Jackson’s Commodore.