expression on his face. ‘That fucken blog too.’
Best not mention that Stewart was a friend of mine.
‘Everyone keeps talking about her,’ he added impatiently. ‘Anna, I mean. I don’t give a shit about that other girl, unless she’s the one who…’ His voice trailed off. ‘The police reckon Jase did it. He can’t prove he didn’t. But he wouldn’t do that. He was nuts about her.’
I had once been held at gunpoint by a bloke who claimed to be nuts about me, so I wasn’t overly convinced by his argument. ‘He doesn’t have to prove he didn’t,’ was all I said, hoping to reassure him. ‘They have to prove that he did.’
‘Duh,’ Shay said. Charming kid. Really.
The street opened up into a burst of sunshine, seagulls and bright colours: the green of the grass strip, the blue of the water, and the yellow and orange of the giant Paddle Pop ads everywhere.
Shay headed for the sand on automatic. I slipped off my sandals and followed him, wriggling the sand between my toes.
‘So you didn’t actually know her,’ he said. ‘Anna.’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I spoke to her for about five minutes the day she … the day we drove by the vineyard. That’s all.’
‘This other girl, then,’ he said, eyes on the seagulls as they fought over the last chip crumbs in an abandoned paper bag. ‘The Vanilla chick. What’s she to you?’
‘Nothing,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t even know her real name. No one does.’ Well, obviously someone knew it. We had to find that someone. Sooner rather than later.
‘Huh.’
I waited for Shay to ask why the hell I had been sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted, or something along those lines, but instead he jabbed the toe of his sneaker in the sand, drawing an unrecognisable shape before he said: ‘I reckon it was the other bloke. Has to have been. Not Jase.’
‘Other bloke?’ I asked, trying not to sound eager.
‘Yeah. She was seeing someone else, last summer. Caught her sneaking in one night, and she admitted it. I felt like a real arsehole for not dobbing to Jase that she was messing him around, but she was going off to uni. I figured they’d split up anyway, when she left.’
Don’t ask me why people tell me things like this. I’ve got used to it over the years, running the café. Customers zero in on me, not Lara or Yui or Nin, and I get their life story, romantic dramas, disturbingly detailed medical information, and blow-by-blow accounts of their most embarrassing experiences.
I guess I have one of those sympathetic faces. And right now, Shay French really needed someone sympathetic.
I wanted to take the poor kid home and feed him. Instead I listened as the frustration sparked out of him.
‘Didn’t break up with him, though, did she? Swanned off to uni, and he kept sending her stupid fucken postcards and texting her, and every time I asked him about it he talked like they had this whole big future together.’
‘Why do you think he sent postcards?’ I asked, when Shay lapsed into an angry silence. Maybe it was a trivial point, but it was something that had bugged me all along. ‘Not exactly private, for love letters. Why not email, or texts?’ Bonus points for not using the word ‘sext’ to the underage boy.
Shay scoffed. ‘They weren’t love letters. How poncy would that be? I reckon he sent them to remind her of home. They were always Flynn postcards — like a few shots of the scenery were going to drag her back from uni and all her fucken dreams and stuff.’
Uni and all her fucken dreams and stuff. But Annabeth hadn’t wanted uni. Or at least, had gone to a lot of trouble to avoid it … so what had she been up to? What ‘dreams’ were so important that they were worth that kind of deception?
‘What do you think she was doing this year?’ I asked her brother.
Shay shrugged. ‘What the hell do I know? Off with that guy, I reckon.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Nah, she never told me his name.
Best not mention that Stewart was a friend of mine.
‘Everyone keeps talking about her,’ he added impatiently. ‘Anna, I mean. I don’t give a shit about that other girl, unless she’s the one who…’ His voice trailed off. ‘The police reckon Jase did it. He can’t prove he didn’t. But he wouldn’t do that. He was nuts about her.’
I had once been held at gunpoint by a bloke who claimed to be nuts about me, so I wasn’t overly convinced by his argument. ‘He doesn’t have to prove he didn’t,’ was all I said, hoping to reassure him. ‘They have to prove that he did.’
‘Duh,’ Shay said. Charming kid. Really.
The street opened up into a burst of sunshine, seagulls and bright colours: the green of the grass strip, the blue of the water, and the yellow and orange of the giant Paddle Pop ads everywhere.
Shay headed for the sand on automatic. I slipped off my sandals and followed him, wriggling the sand between my toes.
‘So you didn’t actually know her,’ he said. ‘Anna.’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I spoke to her for about five minutes the day she … the day we drove by the vineyard. That’s all.’
‘This other girl, then,’ he said, eyes on the seagulls as they fought over the last chip crumbs in an abandoned paper bag. ‘The Vanilla chick. What’s she to you?’
‘Nothing,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t even know her real name. No one does.’ Well, obviously someone knew it. We had to find that someone. Sooner rather than later.
‘Huh.’
I waited for Shay to ask why the hell I had been sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted, or something along those lines, but instead he jabbed the toe of his sneaker in the sand, drawing an unrecognisable shape before he said: ‘I reckon it was the other bloke. Has to have been. Not Jase.’
‘Other bloke?’ I asked, trying not to sound eager.
‘Yeah. She was seeing someone else, last summer. Caught her sneaking in one night, and she admitted it. I felt like a real arsehole for not dobbing to Jase that she was messing him around, but she was going off to uni. I figured they’d split up anyway, when she left.’
Don’t ask me why people tell me things like this. I’ve got used to it over the years, running the café. Customers zero in on me, not Lara or Yui or Nin, and I get their life story, romantic dramas, disturbingly detailed medical information, and blow-by-blow accounts of their most embarrassing experiences.
I guess I have one of those sympathetic faces. And right now, Shay French really needed someone sympathetic.
I wanted to take the poor kid home and feed him. Instead I listened as the frustration sparked out of him.
‘Didn’t break up with him, though, did she? Swanned off to uni, and he kept sending her stupid fucken postcards and texting her, and every time I asked him about it he talked like they had this whole big future together.’
‘Why do you think he sent postcards?’ I asked, when Shay lapsed into an angry silence. Maybe it was a trivial point, but it was something that had bugged me all along. ‘Not exactly private, for love letters. Why not email, or texts?’ Bonus points for not using the word ‘sext’ to the underage boy.
Shay scoffed. ‘They weren’t love letters. How poncy would that be? I reckon he sent them to remind her of home. They were always Flynn postcards — like a few shots of the scenery were going to drag her back from uni and all her fucken dreams and stuff.’
Uni and all her fucken dreams and stuff. But Annabeth hadn’t wanted uni. Or at least, had gone to a lot of trouble to avoid it … so what had she been up to? What ‘dreams’ were so important that they were worth that kind of deception?
‘What do you think she was doing this year?’ I asked her brother.
Shay shrugged. ‘What the hell do I know? Off with that guy, I reckon.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Nah, she never told me his name.
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