Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee Page B

The signs on the fridge said Name Your Food and Complimentary Milk in Door is for Tea and Coffee Only. There was no sign outlining Jane’s policy on unofficial guests. He was relieved when he heard the guesthouse Land Cruiser wheels skidding across damp grass as Jane left to meet the bus coming from Launceston.

Chapter 4
    H igh sun filled the shack with a light so bright it hurt Sarah’s eyes as soon as she removed her sunglasses. She forced a casual greeting, hoping they would assume she had been out fishing.
    “Catch anything?” Her father didn’t look up from his muesli.
    “It’s too early to tell,” Erica said.
    Sarah ignored her and poured herself some tea.
    On the counter beside the Weet-Bix box the newspaper was open. The headline announced Murder in Paradise. Below it was a half-page color picture of Honeymoon Bay, obviously borrowed from the newspaper’s travel archive. It showed the teardrop-shaped cove on an aquamarine, breezeless, waveless day. But the Voice was such a rag; it wasn’t even the right beach. Honeymoon Bay was three or four beaches around the coast from where the body was found. The tiny photograph of Anja Traugott was unflattering; she wasn’t smiling, yet the Swiss woman still looked pretty. Sarah stared into the newsprint face. Her bowels contracted. She winced; the pain was worse than was warranted by the alcohol she had drunk. God, what was wrong with her?
    And there was his name. Hall Flynn, the journalist she wished she hadn’t met. It was late when she arrived at the Abalone Bake, and she had drunk several cans of beer quickly, watching as everyone clamored around Hall. How bored they must be with one another, she remembered thinking. But she was no different. A few drinks and an aversion to a ridiculously jolly walk home with Mum and Dad was all it took. Company was all she had desired, not sex with a middle-aged man she had only just met. He was probably married, for all she knew.
    At least she hadn’t spent another night lying in bed, staring into the darkness, regretting things that were impossible to change. She started reading the article.
    The language was dangerous. Hall Flynn used words such as “mutilated,” “autopsy,” and “massive manhunt.” Emotive phrases such as “frenzied attack” and “second woman to go missing” prompted Sarah to swear quietly. Hall Flynn had interviewed Jane Taylor.
    “We’re in shock. Who walks onto a beach, kills someone, and walks off?” Jane was quoted as saying.
    The next words Sarah read caused bile to rush up the back of her throat. She swallowed. A bag had been found near the rock pool. A striped canvas bag. The article did not specify the color, but Sarah knew it would have red and white stripes. She had seen the bag when she spoke to Anja in the guesthouse.
    “What does it say?” Erica leaned over Sarah’s shoulder.
    “You can have it when I’m finished.” Sarah put her hands over the page. It was a childish gesture, but she wanted to read the article alone.
    Chloe Crawford’s family had refused to comment. Sarah wondered how Hall had approached that conversation. Not an easy interview. The parents were from Zeehan, a mining ghost town on the west coast. They had remained in the decrepit fishing cottage that they were renting for three months, leaving only when their money ran out. Pamela said they had walked every beach, hiked around the back of the lagoon, visited all the old mineshafts searching for signs of their daughter. Twice a day the father drove the Old Road, where Chloe had cycled the morning of the day she disappeared. Together they stood on the beach where she might have died, gazing out to sea. They didn’t make any friends; Pamela thought they blamed the community for their daughter’s disappearance. She said after having met them she wouldn’t have blamed the daughter for running away. Bible bashers, she described them. They left without saying good-bye, without knowing what had happened to