Rachael's Gift by Alexandra Cameron

investigation. A third party, legal firm Bagshot & White, has been instructed to begin . . . We would like to invite Rachael and a support witness to attend an interview on Tuesday 23 October . . . This is not a criminal investigation . . .
    A second investigation regarding Rebecca Tomlinson’s missing painting has been ongoing. Nothing has been uncovered yet, but please inform us should any new information come to light . . .
     
    I dropped the letter on the bench and went to pop my head into Rach’s room to let her know brekkie was up. She had stripped off her wetsuit and swimmers and had wrapped a towel around her; one finger pulled suggestively at the corner and the other suspended her iPhone in the air as she grinned mischievously up at the camera. Jeez, was that the sort of photo she was putting up on that Insta thing?
    Suddenly Rach saw me and screamed, ‘Jesus, Wolfe! Are you right?’
    ‘Brekkie’s on,’ I said, before she chased me out and slammed the door.
    Bloody internet! That whole scene was just another opportunity for perverts. What happened to good old-fashioned letters and hanging around shopping malls? I’d never been one to go snooping around other people’s stuff. I’d been taught long ago to respect people’s privacy – the old man and his belt had made damn sure of that. But when it was your kid, there was a sense of ownership. When we’d given her the iPhone and the laptop we didn’t think it was necessary to put parental controls on them or ask for her passwords, but now I wasn’t so sure.
    I found Cam in the laundry.
    ‘Croissants and tea on the table.’
    She pulled sheets out of the washing machine.
    ‘Hey, you know Rach is putting raunchy pictures of herself on the internet?’
    Cam laughed. ‘You know, sometimes you can be a real prude. They’re just some of her art pictures. I’ve seen them.’ She unravelled a wet sheet and dropped it into the laundry basket at her feet. Sometimes you had to skirt around the issue.
    ‘I think she’s still running those messaging internet websites.’
    Cam stood up. ‘I told her to shut them down and she agreed.’
    ‘I’m sure you can tell her till you’re blue in the face . . .’
    Cam dumped the rest of the washing in the basket. ‘Okay, I’ll have another word to her,’ she said, as I hotfooted it out of the laundry.
    In the garage, the burn-off smell lingered, trapped inside. People had a real cheek, burning off in this heat. I took out the refill pads I’d bought for my sander. I was working on a new board. She was a shooter, short and super-fast – a tri-fin thruster that all the kids were going for these days. I turned the radio up loud, put on my goggles and face mask, set the sander on low and ran it along her sides, losing myself in her fibreglass curves. She was coming up a treat, but that feeling, that little beauty that came with a job well done, just wasn’t coming. In the past, I’d let Camille handle most things, but this time, I just couldn’t take a back seat. I felt a buzzing in my shorts; I switched the sander off. It was Anne Fellows.
    ‘Anne?’ I yelled over the radio.
    ‘I’ve got you in for Tuesday morning at nine a.m.’
    Just before the interview at the school. That could work. ‘Okay. We’ll see you at the station then.’ I chucked my phone on the bench, looked up and saw Rachael standing at the garage door. I didn’t recognise this animal. Hands on hips, breastbone stuck out, cheeks sucked in.
    ‘You promised,’ she spat.
    ‘Rach . . .’
    ‘I won’t do it, Wolfe – you can’t make me.’ She stormed out of the garage.
    I went after her.
    Camille was now hanging the sheets in the garden. That’s it, I thought, run to your mother, but she can’t protect you all the time.
    ‘Dad’s gonna make me go to the cops.’
    The sheets parted in the wind, and through the gap Camille’s gaze rose to meet mine. ‘Anne’s going to help us – she’s a child psychologist for the cops. It’s not