Page 14 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“Oh, dammit.” I scrub at my nose, then look at him hopefully.

His brows draw together. “No, it’s higher up… Here.” He licks his finger, then touches it to the bridge of my nose and rubs it.

My eyes meet his as he does it, and his hand slows. He lowers it gradually, smiling a little.

“Don’t tell me there’s more chocolate on my face,” I joke, trying to ignore the way a tingle runs down my spine at the heat in his gaze.

“No. It’s just, in the sunshine, you look b-b-...” He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them, looking exasperated. “See you tomorrow.” He turns on his heel and heads off back to the museum.

I nibble my bottom lip, watching him shove his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he strides out. Was he going to say beautiful? I smile, but it gradually fades as he turns the corner and disappears without looking back.

He’s handsome, ambitious, and smart. He might find me a bit attractive—although I still can’t believe that—but he’d never like me enough to act on it after what happened before.

I walk slowly, reluctant to go home. I’ve never liked my apartment. It was the only one Ian and I could afford at the time, and it’s right in the middle of a large maze of floors and corridors. I let myself in the front doors, go up two floors in the elevator, exit and walk along a hallway to another elevator, go up another floor, double back on myself and turn right, and eventually end up at the apartment at the end of the corridor. The man in the flat opposite is obviously having a bad day because I can hear him yelling at his girlfriend, who’s crying. There’s also a strong smell of weed. I hope she’s okay. I should phone the landlord or the police, but I’m afraid they’ll tell him who called them, and then he might bang on my door or even be violent toward me if he sees me.

After slipping into the apartment as quietly as I can, I gently close the door, and lock and bolt it.

I can’t hear him quite as much in here. Upstairs, someone’s left the door to their balcony open and it’s banging in the wind, but at least the guy on my left isn’t playing music today.

Feeling despondent, I stand in the middle of the room and look around. Ian came around yesterday while I was out and collected all his things. I was angry to discover that among many other items, he’d taken a large, ornate mirror that my mum bought us, and several DVD sets that were my favorites, but I refuse to call him and argue with him about them. Whatever’s missing, I’ll just replace or do without.

The room is south facing and is on the dark side. He bought the sofa and chairs, and he must have brought a mate with him yesterday because he’s taken those, leaving me with just a beanbag and the coffee table, which I bought. The place looks sparse and rather sad, and yet I’m going to struggle to pay for it on my wage. It’s not that the museum pay is stingy, but I have student loans as well as a car loan and insurance, and now I’m paying for the whole apartment by myself, so there’s going to be too much month left at the end of the money.

Looks as if it’s noodles for dinner tonight, again.

I carry my coffee over to the bean bag, sink down into it, and pull my purse toward me. I open it and extract my phone, then spot the letter that was tucked beside it. I’d forgotten about it in all the excitement of going to lunch with Fraser.

I take it out and study the front. The stamp that indicates it’s from the Department of Corrections. The neat, elaborate handwriting that’s so incongruous considering who wrote it. The way he started to write my real name, then crossed it out and wrote ‘Hallie’.

Sliding a finger beneath the flap of the envelope, I open it and take out a folded piece of paper. It’s a handwritten letter,just a few lines long, written on headed notepaper with the prison logo in the corner. It also states the location: Rimutaka Prison. My heart skips a beat, then bangs double time. It’s in Upper Hutt. Oh my God, that’s only a thirty-minute drive. I thought he was in Dunedin, a whole island away. I read it with a shaking hand.

Dear Hallie,

Yesterday I saw an article on the opening of the National Museum last year, and I realized it was you in the photo. I’d like you to come and visit me. You need to call the number at the top and book a time. Dad. x

He signed it with a fucking kiss. Jesus.

Anger wells up inside me like stomach acid. Gritting my teeth, I pick up my phone, dial my sister’s number, and put it to my ear. She answers in half a dozen rings.

“Hello?”

“Dee, it’s me.”

“Hey you.” Deanna is two years older than me. Last year she married her childhood sweetheart, Keelan, in Fiji, and her voice carries her usual happy tone. They’re a strange couple; they have busy jobs, their own friends, and pretty much lead separate lives, but they seem content with that.

I feel a stab of guilt at bringing her down, but she’s the only one I can talk to about this.

“Are you busy?” I ask.

“Just planting some celery and spinach in the garden. I need a break though. I’m just going indoors.”

I hear the sliding doors open and close, and then water running as she washes her hands. “What’s up?”

“I’m really sorry about this…” I bite my lip, emotion sweeping over me.

Concern fills her voice. “Hey, what’s up, babe? Is everything all right?”

“Not really. I got a letter from Dad.”

---