Page 96 of The Vanishing Place
Effie felt nauseous, the cogs spinning frantically behind her eyes. “But,” she said, “I saw someone when I was out there. A man. I felt him watching me.”
“Felt or saw?” The question, and judgment, came from Morrow’s colleague.
Effie pushed two fingers into the knot between her brows. “Both.”
“And you have proof of that?”
“No. But—”
“I think,” said Morrow, “that with your history, you are perhaps ascribing more to this case than is actually there.”
“We have a traumatized child who was chained up in a hut,” said the young detective constable. “Alone. With only her captor for company, and a very damaged and active imagination. Then, miraculously, she escaped. Either because her uncle developed a sudden bout of conscience, or because she killed him.”
“I just think,” said Lewis, “that with the vastness of the terrain, it’s important to consider—”
“Look,” Morrow interrupted, “I get that this is hard, on both of you. And that there’s a lot of history here. But…” Her eyes shifted to Lewis. “You’re a sole officer in a small community, dealing with misdemeanors and talking down tourists. Unfortunately, we deal with child abuse cases all of the time. We know what to look for. And we know what we’re doing.”
Lewis sat back in his chair as if the strength had been sapped from him.
“I’m not meaning to sound like a jerk,” said Morrow. “It’s just the way it is.”
“And,” said Wilson, “either way, it should be reasonably straightforward from here. Anya is under ten, so regardless, she can’t be held criminally responsible. And suicide isn’t a crime. So no headaches there. You should be pleased.”
Morrow held her hands out, palms up. “Open and shut,” she said.
December 2005
Effie stared outthe classroom window at the tree Aiden used to swing from as the teacher explained how to make tinsel stars for the nativity. Effie was being made to play Mary, which was about as appealing as rubbing stinging nettles over her body.
“Whaea!” little Tom Taylor wailed. “Whaea! I’ve glued my fingers together.”
Effie groaned and sunk her head to the desk. Of the nine kids in the school, she was the oldest by two and a half years—and that was only because Tia was there. Tia was weird at school. Quiet and well-behaved.
“My fingers won’t open.” Tom Taylor’s wail became a sob. “They’re stuck.”
Effie pushed her forehead into the table and sighed. Maybe she could use the glue gun to stick one of the five-year-olds to the floor. That would be sure to get her sent home. June would go ballistic though.
Tom Taylor yelled as the kids giggled and Whaea tried to calm him. But Tia just sat there. Maybe it was a teacher’s pet thing.
During term time, Koraha was rubbish. Lewis was at someboarding school in Alexandra, like three hours away, and the days dragged. At least on the weekends there was the beach and June’s death-trap bike to escape on. But school—without Lewis, and with Tia’s weirdly good behavior—was dull as. In an attempt to fend off death-by-boredom, Effie pulled a novel from her bag and leaned over the pages of the book.
After a few pages, the crunch of car tires on gravel pulled Effie’s focus and she dragged her eyes to the window.
Outside, the ancient police guy Griffiths pulled up in his police ute. He beeped his horn and eight pairs of feet went scurrying over to the window, followed by eight pairs of grubby hands. Even Whaea walked over and gave him a wave.
Griffiths stepped out and Effie went to look away, her interest waning, when the door on the far side of the ute opened and she dropped her book. Effie stood up, her chair toppling to the floor, and sprinted from the classroom.
“Lewis!”
She ran at him, and he pulled her into a hug with one arm. It wasn’t until she drew back that she noticed the crutches.
“What happened?”
“Fractured ankle.” He gave a sly smile. “Reckon it won us the game though. Last-minute try. Got landed on pretty hard.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Got me a sexy cast too,” he said, wiggling it at her. “All ready for your autograph.”
