Page 43 of The Vanishing Place
Six weeks.
“With you?”
“With me. At June’s house.”
Warmth flushed through Effie’s face. “And I’ll see Lewis?”
Dad laughed. “Yes. You’ll see Lewis.”
Effie adjusted the gun on her back and marched on.
Six whole weeks.
By the time she made it to bed, her head was spinning with thoughts of town and ice cream and Lewis, leaving no space for anything else.
2025
Effie sped intoLewis’s driveway and jumped from the ute without bothering to take the keys from the ignition. She pounded on the door, picturing Anya hurt somewhere, bleeding and crying, and she started to shake.
“Jesus, Effie.”
The door opened and Lewis stood there, bare-chested, in a pair of tartan pajama pants. “It’s not even six.”
Then he paused, seeing her. Not the police officer. Not the stubborn woman he’d argued with the evening before. Just the little bush girl shaking on his front step.
“Jesus,” he said again, softer.
Then he opened his arms and she walked into them, pressing her head against his bare chest. For a moment, she considered never moving again, but it was Lewis who pulled away, Lewis who belonged to someone else now.
“What happened?”
Effie took a step back, righting herself. “She’s gone. I’ve driven twice around the village, but she’s gone.”
“When did—”
“Half an hour ago. I went into her room to check on her but she wasn’t there.”
Lewis stepped aside. “Come in.”
“No.” Effie shook her head. “We need to go now. We need to find her.”
Lewis reached out, his fingers brushing her shoulder. “Let me send a WhatsApp message to the village, get the locals looking, then I’ll chuck on some proper clothes. Five minutes and we’ll be back out there. I promise.”
Effie stepped past him into the house. She could still smell him on her, the warm earthy scent of his skin. “There’s a WhatsApp group for the entire village?”
“You know, for barbecues and village gripes mainly. The usual stuff.” Lewis shrugged. “Lecturing freedom campers on how to use a toilet and getting Instagrammers to piss off.”
A soft laugh escaped her and Lewis squeezed her hand—the gesture too fleeting—then he reached for his phone.
—
In less than ten minutes, they were side by side in Lewis’s police vehicle. Half the village was already out. Early risers, Lewis said, overly enthusiastic.
They drove the narrow Haast-Jackson Bay Road first, thinking Anya would have headed away from the town and off the main highway. For twelve kilometers, the view barely changed. Bush and shrubs lined the road, obscuring the Tasman Sea to their right, and thin transmission towers rose up every hundred meters. Effie wound down the window and breathed in the salt air, letting the West Coast breeze wash over her. Eventually, she turned back to Lewis.
“She’s not here,” she said quietly.
“We’ll turn around at Okuru River.” Lewis nodded at the endless ribbon of tarmac. “It’s just up ahead.”
