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‘Might as well move in,’ I tell Keith Urban as I open the—

My head spins, my stomach heaves and I gag. Bottles of milk, two without caps, sit in the open fridge door. Inside the fridge, a cat, bagged, labelled and ready for cremation, rots on a shelf. Flies buzz around a red and white Corningware pot. Mouldy bread. Putrefied vegetables. The remains of a roast chicken crawling with maggots.

Shoving Keith Urban back into the hallway, I slam the door behind us.

Chapter 3

In the bathroom next to the waiting room, I throw water on my face and push back my hair. My skin is pale and my eyes are navy. I still feel nauseous, but I haven’t thrown up again. Dr Brown must be responsible for the mess. Why disconnect the fridge? Is this related to his illness, whatever that is, or the spirit bottles Cameron took away? This is merely a hiccup, I reassure myself. A bump in the road. I sit behind the counter in the waiting room and book a specialised cleaning company. Their hazmat-suited team can’t come until Wednesday, but the owner tells me I’m lucky there was a cancellation as they’re fully booked until Christmas.

‘Damn Christmas.’

Next, somewhere to sleep. The pub has rooms available, but it would be impossible to sneak Keith Urban up the stairs without someone noticing. The caravan park isn’t taking bookings because they’re upgrading their laundry facilities. The motel is further away, but it’ll be easier to hide Keith Urban there than in the pub, and it has vacancies.

‘I’d like to book for six nights, possibly seven.’ From the little I saw, Dr Brown’s living area and kitchen were sparsely furnished, but whatever furnishings are there can go to the tip. And, given what I’ve seen, the bed can go there too. I’ll explain to Dr Brown that I’ll box up any personal items he left behind, but I’m doing him a favour by getting rid of the rest. I’ll buy inexpensive furniture, a table and chair, a small sofa, a bed.

‘Did you hear me?’ the receptionist at the motel says briskly.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t.’

‘I asked if you were the only guest.’

Besides Keith Urban, yes. ‘I only need a single room, but if I could have somewhere away from the restaurant and road, that would be great.’

‘The rooms at the back of the motel are quieter, so I’ll give you one of those. Your name?’

‘Amelie Peterson.’

Silence. Muffled speech—the woman must have put her hand over the mouthpiece. The other voice sounds male. Then, ‘I’m afraid we have no room on those dates after all.’

‘You just said you did.’

‘As I’ve run this motel for over twenty years, I know when we have a room.’

‘I’ll pay in advance.’

‘Are your parents with you? Will they be staying too?’

‘No! And what—’

‘This is a small town, and people have very long memories.’

Did my parents owe her money? They must have. Nauseous all over again, I push aside thoughts of all the other people they must have been in debt to.Focus on what you can achieve, not what you can’t change.

I blink at the recollection. They were Claudine Fortier’s words. Claudine the librarian who, every Saturday morning when other children had school sport or socialised with friends or simply stayed at home with mums or dads who were nothing like mine, would usher me to my favourite spot in the library, the desk between J and K that fronted a window criss-crossed with vines. Like a princess, I’d perch on the chair and consider the books that Claudine had selected during the week. Some were fiction.The Silver Brumby. I Can Jump Puddles. Watership Down.Many were non-fiction.David Attenborough’s Galapagos. The Secret Lives of Dogs. All Creatures Great and Small.

‘That’s a lot of books, Miss Fortier.’

‘Now you’re in high school, you may call me Claudine.’ A gentle smile. ‘Only read the books that interest you.’

‘They all interest me.’

‘Then read them all.’

How many times did I repeat Claudine’s words? Walking to school and then walking home again. When my parents dragged me to the markets to sell eggs and vegetables and whatever other produce they had. Getting back on my horse after he’d thrown me off again. Hiding in the school toilets, a library book on my lap, at recess and lunchtime.

‘I don’t need this right now.’ Keith Urban must detect something in my voice because he’s leaning against my leg. ‘Let’s find an Airbnb where no one will know me.’

When the doorbell rings, I jump.