Page 169 of Sugarloaf Ridge Lies

He chuckles. “Maybe. She still blames me for her aversion to tequila.”

A wide grin splits my face as I piece it together. The Contiki tour Aunt Jean took to Bali a few years before Jay was born. There was a guy on the tour. She never said his name, mentioning him a few times when I was in my teenage years, but he was the one that got away.

She also swore she would never drink tequila again after that trip. She never went into the details as to why.

“You never know. It’s been a long time in between drinks.”

“You’re right,” he says. “It has.”

***

The rest of the afternoongoes by as if I’m teaching on autopilot. When I leave for the day, I drive to the small cottage-come-police-station.

Floorboards squeak underfoot as I walk inside. Dust hangs in the air as the afternoon sun beams in behind me. A sign above has an arrow pointing to the left into what appears to be a waiting room. A man in a pale blue uniform is seated on a faded couch reading a newspaper. An overweight corgi is passed out on the cushion beside him.

I wrap my knuckles against the timber frame of the doorway. “Hello?”

The man lays the paper flat on the coffee table in front of him. He smooths his fine hair over his bald spot and smiles. The dog doesn’t move a muscle in response to my arrival. “G’day. What can I do you for, sweetheart?”

I unzip my handbag and retrieve printed copies of the images from Aunt Jean’s yearbook.

“Hi. I need to talk to you about missing persons.”

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