Page 25 of Bay of Plenty

“No, no, I’m fine.” I climbed under the sheet before I whipped off my sweatshirt. I didn’t want him to start wondering if I fancied him.Cringe.

To avoid his attention, I pulled a sheet up and immersed myself in research. I noted a surprising fact. One of the possible suppliers could be Tasmania, a tiny island at the bottom of Australia, four hours flight away, the largest grower of poppies in the world for producing pharmaceutical heroin for the medical industry. Once I was properly composed, I grabbed pen and paper from my top drawer and opened my phone calculator. “Declan, could you send me the prices for heroin? Also, how many bottles are in a shipping container, and how many containers does Snow reserve?” He emailedme the figures, and I did some calculations. “And what would a middle person like Snow earn?”

“Around ten percent,” he answered.

I scribbled out some more calculations. “He could be raking in five million US dollars per shipment. What the hell?”

I sat up abruptly. His eyes went wide, and he swiftly turned away. I looked down. My top was shockingly thin.Oh shit. I ducked under the covers again. But no, I wasn’t going to wear a bra to bed—that was stupid.

“It’s unlikely the container would be filled to the brim with product.” Declan bit the inside of his cheek.

“Still, he’s making millions, maybe tens of millions.” I patted my sheet, frustrated.

“But he’s also risking a lifetime in prison. These are the actions of a desperate man. Why does he need all this money?”

“Is someone blackmailing him for some reason?”

“That’s a possibility.” Declan yawned. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

He flicked out his reading light. With a series of small sounds in the back of his throat, he turned, stretched, and settled.

His body sent dips and rolls along the mattress and sheets to my body, like a Morse code reminder of his muscled arms and legs and torso. My own limbs went rigid with awkwardness and tension. I was wide awake.

Screech.I sat up.Screech.Oh, the kiwi birds in the back bush. We were safe. I thought about the millions that Snow was making. Howcouldwe be safe?

*

I woke to a piercing cry in the darkness—a kiwi? Fred started barking furiously. Another terrified cry, even louder this time. It was Mum: “Isla!”

“Quick,” Declan said. Grabbing his phone and my hand, he ran us through the house to her room.

Mum was sitting bolt upright, firmly on her side of the bed, like it was bad luck to take up Dad’s space. I scooped up Fred and petted him, but he squirmed and whimpered.

“I heard someone out there.” She gripped her sheet, her eyes glistening, her voice faltering.

Declan raced out to the front. I patted her shoulder. “Be back in a second, Mum.” I ran outside to join him, checking both ways down the road. A car sped off.

Declan took off first, and I sprinted after him until the taillights disappeared.

We jogged home. None of the neighbors had lights on.

“Should I knock on neighbors’ doors?” I asked. The beach was empty and silent, only the moon and a few streetlamps lighting our way.

Declan checked his phone. “Better not. It’s two a.m.”

“We’ll call on them first thing in the morning. Our editor always taught us it was vital to get to a witness first. Because whoever they told their story to first could change that story, consciously or not.”

“Interesting.” Declan nodded. “Our boss always reminds us of that. We’ve seen it time and again.”

We found Mum still sitting in bed, distressed about being left alone. I sat next to her, and Declan perched on the end of the bed. Between heaving breaths, I asked, “What did it sound like?”

“Not a cat, or a dog, or a possum.” She closed her eyes. “It was a real clunk and a shove. Like they were trying mybedroom window. Then they tried the sliding door in the living room. We never have any trouble.” Her voice quaked. “Even living close to the beach.”

I looked over her bent head at Declan. Was someone onto us already? A flicker of fear crossed his face.

Mum covered her face with her trembling hands. “Your dad in hospital; I can’t cope. I feel like I’m tipping over the edge. We talked about everything during the day—the annoying vacuum cleaner, what to have for lunch. Every move he makes in hospital, I worry about his heart. Every call I get during the day—is it the hospital with bad news?” She tugged her sheet up to her chin.

The small gesture unsettled me to the bottom of my gut. I covered her hands with mine.

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