Page 7 of Bay of Plenty

I raced for my bathroom and heaved. The dread rushingthrough my body forced everything up. Out it tumbled—all the drinks from last night and breakfast from this morning.

Funding drug trafficking.

My dad’s heart attack.

What the hell is happening?

Chapter Four

Ohope Beach, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand

“Here she is.What a treat,” Dad said weakly from his hospital bed.

Wrinkles were etched into his sunken cheeks, and his skin was ashen. We only met up once a year, but usually, his moon-shaped face was happily flushed. My heart wrenched to see him lying deep within a jittery web of tubes and beeping machines displaying inexplicable numbers.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when this happened.” Hugging him was out of the question because of the tubes, but I clutched at his hand.

What’s so bad that it’s kept me from my parents?How could I have left it so long?Seeing him shrunken, aged, and vulnerable unwound a painful guilt. A burning sensation crawled up my throat. Do something, make the calls, fix this. But I felt utterly helpless. I almost wished he’d been angry I wasn’t here for him. His joy at seeing me was worse somehow.

“He’s just happy you’re home.” Mum looked bleak in one of her beige frocks, her auburn hair scraped back.

A neat stack of paperwork lay on his dinner tray, and freshly ironed pajamas were draped over a chair in the corner,little artifacts of my parents’ roles in their marriage. Dad paid the bills—he must have insisted Mum bring them in for him to deal with—while Mum cooked and cleaned and dealt with his clothes. She even laid out a pressed outfit for him on the bed every morning.

“I missed you guys.” Swallowing hard, I took Mum’s hand too.

“Your old dad hasn’t gone yet.” His lips stretched into a heartbreakingly crooked smile. “This is just a wake-up call. No more of your mum’s shortbread, though.”

I heard a shuffle behind me. “Stuff that for a joke, mate. What’ll you have for morning smoko? Life’s not worth living—may as well cark it after all.”

My brain reeled at the voice.Oh God, no. Please—not him. I froze. If I didn’t turn around, he wouldn’t be real.

Oblivious, Mum and Dad burst out laughing, Dad with a wheeze, Mum with relief. “I’ll have to treat myself to your electric puha instead,” Dad joked, clearly referring to weed.

It was him. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. I spun around.

No wonder I hadn’t seen him when I walked in. He’d been standing almost behind the door. Waiting for me.

I tried to breathe.

There was no breath to find.

I tried to speak.

There were no words.

He smiled at me. A big, beautiful, skin-crawling smile. As a journalist, I’d dealt with men who were like Darth Vader—black holes who sucked all the life out of the room. But this man was the opposite. He filled every corner with his chilling blue eyes and teeth-baring grin. He shook his damp blond hair, frighteningly alive against the drab walls and the bitter smell of bleach. After sauntering across the room, heslid behind Mum, his orange board shorts faded by the sun, his tanned surfer arms rippling from his tank top. His feet squeaked on the shiny floor, calling my attention to them. Scrunching his toes, he clicked his jandal against his heel as though summoning me to speak.

“What are you doing here?” My words came out rough and barbed with history. “Outside, the sign says, ‘Family visitors only.’”

I was focused on Snow, but I heard Mum gasp.

“Snow”—Dad turned to me with a crease in his forehead—“isfamily.” Mum looked away, mortified.

Snow flashed me a triumphant grin. “I’m below Fred in the family hierarchy,” he said, referring to Mum and Dad’s dog. “But that’s still bloody high up.”

“Snow, you’re such a jolly dag. Don’t make me laugh again.” Dad chuckled. “I’ll pop out all my tubes.”

Mum’s face edged back to us with a cautious smile, like it was safe to join the conversation again.

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