Page 82 of Bay of Plenty

While I waited for them to get back to me, I filled my water bottle, washed my scratched and bruised face in the bathroom, and searched the field again.

CeeCee, dressed in cutoffs and sneakers, was rifling through her silver tote, puzzled. She glanced over at the clubrooms. Had she seen me? I ducked. She started walking toward me. Oh, but this was the direction for the parking lot.She must have left something in her car.

A text from Kui. The group had come to a decision.

Kui:All the pilots have families, won’t want to risk their licenses. CeeCee is best choice as she has a license and maybe keys to Snow’s helicopter. But will she go to the cops?

CeeCee. We weren’t close friends, but we’d confided in each other. She was sensitive and kind. If she knew the truth about Snow—the heroin, Janey—she might help. I didn’t want to out Kingi or Snow for the sake of it. There was a reason she was allowing Snow to keep up the ruse that they were a couple. Or was she in love with Snow and in denial about Kingi? Kui was right. Asking her was a risk, but she was my only choice.

I raced to the parking lot to wait for her, crouching behind a truck. But instead of finding her car, she walked out to the road.

I hissed her name.

She caught sight of me and jogged over. With a startled face, she took in my battered face, legs, and arms.

“Can we talk?” I asked. “In your car?”

“It’s parked up the road. I wasn’t sure about space.” She collapsed next to me, her face fraught with worry. “Where have you been? We were scared sick about you. Is it true the police are after you? What on earth is going on?”

“I need you to fly me to Motu,” I said.

She searched my face. “Now?” She shook her head. “What’s so important I’d risk my pilot’s license? And—my life?”

I gave her the short version about Janey and the heroin, leaving out SW5 Research and the Tasmania connection. Because of time.

Her tiny face flared with confusion, then anger.

“You think Snow killed Janey?” Fury and pain flashedfrom her round blue eyes. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

She was so innocent and misguidedly in love with Snow; it was baffling.

“CeeCee,” I pleaded, gripping her arms. “Doesn’t it explain everything? You’re an accountant—didn’t you wonder how Snow earned so much money? Why the winery was so successful when it wasn’t before?”

She hunched her shoulders, turning her face away in denial. I wasn’t reaching her.

“CeeCee, you could be implicated,” I said. “Imagine. Prison, and you haven’t done anything. You have to save yourself.”

Her chest pumped up and down in short, frightened breaths. “Maybe… are you sure? I don’t know what to do.” Her blue eyes roamed, disoriented. “Usually Snow plans everything for us. He’s the one who makes the decisions.” She put her head in her hands. “God, look at me. I’m pathetic. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I’ve been to see Kingi. Snow flies to him regularly. It’s not my place to say more, but you don’t owe Snow any loyalty.”

Her eyes went flat—she already knows. “Yes.” Her mouth was a slash of pain. “Okay. I’ll fly you.” So it seemed like she did love Snow, and his relationship with Kingi hurt.

I texted Declan and asked him to distract Sarge and the five cops so they didn’t spot us leaving on foot. Through the windows of the clubrooms, I could see Declan pointing to some scrub, a sighting compelling enough for the police officers and Sarge to hurry over.

CeeCee and I jogged out the gates and along the country road to her green, electric Nissan Leaf. She motioned me tosling my backpack into the boot along with hers, and we were off.

The roads were empty. We raced for about ten miles, past a berry farm, a rope course, a marae. CeeCee stared ahead, her face showing every emotion.

“Everything makes sense,” she said as the airport appeared. She wiped at her eyes impatiently. “He never let me help at the winery. Never let me fly anywhere. God, Isla, I’ve been a bloody fool.”

“I don’t think so, CeeCee. It seems everyone has been fooled.” A dull heaviness hung in my chest. She sighed.

We pulled up to the airport, its playfulness all wrong today. Built in the seventies, it looked like a toddler had upended a bucket of blocks and balls and stuck a Rapunzel tower on top.

Once we were airborne in the helicopter, she was a different person, her small, sure hands pressing buttons and pulling levers with total confidence. She lifted us higher and higher, then forward at speed toward the sinister white plume thrusting from Motu. Alarm bells clanged in my head. God, was the plume getting thicker?

No. The island wasn’t going to blow yet. We still had time. I relaxed back into my seat, so close to confirming the truth.How will I get people to believe me?That was the disturbing thought rattling around in my head.How can I prove this? Could I get Sarge to talk? Thatcher Bell? I know I can’t use the recordings in a court of law… Would we be able to put all the pieces of the heroin ring together?

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