But, just like that, his relationship with Denni stopped. Eliza could never explain it; after all she had done, it seemed almost overnight Denni called it all off herself.
But it seemed as though no time at all passed before Eliza realised he held affection for another girl at school. Cierra Mason. She thought for a while that maybe that’s what had made Denni give up her relationship with Tom, but it seemed to be a new development; she would have noticed earlier otherwise. Just one look between Tom and Cierra told her everything she needed to know. She knew that glimmer in his eye all too well – she had been its object before, as had Denni.
If Eliza knew about Tom and Cierra, it was only a matter of time before Madison found out. And after all, she knew Tom wouldn’t settle for just one of the Mason twins. She couldn’t let that happen – Madison would tell the whole world. Wren couldn’t lose her father to the law – or worse. Eliza simply couldn’t allow it, not after she’d already lost one niece. She needed forgiveness, she needed something. She had been her Denni, the most valuable thing in her whole world – and she had killed herself, on Eliza’s watch.
Eliza had a plan to end Cierra and Tom’s relationship, but now Cierra was missing – if it came out now that Tom had been sleeping with her, he would be lynched in the street. And poor, sweet Wren would be . . .
Eliza had grown up without a father. She’d hated it, she still felt broken hearted whenever she thought of it. She wanted Wren to grow up healthy and happy. Not just with a father, but a father she could respect.
It had felt like she’d had to choose: Wren or Cierra.
It always came back to Eliza, somehow. Everything was always her responsibility. Or her fault.
No. That’s an old tool, she told herself. That’s your deadbeat mother talking. Nothing is your fault. It’s not your fault Tom takes whatever he wants. It’s not your fault he went after Cierra.
Eliza rubbed her forehead. She thought of her nieces. Both Wren and Denni. You have permission to be strong.
She walked into the shower, ripping off the bandages and dressings on her head.
I, Eliza Ellis, give you permission to be strong . . .
. . . even if this is all your fault.
Right?
Strangely, unbidden, the rhyme came into her head.
Up in the hills, he hides and kills.
Down in the caves, he hides and waits.
She gently tapped her forehead against the shower tiles, trying to force it out of her brain, but all she did was beat it staccato into her consciousness. A half-memory of footsteps . . . footsteps in the scrub . . .
I won’t walk alone by the mountain trees,
or the Hungry Man will come for me.
CHAPTER 10
MURPHY
Murphy dreamed he was falling down the side of a cliff.
The ground rushed towards him, rocks and jagged edges. Wind ripped through his clothes, pressing against his face, eucalypt and fresh, loud in his ears.
I can’t die! I have to find Jasmine!
And then he hit the ground. And woke. He found himself on the couch at home, beer cans scattered around him, and wind blowing through the open window.
It was late morning. The girls had been missing for twenty-four hours.
Half an hour later, Murphy sat at his dining-room table, a breakfast can of beer in his hand, eyes on the open window and the heavy rain beyond. Sweet weed smoke from Butch’s joint hung in the air.
Murphy’s chest ached. He wanted nothing more than to go join the search in the mountains, which had resumed at daybreak. But Dave had texted him to say the SES had sought a restraining order against Murphy’s participation.
I shouldn’t have broken that bloke’s finger . . .
Butch hadn’t stopped speaking since Murphy woke up: complaining about the SES, the school, the teachers, the police, the media, the search, how cold the night had been, how they weren’t doing enough, the search-and-rescue horses that had been spooked by the thunder and bucked their riders, the bloody helicopters that should just brave the bloody rain and get up into the bloody sky and start bloody helping, or else get their bloody drones to get some useful bloody pictures, where was the infrared, what the hell were they even doing?
Murphy put the beer can to his forehead and closed his eyes, trying to block Butch out. The live coverage was playing on the TV. He should be up there. Fuck the restraining order – he’d risk the jail time.
But Dave had also said that if he was a suspect, to be seen up there would cast even more suspicion on him. The restraining order made things so much more complicated. And if he ended up in custody, what help would he be to Jasmine?
Yeah, and what help am I right now?
He decided he’d give it until noon, then he was going to join the search, whether they wanted him there or not. They’d have to chain him to the ground to keep him from scouring that mountain range, all alone if he had to.
But he’d try to be sensible first. Try to be rational. That’s what Sara would do. Heaven knew it would’ve been better if she were here right now and Murphy was the one dead.
It wasn’t fair.
He tried not to think about the dense bush, how you could walk right past a body up there and not have a clue. That you could get lost without even leaving the path, walking in circles on tracks that all looked the same, until you stumbled off a cliff.
His lips trembled. He pushed them tight together. That stopped the tears from flowing. He wasn’t gonna cry any more. He was stronger than that.
The TV chattered in the background: ‘. . . to the district mayor, Meredith Phythian, who has lived in Limestone Creek her whole life. Miss Phythian, many people are convinced these disappearances can be attributed to the same person responsible for murders of 1985 – that the supposed “Hungry Man” is still alive and, now, active. Do you think the public has reason to fear?’
‘No. The worst thing we can do is panic. These girls need us to stick together and work to find them. The monster responsible for 1985 is dead. Limestone Creek has always banded together in times of hardship, be that bushfires or floods or the GFC, and this is no exception —’
There was a knock on the door.
Murphy fell out of the chair in his rush to open it.
A short woman with a lined face and a platinum blonde bob stood on the step. She wore an expensive black coat, pearl earrings, high-heeled shoes. She was out of place at the Murphys’ house. And she was crying.
Murphy frowned. ‘Nelly?’
‘Please, Murphy,’ said Nelly Mason, mother of Cierra and Madison. Her mascara was running. She held up a photo: it was a school photo of Cierra. ‘Please bring her back.’
Murphy stepped away from her. ‘What?’
‘Please, Murphy. Please.’ She followed him inside the house.
It took him a few moments to understand what she was asking. ‘Hang on – I didn’t take them!’
‘Liar,’ she shouted. She brandished the photo like a weapon. ‘I know you were in her room!’
‘Are you fucking serious, Nelly?’ Butch stepped in beside his brother.
‘Where are they?’
‘I wish I knew!’ Murphy backed away further as she tried to dodge around Butch. ‘Jasmine is missing too!’
‘Your own daughter! How could you?’