She hands over a white envelope. It isn’t in the best condition, but it’s still sealed. Lopez claps me on the shoulder and then leaves the tent, giving me a moment to process.
But I don’t want a moment to process. I want to do my job. It’s all I’ve got left in this world, and I know I’ll go insane without it. Needing to think of anything else, I tear open the envelope, allowing two folded pieces of paper to fall out. One is neat and crisply white. The only is a little torn and yellowed.
Odd. I open the white letter first.
Dear Ms. Martinez,
It is with great sorrow that I write to inform you of the passing of Lucas Martinez on the 6th of August, 2019 in Mundaring, Western Australia.
In accordance with his will, you have been bequeathed his property and all entitlements. On receipt of your acceptance, ownership will be transferred.
If you have any questions, please contact…
The letter falls from my numb hands. Well. This was just the icing on the cake.
It has been a long time since I saw my father. We’ve been estranged since I was a young, and I didn’t spend much time thinking of him. But finding out about his sudden death suddenly makes it hard to breath. I try to remember the last conversation I had with him, but I honestly can’t. At most, we sent each other friendly cards on our birthdays, the kind you might send to a distant acquaintance because you were forced to, but that was it.
And now he’s gone.
I sit heavily on the chair in front of Lopez’s desk. And then, remembering that there was another letter, I slowly open it. It’s written in my father’s hand.
Luciana
There is much I wish to tell you and very little time to do it in. I have left you everything in my possession, and I hope it serves you well.
Find my journal. It will tell you all you need to know.
Remember the story of the girl who drank the poisoned iced tea.
Dad
I stare at this incredulously. I haven’t spoken to him in years, and this is what he leaves me? A property in Australia, a cryptic note and a riddle?
I’m half tempted to rip it up and chuck the whole thing in the bin.
But…
The timing couldn’t be better, I have to admit. I need somewhere to go, and I don’t want to return to Brazil right now. I need to get away from everything; from my home, from my job, from memories of David. Maybe taking a look at this property and focusing on that would be a welcome distraction.
I look down at the letter again. Mundaring, huh? I remember when my father moved out there and forwarded his address to me. But I’ve never seen the place. I know he has a few acres and a farm. At the very least, preparing his property for sale will give me something to do.
I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly.
Looks like I’m off to Australia.
It takes several days for me to organize travel. My superiors extract me from Burkina Faso as quickly as possible, and I rattle around my empty home, packing and booking tickets, and speaking to the solicitors of my father’s will.
Yet it feels like no time at all before my car pulls up at a small gate. Further ahead on the property, I can see a large, darkened house. So this is my inheritance.
“Thanks,” I say, paying the cab driver.
“No problem,” the man says with a grin. “Look after yourself out here.”
Slightly bemused, I help him unload my things and watch him leave. Then I look around.
It’s not much, I have to admit, but I knew it was a small town. There’s currently only around three thousand people here, and most of the area is surrounded by bush and creek. I just hadn’t been prepared for how quiet it was at six in the evening. It’s certainly different from Manaus, where David and I lived together.
I load up with all my bags, staggering under the weight but unwilling to make two trips considering how long the driveway is, and make my way. Over the road, I can see lights on at the house, and I wonder who my neighbors are.
Not that it should matter, I remind myself. I won’t be here long enough to care, if I can help it.
The house is impressively large, especially considering my father lived here alone. But that isn’t my focus. I’ve spent the entire journey trying to puzzle out my father’s riddle, and a memory had finally hit me as I was on the plane.
I remember sitting beside my father, leaning on his knee, listening to him tell me the story of two girls, who drank from the same pitcher of iced tea, yet one had died of poison and the other had not. I couldn’t figure out the answer, and my father had laughed at my frustration.
“What does ice do, Luciana?” he had asked gently.
“It melts,” I had answered promptly, fascinated.
“Exactly,” he had replied warmly. “So, if the poison was in the ice…”
“The poison would get in the drink!” I had cheered.
“Exactly. That’s the thing with poisons, Luciana. Mysterious and deadly, they often hide in plain sight, waiting for someone to shine light on them so that a cure can be made. A poison is like hiding a tree in a forest or a book in a library…”
Shaking the memory away, unwilling to dwell on my shared love of poisons with my father, I stride through the house. Eventually, I find what I’m looking for, a large bookshelf filled to the brim with books on all sorts of creatures, oddly enough. It’s easy to spot the journal, since it’s sticking out, almost as though it was waiting for me.
These are the last words my father will give me. I hesitate for a moment and then grasp it, pulling it free, and flip to the first page, a scribbled note addressed to me.
Luciana,
I hope you will understand. Read carefully and take heart in your own strength, my daughter. I love you.
Look after the animals. They are all very special.
Dad
I stare at the page blankly. Animals? There are animals here? I close my eyes.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come, after all.
Warwick
The sun beats down harshly on my back and I stretch, wiping sweat from my brow. Beside me, Dane huffs a laugh.
“Too hot for you?” he teases.
I laugh, too. Since coming to Australia a few years ago, Dane and I had fallen in love with the small town of Mundaring, and our carefully cultivated farm. It was peaceful out here, somewhere that the rest of the world couldn’t touch us.
The summers, though, were brutally hot. It was perfect. Despite what Dane and I pretended, we both knew that the heat didn’t really touch either of us. In fact, we thrived in this sort of weather, though the effort of physical exertion in this sort of heat was nothing to scoff at.
“You’re the one who took your shirt off,” I say, nudging him. “Looks like you’re the one who can’t handle the heat.”
“No, I can’t handle the sweat,” Dane says, wrinkling his nose. “It smells.”
That, I can definitely agree with. Our bodies still sweat, and the smell of it soaking into the material of our clothes was unpleasant to our sensitive noses.
I relax my back and lean down to pick up the bundle of hay that I had been carrying with me. The sun has gotten to its highest point in the sky, and there’s still so much work to be done on the farm.
It’s as I’m moving across the front yard that I notice movement across the road. This automatically crosses my attention; it hadn’t been so long ago that the place was crowded with ambulances and police for a day or two before the old man that lived there had disappeared. In the days since, someone had turned up in the morning every day to look after the animals there before leaving it empty once more.