THEN
ELLIE
I was so absorbed watching the car following us that I tripped on the uneven paving of the sidewalk.
“You okay?” Martin asked.
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” I snapped. “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with me.”
“You’re stumbling a lot, El.”
“It’s nothing. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Did you take another one of those Ativan before leaving the house?”
My chest cramped.
“Ellie? We need to be open, remember?”
“I . . . needed something after—after that spider, seeing all the blood on you. It made me panicky. I needed to take the edge off.”
“Do you have any pills on you now?”
Guilt washed hot up my throat. “No,” I lied. “I’m going to be fine. I told you. It’s just . . . I need to wean myself off them slowly.” I’d been here before. Tapering was better than cold turkey. This was a medical fact. Going cold turkey could spark a resurgence of psychiatric symptoms that had lain dormant during the drug use. From experience I knew this could lead to severe anxiety, PTSD symptoms, OCD, depression. The last time I’d weaned myself off the meds I’d done it with the help of a psychiatrist because I’d been in the hospital after stabbing Doug—a court-mandated thing.
Martin nodded. We walked in silence, and I sensed the shift in his mood. He was worried. Perhaps he’d take all my meds and destroy them. Perhaps I should hide the pills before he could.
“You know, I think we should go fishing tomorrow,” he said with a glance up at the sky, which was turning a soft indigo in the increasing twilight. “Weather should be good. It’ll get your mind off the meds.”
A statement. Not a question.
“I . . . was hoping to settle into my studio properly, get back to work. I have that deadline looming.”
“You’ll like it—you’ll see. A mental break will be good. We’ll go out to the FAD. It’s not far off the continental shelf. Where the blue water is, where the giant pelagic swim. It’ll be great.”
“What’s a FAD?”
“Fish aggregation device. A man-made object—usually some kind of buoy tethered to the deep ocean floor with concrete blocks. They’re deployed by state fisheries up and down the coast and used to attract oceangoing fish like marlin, tuna, dolphin fish, sharks. The fish tend to congregate around the FADs, swimming in varying orbits and at varying depths around the device. They’re funded by fishing license fees. Like a fish magnet.”
The brown car passed us and crawled slowly up the street. It turned into the road where we were headed. I noticed the registration plate—QUEENSLAND. SUNSHINE STATE—maroon characters against a white background. The numbers were covered by dirt, but I could make out the last three letters: GIN.
We turned onto the street and I saw it again, parked ahead under a large gum with peeling bark. My pulse quickened. I stopped.
“Do you see that car?” I said to Martin.
“The brown Corolla? Yeah.”
“It’s following us.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It was parked across from our house when we left. And then I saw it across the street from the surfers’ shower when we came up from the beach. It followed us slowly, passed us, and now it’s waiting ahead of us.”
His frown deepened. “Why would someone follow us, Ellie?”
“I don’t know—you tell me.”
We resumed walking, but at a slower pace, and he studied the Corolla intently as we closed in on it. He seemed worried, but I wasn’t sure whether it was about the car, or about me.
“It’s a common model,” he said as we neared. “Did you happen to see the plate of the one parked outside our house?”
“No.”
The sedan suddenly pulled out from under the tree and drove quickly to the top of the road. Brake lights flared. It turned right and was gone. Wind gusted, flinging bits of bark at us. A flock of lories took flight with wild squawks.
“It was probably a different Corolla outside our house,” he said. “The one up ahead was probably just some guy driving slowly to check the waves, and then he pulled over to answer his mobile—could be any number of explanations.”
“I think someone was following us back home, too. In an orange Subaru.”
He stopped dead. “What?”
“Yeah. It was a flat orange color.”
“You mean—like one of those Crosstreks?”
“Yes.”
Blood drained from his face. An unreadable look formed on his features. A vibrating energy, a palpable sense of purpose, coalesced around him. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the driver of the orange Subaru? Or the plate?”
“No. But I think the plate was a BC one—blue and white.”
“What about the driver of the brown Corolla—did you get a look?”
“Only a glimpse. He powered up the window as soon as I stared at him.”
“He?”
“A guy, yes.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
I considered this. “I don’t think so. His face was in shadow.”
“Weird,” Martin said.
We continued to the pub, but a cloud had descended over Martin. He walked faster, his shoulders forward like he was angry. I struggled to keep up. My breathing deepened. My anxiety grew sharper.
I lagged back.
While Martin was ahead I dug in my pocket and quickly popped a sublingual pill under my tongue.
He stopped, turned. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I had a stone in my shoe.”
THEN
ELLIE
The wooden sign for the Pug and Whistler swung on metal chains in the slight breeze. The building had a historic facade and a fenced beer-and-wine garden out back. Fairy lights were strung from the gums, galahs fed on the verge, and flies buzzed over a scattering of patrons seated at tables along the front veranda.
I stopped beneath the sign. Carved into the wood was a figure of boy with a surfboard under his arm. The boy’s face was turned to the sky, and he was whistling. Behind him followed a fat and merry-looking little pug. The Pug and Whistler.
“Rabz—the owner, Bodie
