“Thank you. More than I can express.”
“Hey, no worries.” A curious look entered her dark eyes. I noticed the tiny freckles spattered over her nose. Her long, thick lashes. We stood close, side by side, her tanned arm contrasted against my less toned and very pale one. I could smell her scent. That soft hit of patchouli and lime or bergamot.
“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.
I gave her a blank look.
“You made quite the dramatic exit from the Puggo last night,” she prompted. “Martin drove you home in my car. Don’t you remember?”
Heat flared into my face. She regarded me steadily. Something darted through her eyes, and a slight smile curved her mouth as she took in my gear—my royal-blue windbreaker, Martin’s oversize cargo pants, my pale-blue Nike ball cap. My ponytail blew over my shoulder, and strands of my hair had stuck to the lip balm on my lips. Rabz thought I was a loser—I could tell that was what she was thinking. Inside her head she was laughing, mocking me. In this environment she had the upper hand. She was in her element, and I was a fish out of water.
“So where are you guys headed, then?” she asked.
“Fish aggregating device.”
“The FAD?” Her brows crooked up. “Zog said they were hauling heaps of tuna off the FAD early this morning, but it’s getting a bit choppy now.” She glanced up at the sky. “Weather is turning. The sea at the FAD can go from safe to suicidal in minutes. You guys should have gone out earlier.”
Anxiety tightened in my chest. I glanced up at the people gathering atop the cliff, watching the bar. Kiteboarders whipped across Little Jarra Bay.
Finally I saw Martin coming toward us. Relief rushed through me, but flipped right back into tension as I noticed the angry roll of his shoulders as he strode toward our boat. A man called out to him. Martin stopped to address the man, who had a boy with him.
“Zog and his son,” said Rabz, following my gaze. Zog’s kid looked about twelve. Zog was wiry and nut brown with sun-streaked hair. We had yet to eat the fish he’d given us.
“Oh, look—” Rabz raised her hand and waved to someone up on the headlands. “There’s Willow.” She pointed. “See that big flat-roofed house with all the glass windows?”
I squinted. I could make out a woman standing in front of the big windows with a telescope. Blonde. Slender. She waved back. I wondered how long Willow had been watching us through her scope, whether she’d seen the distress on my face.
“She can see everything with that piece of equipment,” Rabz said. “The telescope comes with the ‘architecturally designed’ house. What does that mean, anyway—‘architecturally designed’?”
“She doesn’t own it?”
“God, no.” Rabz adjusted her position. “Here, let me hold that awhile.” She reached for the painter line.
I let her take the yellow-and-blue rope and checked my palms. They looked raw and they hurt.
“She rents. Most of those houses up there are holiday homes. Owners live in Sydney, or in China, or some other country. Lease them out for a bomb. It’s pricing us locals right out of the housing market. But Willow earns good money from her chicanery.” Rabz chuckled. Her nose stud winked.
Was that a note of rivalry?
“Thank you, Rabz,” Martin said in a great big bellow of a voice as he marched up to us. “Ellie was running us aground there.” He laughed. It sounded harsh.
My mouth tightened. “If you’d at least shown me how to—”
“Get in, Ellie, while Rabz is holding her steady. Climb up over the side.”
I hesitated, then moved into deeper water as Rabz turned her head. The wind caught her scent. And I froze. Slowly I looked around and stared at the back of her head. Suddenly I knew exactly what had been niggling at me before we’d arrived at the Puggo. And what had given me that sinister feeling upon meeting Rabz. Not a doubt in my mind.
My gaze shot to Martin.
They have a secret.
From me.
“What’s the bloody holdup, El? Get in.”
THEN
ELLIE
Every muscle in Martin’s body was taut as he fought to hold the Abracadabra steady in the channel by powering the engine forward, then reversing, his gaze riveted on a distant set of swells rising like giant, swollen, silent ribs across the sea, gathering in size as they rolled toward us. I sat at the back of the boat and clutched the gunwale, unable to breathe. People lined the cliff. I saw the houses, including the glass one Willow had waved from. Could she see us? Could she read the desperation in my eyes? Would she send help? Martin’s words from the night I’d met him, when he’d spoken about his brother, surged back into my mind.
“You need to time everything just right—it’s when most boating accidents happen—going in or out when the bar is breaking. I didn’t listen to an order . . . the boat hit a wave as it was breaking, and we went nose-up into the air and the boat flipped over backward. My brother was hit, broke his back.”
Martin suddenly gunned the engine, and we surged forward, bow lifting, stern settling into the sea. The motor roared as we headed up the face of the first wave. It began to curl at the top. We smashed through the foam lip and smacked down onto the powerful shoulder as the wave crunched behind us in a foamy roar. Martin immediately gunned for the next one coming at us. The bow lifted again and we went up the face. The Abracadabra’s nose crashed through the curl. Water washed over the bow and down the sides, and
