He stripped away the duct tape, making a mental note of the book’s position so he could replace it as precisely as possible.

Opening the book, he stared down at the first page, at Natalie’s handwriting. These were her big bold letters, her pen flicks that sometimes spanned two lines. There was no mistaking it.

Had Casey copied Natalie’s handwriting? Or had Natalie given away her diary before her suicide?

Scott’s thoughts whirled as he read the first line.

When Scott and I met at university, we both wanted to be writers…

43

CASEY

Casey wasn’t sure how long she’d been gazing down at the water. She felt certain it was staring back at her, eyes hidden in the depths. Perhaps they were her father’s, dear Daddy and his dead dick and the devilish delectation he took in devouring her… And then her thoughts strayed, and she couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking about.

The water, the water and the weed. She’d bought a pack of pre-rolls from her dealer, ten different strains, and then unrolled them and emptied them into one big bag. Shaking them together, she’d created a lucky-dip medley, with mind-stimulating sativa mixing with body-calming indica and everything in between.

She blinked, rubbing her face, trying to remember why she was there.

Looking around the park, she saw the school beyond the trees.

That was it; she was there to see her daughter.

She turned from the pond and walked down the lane. There was one thing she couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried, and that was the way Scottie had behaved that morning. It was like he’d seen right into her, into her heart, her soul, her whatever-the-fuck-it-was. He’d looked deep and picked at her most sensitive spot.

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“Pardon?”

Casey looked at the voice, the owner of the voice. An older man with a dirty buttoned-up jacket and muddy jeans and an ugly mutt sitting at his feet. The dog was small and rattish, with beady eyes and crust all around them. The little bastard growled as Casey stared down at it.

“I didn’t say anything,” she told the man. “And please, shut your fucking dog up.”

He gawped. The rat dog let out a yap.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

“Fuck you.”

Casey walked ahead. Stopping at the park gate, she looked across the road at the school. Class hadn’t finished yet. Casey sat on a bench and took out a fat blunt, so big she’d hardly been able to close the paper. The pre-rolls had come with dusty weed, so she sprinkled it, remembering when she was a girl and she’d been fascinated with glitter.

And he told her she was beautiful. He said glitter made her a woman. He had squealed like a piggy when she pushed the iron against his meagre maggot.

As she lit and inhaled, her mind felt like it was falling down a wormhole. She held the smoke and blew it out slowly, not allowing herself to cough. But there was no high, no elation, no humour. Everything was flat.