‘He’s asleep on the floor,’ said little Crissy and laughed like it was funny. Then there was a scratching sound and the line went dead. Crissy was gone.

Sally turned to Herb: ‘There’s something wrong at the Millard farm.’

CHAPTER 1: A QUIET DRINK ON THE WAY HOME

CHAPTER 1

A QUIET DRINK ON THE WAY HOME

PRESENT DAY

By the time I sat at the bar and ordered a drink, the pub was almost empty. A few stalwarts remained; older men mostly. Only one other woman besides me. The threadbare towel along the top of the bar was beer-soaked and pungent. A barman appeared like a cockroach from a small doorway to serve me.

‘You new in town?’ he said accusingly.

‘Antigone Pollard.’ I stretched my hand out over the bar.

He looked at it with suspicion, like newcomers might bring disease or something. Eventually, he shook it, then when I asked for a wine he sloshed a house white into a glass. An old jukebox in the far corner pumped out country hits from another time—the central theme: he done me wrong and my heart’s a-breakin’. I took a deep breath, then a long sip of wine. I knew all about heartbreak, but the real stuff was so much more complicated than country singers could capture. I exhaled, still not sure I’d made the right decision to come back to Deception Bay after all these years. But sometimes a lack of choice is a decision itself.

‘Well, aren’t you a pretty one,’ slurred a drunk, appearing suddenly at my side. He was twice my age. Chin carpeted in salt-and-pepper prickles. Breath that could stop a truck. ‘How about a dance, luv?’ A leering grin and a nod towards the small empty dance floor in front of the jukebox. His watery eyes lingered momentarily on my face before dropping lower.

‘Um, no thanks,’ I said, trying to strike just the right chord that every woman knows so well: assertive dipped in polite.

His voice steamrolled over my refusal. ‘Ah, don’t be stuck-up, luv.’ The drunk lost his balance and bumped into me, splashing beer down the front of his shirt. ‘Ah, look what you made me do!’ His tone slipped from friendly to angry in a heartbeat.

‘Sorry.’ I slid off my barstool putting it between me and him. I eyed my glass of wine. The drunk let out a wet-lunged cough and a mist of phlegm and beer sprayed out, befouling my drink and the bar.

‘You’ll be bloody sorry in a minute.’ His voice was low and laced with threat.

I looked him up and down; he was unsteady on his feet and didn’t pose any real threat. Still. I was backing away prudently when a man approached on my other side.

He leaned on the bar and spoke to the drunk. ‘C’mon, Merv. Give it a rest.’