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“Was that your phone or mine?” Mum asked, dripping from the ocean. After Declan left, Mum and I went swimming.

I grabbed my phone off the towel I’d left lying on the sand, Bevan’s name on the screen.

Bevan: Copied Janey file for you. Look at the suicide note. The police gave us a copy, said we could publish it—they never do that! Dropping to you now.

My heart raced. Why had Sarge wanted the suicide note published? I picked up my towel and tried to rush Mum up the beach to the house, but she chatted to everyone we came across—a sporty kid striding home from school, an elderly neighbor, a young mum.

Bevan pulled up outside our house. I ran across the road and took the file from her. “Thank you, Bevan. I really appreciate your help.”

“Isla, please be careful with this.” She bit the inside of her mouth.

“Promise,” I said.

She looked anxious, like she wanted to believe me but couldn’t quite. She drove away. I clutched the file as Mum caught up with me, and we walked up the front deck .

“You have a project or something you’re working on with Kui and Bevan?” Mum asked, adjusting the towel around her waist. “I wonder if I could help. I promise I can be discreet. Mum’s the word and all that.” She gave a nervous giggle.

I rubbed my eyes, gritty with guilt. I couldn’t keep shutting her out like this.

And I didn’t want to. We couldn’t move on together if I wasn’t more open.

My mind went into overdrive, debating what I could share with her.

I still couldn’t talk about the drug case because that would tip off Snow.

But I could talk about what we’d learned about Janey.

She could help because she knew everyone in this town. I’d overlooked her from the beginning. If I’d talked to her more, listened to her more, I might have found out about the campground buyer before Rosemary clammed up. Out to sea, a wave paused painfully, waiting to crash.

“You know what? I’d love your help.” I motioned to two seats on the front deck. “Shall we sit down?”

“Of course.” Mum seemed surprised and excited that I agreed.

I reached into Bevan’s file and held up a copy of the suicide note with a shaky hand. It was written on a page ripped from a school notebook. My heart pumping, my chest tight, I steeled myself to study it closely. It was Janey’s loopy writing: “ I can’t take it anymore. I can’t go on. ”

Mum teared up. I pressed against my eyes. We read through the rest of the file.

Closing the file, I explained to Mum why I thought Janey’s disappearance was suspect and how Sarge appeared to be covering up.

I chose my words carefully, longing for her to understand how it had felt for me.

I realized that I’d never told Mum directly.

At age fourteen, I’d initially talked to Sarge, and he was the one who’d discussed it with Mum and Dad. They’d never brought it up again.

She listened silently.

“Now I see,” she said when I’d finished. She clutched the wet towel tighter around her waist. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I should have tried to understand more at the time. But Sarge said you were confused.”

I wrestled with the hurt, wanting to move on, but I couldn’t. She’d said sorry, but she had to add that final sentence.

“You immediately trusted him.” I stared out to sea. “And accepted his explanation.”

She shifted in her seat. “Well, he was head of police, after all.”

I turned away, resigned and sad, resting my forehead on my hand.

She laid her hand on my arm. “We should have questioned you more.”

“More?” I said, turning back to her, repeating her word with an edge of bitterness. “You didn’t ask me anything.”

She nodded, pressing her fingers to her lips, her breathing uneven, long enough that my wet swimsuit soaked the towel around my waist.

“You’re absolutely right,” she said.

A warmth seeped through me at her admission. She understood something of how I felt at the time. I wondered if she guessed how lonely I was.

She exhaled as if she were about to take a high dive. She lifted her chin and set her shoulders in decisive, unfamiliar gestures. Usually, she was all evasion, avoidance, hesitance—a small shrug, a sigh, a hand holding back her auburn hair.

It was a little scary.

“Follow me.” She pointed toward the garage. “I need to show you something.”