Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
SADIE
N otebooks, folders, and loose papers took up most of the surface of the dining table. The overhead light flickered slightly, catching on the rim of beer bottles and the edge of an old ashtray pushed to the corner.
Anything that connected Mum to Hollow Creek had been pulled out. It was all we had to go off at that point. But there was an energy in the room I’d forgotten existed.
It was the same way I’d felt when Logan, Jasmine and I were hatching up a plan to attend a party we knew we shouldn’t have been going to. It was the buzz of having each other’s backs, like coming home.
Rowan unfolded his tall frame from the single-seater and paced like a restless animal itching to run as he tapped his ring finger against the side of his beer bottle.
“Hollow Creek Farm,” he said, his voice rough.
“It’s central to all of this. Back in the day it was used to shuffle drugs and weapons from Timberflat to Barrenridge.
The Ridge Riders had a small passage that intersected between the two towns.
But someone shut that down years ago.” Rowan kept pacing, unable to sit still or let it go.
“Old Man Jenkins was his usual grumpy self when we paid him a visit, but I don’t think he’s part of it.
Stolen bike parts, maybe, but not whatever was going on back then.
He’s got some new farmhands living there now. Reckons one of them is his grandson.”
Bear snorted. “Knowing him,” he said, leaning back in one of the dining chairs with a lazy confidence that only he could pull off, “those parts would be long gone by now.”
Rowan nodded. “You’re not wrong.”
“You think it’s related?” Bear said, propping his feet on the table, taking a swig of his beer.
I wondered if anything ever fazed him. He always seemed to be the quiet, calm one of the trio. I suppose Rowan needed someone in his corner like that. He always seemed like he was one wrong step away from ignition, and maybe Bear was the calming hand.
Rowan lifted a shoulder, the movement holding more frustration than indifference.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Once we find out exactly why Sadie’s mum was looking into the property, then it might tell us what the farm has to do with what’s going on now.
” He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always had when he was about to dig his heels in for the long haul.
“And what about the other notebooks?” Bear’s gaze flicked to the piles stacked on the dining table. “Anything in those?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Rowan set his beer down with a muted thud, fingers already reaching for the nearest stack. He scooped up half the pile into his arms, his determination palpable, and tossed a notebook at each of us. “Might be a long night.”
Long nights didn’t worry me. That was where I often scalded myself for turning out to be exactly what my father knew me to be—a failure.
Yet, that was far from what I was feeling in that moment.
It was the safest I’d felt in longer than I could remember, and it had everything to do with Rowan and Jasmine being there.
Bear and Scout, too, even if Bear had barely said two words to me.
I sensed his gaze now and then—measuring, not unkind, just uncertain.
Maybe he was like that with everyone he didn’t yet trust, but I couldn’t have blamed him for that.
He didn’t know me. And if I was being honest, I didn’t really know myself.
Rowan liked to think he still did, but the Sadie he remembered had been buried with her best friend.
Now, I was just the shell of that girl. Despite that, the pieces I thought I’d lost might not have been gone after all.
The push and pull of the past wrapped around me, and I didn’t know whether I wanted to run from it or embrace it.
More because of Rowan than anyone else. He seemed to tug at those loose threads, tightening them inch by inch. It was possible he’d be able to stitch me back together.
Everyone buried their heads in the notebooks, eyes scanning old pages and faded ink, searching for anything that could pull this mess together.
That was the first time Rowan, and I hadn’t been at each other’s throats.
It seemed he was finally letting me in, letting me sink into his world just a little more.
Even if he didn’t want to believe it right then, I was supposed to be part of his world.
I could see it in the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching—that flicker of something uncertain, some residual hope left over from a lifetime ago.
But playing pretend was all we had at that moment. It was probably more than I deserved. But I wasn’t going to give up now. Not on finding the truth. And not on Rowan.
As the others flicked through the pages, the only sound the rustle of paper and the occasional scrape of a chair leg, I rifled through a folder of old newspaper clippings and a bunch of faded yellow sticky notes that were no longer sticky.
Mum had done that when she thought she had something.
A note here, a question mark there, her cramped handwriting barely legible in places where the ink had bled through.
Most of the time, her questions had turned into nothing, but some had ended up in the newspaper, her stories out there for the world to see.
Now her significance was nothing more than her legacy of being Barrenridge’s most successful investigative journalist. It didn’t stand for much, not when it came at the expense of your relationship with your only child.
“Watson,” Scout shouted, the word echoing around the room, his face lit up like he’d just won Jasmine’s heart.
Everyone froze, eyes darting to the man sitting against the front of the couch cushions, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“What?” Rowan leaned over the couch and snatched the notebook from Scout’s hand, flipping it around, a frown pulling in his eyebrows.
“I don’t know.” Scout jabbed a finger at the torn page. “It just says ‘Watson.’ Then the rest is missing.”
Rowan blew out a breath, and rubbed his eyes, dropping the notebook on the cushion beside him. “We’re getting nowhere.”
He was right. We’d been at it for hours, going over the same pieces again and again, and still nothing was making any sense.
It would have been nice for Mum to have left more than just notebooks of vague musings and giant question marks.
I wasn’t a goddamn magician. I couldn’t just snap my fingers and have all the pieces line up in a neat little row.
There was no point asking Dad. Any talk of my mother warranted a week of silent treatment .
Still, I couldn’t shake the name Scout had just called out. Watson. Something about it was familiar. Was it a last name? A street name?
Then it clicked.
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “There was something I read recently. Something about the Mayor.” I reached into one of the unorganised folders stacked up beside me. Pages slipped through my fingers as I searched through it frantically. “Wasn’t the Mayor’s name back then Watson?”
I knew I was right. I had to be. I pulled out the article I was desperate to find and tossed it to Rowan, my pulse spiking at its implications.
Rowan ran his eyes over the article. “Mayor Watson launches rural revitalisation initiative to remove abandoned properties.” He read aloud the headline of the article.
The moment the words clicked, and his thoughts expanded, something dark crossed his features, tightening his lips into a thin line.
That alone was enough to stop my heart. He scanned the rest, his frown deepening as he pieced it together without words.
“Sadie, pass me that notebook.” He pointed to the one by my feet, buried in the disaster of papers fanned out like forensic evidence, then held his hand out.
The urgency in his voice sent me scrambling to snatch it up. My hand trembled as I held it out to him.
He flipped through the pages, his focus darting between the notebook and the article, confirming something in his own mind.
“Fuck.” The word sat heavy in the room. It carried everything with it.
“Your mum was investigating the Mayor, Sades. And I’m going to guess, he was working with the club as well. ”
“What?” I snatched the article and the notebook from Rowan’s hand. Disbelief warred with what I already knew to be true. “How—oh shit. ”
It was there. All of it, right in front of me, staring at me, daring me to connect it in a way that made sense. The article also listed every address my mother had written down.
Mayor Watson’s quote was a punch to the gut: Sometimes you have to tear things down before you can build something better. The greasy bastard was connected to it all. No wonder I’d hated the bloke all those years ago. Mum had always told me to trust my intuition.
The room fell silent, a tangible tension filling the air. I couldn’t be sure if we all shared the same explosive thought, but it was starting to feel like my mother had dug up a massive scandal before she died. The enormity of it hung there, words unspoken, yet as clear as a cloudless summer night.
Scout frowned as he glanced down at the list of addresses with a slight tilt of his head.
“I know some of these,” he said, like it was a game of connect the dots.
“My mates and I would go riding out the back of the Creek Street property. And the Knowles Street property runs right up to it. Been vacant for years.”
Rowan’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re sure?”
Scout nodded, taking a quick sip from his beer.
“Me and my mates used to camp in the houses sometimes,” he said, oblivious to Rowan’s glare.
“No-one lived in either of them. The Creek Street property was half burnt out from a fire. And the one on Knowles Street . . .” He shrugged.
“All the crops died, something about soil contamination.”