Chapter 16
Shark attack victim identified as tourist Rachel Sutherland
The Daily
by Chris Cooper
I hover behind Chris, reading over his shoulder and staring at the grainy photo of Rachel Sutherland. She’s sitting alone at a picnic table, blond and bare-faced, smiling drowsily in the sun. I blink and she’s missing limbs, blink again and she’s bloodied chunks of meat bobbing in the seawater.
“They identified her this afternoon,” he says, clacking away on his keyboard, eyes on the screen. “You don’t want to see the photos.”
“Don’t need to,” I tell him. “I was there.”
He freezes, hands floating over the keyboard. “You were there? And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“…What was it like?”
“Meaty.”
He winces, holding my gaze for a moment before looking away.
He grabs at a half-empty water bottle, takes a tiny sip.
I watch him screw the cap back on, watch his mouth flatten into a grim line.
It’s quiet now, tense. The ceiling fan whirs, blowing stale air; otherwise the room is as still as a painting.
“Melanie…” Chris finally says, “I’m starting to wonder…”
I raise an eyebrow he doesn’t see.
He twists at the bottle cap, lets it roll between his fingers. “You always seem to be in the right place at the right time…”
“It was a fatal shark attack, Chris. I wouldn’t call witnessing it the right time.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was on the Deep Sea,” I say, “Heath’s fishing charter. Used to be my dad’s.”
“I spoke to one of the charter tourists.” Chris frowns. “Alan Wright, I think? I tried to speak with Heath but he wouldn’t comment.”
I say nothing.
“Alan said she was on a night swim?”
I nod. “Near the pier.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“No, it was too dark.” I gesture to his screen. “When’s your deadline?”
“Eleven,” he finally answers. He nods at my laptop, eyes narrowing. “What are you working on?”
I angle the screen in his direction, displaying it, hatefully.
AFL star Tim Botkin tied the knot with influencer Lucy Graham in an extravagant ceremony at the stunning Three Bees Villa in Tuscany on Monday. The newlyweds gave fans a glimpse inside their lavish celebration on social media.
“Riveting,” Chris mumbles petulantly. “Make sure to use the spellchecker.”
“Piss off.” I flick through the photos of the forty-two-thousand-dollar-a-night villa. “I hope they choke on their wedding cake.”
“We all do.”
I smile gratefully. “Are we mates again?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Outside, a shutter bangs against a doorframe. I find myself leaning forward, my left knee brushing his. “Or do you think I’m gill-ty of something?”
He rolls his eyes at the pun, but I notice him softening. Relieved, I glance around his Airbnb study in Pine Bay, nodding approvingly at the glass desk and the carpet, soft and salmon pink. “Nice room.”
“I write it off on tax,” he mumbles, before standing up, stretching. “Dinner, too.” Grudgingly, he asks, “You hungry?”
Rachel’s meaty body drifts through my head, floating in a bloody current.
“…Yeah.”
—
I balance a pizza slice on my knee while proofreading my latest bullshit article, Baby Joy for Home and Away Star!
I lean back, sighing. I’ve written four articles tonight. Enough for the next few weeks’ rent, food, and emergency fund in case Joy sues me. But I doubt she will be considering the recent Daily article.
Morning, Sunshine! host Joy Marriot investigated for scamming cancer charity
In 2019, Logie-winning TV presenter Joy Marriot was praised after publicly vowing to donate 15 percent of her cookbook proceeds to Kids with Cancer. But as of January 2024, there is no record of any payments directly on her behalf.
Chris made a few phone calls, confirmed what I already knew. Then he leaned back in his chair, stunned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How the hell did she get away with it for so long?”
I was thinking of Kangaroo Bay when I answered, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil…”
“Is for good men to do nothing,” he said brightly, nudging me with his elbow. “Well, we did something. Something good.”
We did. How fantastic it was seeing that woman finally exposed. How delightful her guilty eyes looked above the condemning headline,
Joy Marriot pulled from Morning, Sunshine! Host investigated for charity fraud.
I saved the article to my home screen, re-read it constantly. All my life, I’ve watched people break the rules. And now, finally, they’re answering for them.
Sometimes I re-read the texts from my lunch friends, too:
HAHA! Take that Joy, you nasty bitch!
They’re saying you “attacked” her because of her charity fraud. People love you, Mel!
Are you coming back from exile now? We miss you.
I glance at Chris, who’s carefully picking off the olives from his slice, placing them in an obliging ashtray. It’s late now, ten-ish, quiet except for the muffled sounds of a baby crying next door.
I proofread the celebrity wedding article again, eyes sticking from hours of screen time. AFL star Tim Botkin tied the knot with influencer…
Chris flicks an olive at my face. It misses, sticking wetly to my shoulder before rolling into my lap. “Did you and Oliver have your wedding planned out?”
“No,” I say, nodding at the villa. “But he would have loved something like that.”
“And you?”
I shake my head. “I’d like something quiet. Elope on a beach.”
“While the sharks watch.”
“That would be jaw-some.”
“Where do you get all these awful jokes? The back of a toilet door?”
I smile, remembering. “My brother. We used to know hundreds.” I nudge him with my foot. “Guess what food we’d serve at the wedding?”
He scrunches his face up before announcing triumphantly, “A shark-uterie board!”
“Excellent.” I smile. “And the wedding song?”
“…‘No-Fin Compares to You.’ ”
“Not bad, but I’ve got a better one.”
He raises an eyebrow, waits.
“Journey’s smash hit ‘Don’t Stop Bleeding.’ ”
“Oh my God.” He nods at his laptop. “Reminds me of Rachel’s attack photos.” I lean forward, interested, but he waves me away. “I hope her family don’t see them.”
“Are they all in Bethanga?”
He nods. “For the last year, Rachel had been living on the family property there.”
“Why?”
“Her marriage broke up. She was staying with her parents to get back on her feet.”
“And now she has no feet.”
“Melanie…” Chris grimaces, gives me a disapproving look.
“Sorry.” I lean back. “Do you know why she was in Kangaroo Bay?”
“Her mum wasn’t very forthcoming about that.” He sighs, rubbing his neck. “I called earlier.”
“When are you going up there?”
“I asked to see her on Tuesday afternoon,” he says, frowning. “Whether she opens the door or not is another story.”
“And then you squeeze her for answers like a big, juicy puffer fish?”
His lips twitch. “We squeeze her for answers, yes. Or you could pepper her with your fish puns until she confesses.”
“I’m not coming with you.”
“…What?”
I press my hands flat on my thighs. “You go without me. It’s better this way.”
His eyes narrow. “Why?”
Silence.
“Chris, I’d like to speak with her myself.”
He rests both arms behind his head, leaning back so far on his chair that it squeaks in protest. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What do you know that I don’t?”
I shake my head, keep my voice light. “I’m doing you a favor. Bethanga is five hours from Kangaroo Bay. Do you know how many fish puns I could cram into a five-hour drive?” I nudge him with my knee. “You’d assassinate me.”
He shifts his knee, angling it away from mine. Gently, I reach forward, pushing it back. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close and your anemones closer.”
The tips of my fingers still rest on his knee.
His hands are behind his head, cuffs rolled up to his elbow, revealing spidery veins running down his pale wrists.
The boys at home are sunburned from infancy.
It’s odd to see a man so pale—fascinating, to be honest. His eyes are fixed on my fingertips brushing his knee.
His breath hitches, and it’s as if he’s trying to keep himself very still.
I pull back.
He gives me a sidelong glance as I get to my feet and swig from his water bottle, just to give my hands something to do. I hear him sigh, hear the creak of his chair as he finally shifts in place, muttering wearily, “Fine, go by yourself, then. You’re my nemo-sis now.”
“You’re krilling me.”
“You have much to be schooled on.”
“Makes sense. I didn’t go to school.”
He pauses. “What?”
“I was homeschooled from grade six to year twelve.”
He gives me a puzzled look. “Who taught you? Your dad?”
“No one taught me. It was different back then. It used to be called distance education,” I tell him. “They’d mail you a semester’s worth of work, leave you to it. If you fell behind, they’d give you a ring. That was about it.”
“There’s a school in Kangaroo Bay, though,” he says, frowning. “I drove past it. One of those primary and high schools in one. Prep to year twelve.”
Stupid. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “Yeah, I went there.”
He pauses. “Until?”
I shrug. “Until I decided I’d rather learn at home.” I pointedly add, “No annoying boys asking me questions.”
I turn back to my laptop, uneasy, hoping he’ll drop the subject. Of course, he doesn’t. I hear him shift his weight. I can almost see him crossing his arms, eyes locked on me.
“Did anything happen that made you change schools all of a sudden?” His words hang in the air, heavy with suspicion. “And change your name…”
Shit. I open my mouth, feeling caught out. I throw him a quick smile, too quick. I keep my laugh light, casual, like everything’s fine. Like I didn’t notice the shift in the room. “Yes, I know the rumors about homeschooled kids.”
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. My heart stutters.
I watch his face, hoping for even the flicker of a smile, anything at all that will break this tension.
His eyes are unblinking, steady, like he’s trying to look past my skin and into something deeper.
Then he uncrosses his arms, snorts, and the air finally loosens. “That you’re a bunch of weirdos?”
“Let me guess, you went to a private school. Your socks were pulled all the way up. You cried if you didn’t get homework.”
“You were there?”
“It was an all-boys school, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” he groans, leaning forward. “And my deadline’s tonight.”
“I understand,” I reply, staring hatefully at my laptop.
“Got to get this story hot off the gill,” he automatically replies, before adding, “I hate myself.”