would be like for one of them to lose control, not giving him enough time to get out of the way. Just to clip him, drag him under giant wheels, take him to his death. It wouldn’t be quick enough. Better to step out in front of one, hit the bumper bar, roll up the windscreen, across the roof, fly through the air skidding across the bitumen, scraping skin to the bone, blood red and dead.
But they’d take hi s body home, back to Brooke. She would be at the funeral. It wouldn’t be fair. Leaving was bad enough. She needed time away from him. With distance, she’d have time to forget. Then his death wouldn’t hit her so hard.
A truck rumbled to a stop, way in front of him. The truckie yanked on the horn, blaring up and down the highway. David paused, considering his options. His feet made the decision for him. He loped towards the truck.
Chapter Eight
Brooke
The room Brooke had been ushered into was small. If you swung a cat you’d kill it. The youth worker, Josie, shuffled papers and rolled around the room on the office chair, from filing cabinet to the desk, from the desk to the shelves and back to the desk again. She had loads of questions. Too many questions. Questions that really didn’t need to be answered when all a person needed was a place to stay until things worked themselves out.
“Is anyone out there likely to be worried about you?”
Perched on the edge of the couch with clasped hands pressed between her knees, Brooke surveyed the poems, artwork, photos and posters that lined the walls. The pieces of work reminded her of David and all the drawings he’d shown off to her over their lifetime.
“Look at me, Brooklyn.”
“Is there someone you need to call to let them know you’re all right?”
Brooke pulled her mobile out of her pocket. “I have a phone.”
“Have you used it?”
“It’s turned off.”
Josie grunted, and shoved the papers into a folder, writing on it. “Are you a missing person?”
“I don’t think so.”
Josie rolled closer to Brooke, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve shown me your licence. I have all your details. If I track down the phone number for this address, will I have a frantic parent on the other end of the line?”
Brooke tried to smile, tried to appear a little friendlier, but by the time the dust from the open road had settled around her feet earlier that day her world had changed. Since then she just felt numb, her face paralysed and strained. “I can’t go back home.”
“ You don’t have to. But being on your own, it’s not going to be easy either.”
“I’d like to call my friend, but I can’t. He doesn’t have a phone.”
“Before I’ll even consider letting you settle in here, you need to call somebody. Your mother or your father. An aunt or an uncle. Someone.” Josie held the phone out to her and pressed 0, bringing up a dial tone. “Dial the number. I won’t look.” She turned away.
“You can look. You have my address and you can get my number.”
“Just call.”
Brooke sat forward on the couch to dial. When it picked up, she heard her mother’s clipped Hello. Brooke listened to the line crackle between them. “Hello,” her mother said again.
“Talk,” Josie encouraged.
“Brooke?”
“Mum,” she croaked, clearing her throat . “Let me speak to Dad.”
“ Brooke what are you doing?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“You need to come home. You and me, we’ll have a talk…Where are you?”
“I want to speak to Dad.”
“He’s not here. He knows the money’s gone. Not a good way to get him on side.”
“I want to speak to …” She heard her father in the background, but the phone was muffled. “I know Dad’s there.”
“Where are you Brooke ? I’ll come and pick you up and we’ll get this sorted out.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m begging you to come home and we can all pretend nothing has happened. Just go on as usual. This whole town is making stuff up about us. We can stop it
But they’d take hi s body home, back to Brooke. She would be at the funeral. It wouldn’t be fair. Leaving was bad enough. She needed time away from him. With distance, she’d have time to forget. Then his death wouldn’t hit her so hard.
A truck rumbled to a stop, way in front of him. The truckie yanked on the horn, blaring up and down the highway. David paused, considering his options. His feet made the decision for him. He loped towards the truck.
Chapter Eight
Brooke
The room Brooke had been ushered into was small. If you swung a cat you’d kill it. The youth worker, Josie, shuffled papers and rolled around the room on the office chair, from filing cabinet to the desk, from the desk to the shelves and back to the desk again. She had loads of questions. Too many questions. Questions that really didn’t need to be answered when all a person needed was a place to stay until things worked themselves out.
“Is anyone out there likely to be worried about you?”
Perched on the edge of the couch with clasped hands pressed between her knees, Brooke surveyed the poems, artwork, photos and posters that lined the walls. The pieces of work reminded her of David and all the drawings he’d shown off to her over their lifetime.
“Look at me, Brooklyn.”
“Is there someone you need to call to let them know you’re all right?”
Brooke pulled her mobile out of her pocket. “I have a phone.”
“Have you used it?”
“It’s turned off.”
Josie grunted, and shoved the papers into a folder, writing on it. “Are you a missing person?”
“I don’t think so.”
Josie rolled closer to Brooke, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve shown me your licence. I have all your details. If I track down the phone number for this address, will I have a frantic parent on the other end of the line?”
Brooke tried to smile, tried to appear a little friendlier, but by the time the dust from the open road had settled around her feet earlier that day her world had changed. Since then she just felt numb, her face paralysed and strained. “I can’t go back home.”
“ You don’t have to. But being on your own, it’s not going to be easy either.”
“I’d like to call my friend, but I can’t. He doesn’t have a phone.”
“Before I’ll even consider letting you settle in here, you need to call somebody. Your mother or your father. An aunt or an uncle. Someone.” Josie held the phone out to her and pressed 0, bringing up a dial tone. “Dial the number. I won’t look.” She turned away.
“You can look. You have my address and you can get my number.”
“Just call.”
Brooke sat forward on the couch to dial. When it picked up, she heard her mother’s clipped Hello. Brooke listened to the line crackle between them. “Hello,” her mother said again.
“Talk,” Josie encouraged.
“Brooke?”
“Mum,” she croaked, clearing her throat . “Let me speak to Dad.”
“ Brooke what are you doing?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“You need to come home. You and me, we’ll have a talk…Where are you?”
“I want to speak to Dad.”
“He’s not here. He knows the money’s gone. Not a good way to get him on side.”
“I want to speak to …” She heard her father in the background, but the phone was muffled. “I know Dad’s there.”
“Where are you Brooke ? I’ll come and pick you up and we’ll get this sorted out.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m begging you to come home and we can all pretend nothing has happened. Just go on as usual. This whole town is making stuff up about us. We can stop it
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