It's been five years since the sudden disappearance of Cora Cadigan's mother. Five years since the case was closed before it even began.
In the final summer before the end of high school, Cora knows it's her last opportunity to find the answers she...
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"Think. Think."
I'd been wondering about where to start for days. Although I knew I could ask for my friend's help, for once, I felt as if there were some things that I just needed to do on my own.
Dad was passed out on the couch, an empty beer bottle lying on its side. His hand was hanging from the couch, his fingers dangling over the bottle.
"Hey Dad, how is your day going?" I mutter, walking past the lounge room and into the kitchen. "Yeah, my day's been great. Thanks for asking."
I pour myself a glass of water, my eyes trailing towards my backyard. The water was flat today, the tide right out. I wanted nothing more than to just sink under the waves where I could finally relax. But that wasn't going to happen.
I had a lot to do today. Starting with entering my dad's office yet again.
I should give credit where credit was due. If nothing else, my dad has an excellent filing system. Maybe a little over the top for a home office, but in this situation, I was grateful.
Despite the fact I knew he was well and truly passed out, I still open the door to his office cautiously. The curtains are drawn and I flick the light switch, waiting for the bulb to illuminate the room.
The filing cabinet that I'm after is in the far left corner of the room, waiting patiently to be opened.
I kick the door closed with my barefoot, striding over to it. I knew that the credit card statements would still be in here. Probably from the past ten years, not that I needed them to go back that far.
I just needed anything from when mum went missing or maybe just before. Dad kept all our statements piled together for each year. He had always said he never trusted the internet and therefore kept paper copies of everything.
If we ever had a fire, shit really would hit the fan. He was a borderline hoarder. Often, as stealthy as I could be, I threw out any of the papers I knew he wouldn't need.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the cabinet in front of me. I open it slowly, listening to it whine loudly. I grab a handle of the statements from five years ago, dated close to the time mum went missing.
