by PJ Vye
Mataio evaded the question with one of his own. “Why have you reopened the case?”
“The autopsy revealed she’d been hit multiple times. From two different angles.”
“The autopsy was wrong.”
“No, Mataio. It wasn’t.”
Mataio wiped sweat from his forehead. He needed the interview to be over. “What do you want me to say?”
“Talk me through what happened.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Why?”
“It’s disrespectful to La’ei.”
Ronson opened his mouth to argue then closed it again. They’d sat on this merry-go-round before. “Are you protecting someone? Who else was there?”
Mataio couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was noone there but him. It was their place. No-one else knew about it. “Who would I want to protect? You think at fifteen years old I would have stood by and let someone else hurt my most favourite person in the world? I would’ve killed to protect her.”
“Ironic, given you killed her.”
“Right.” Mataio rubbed his temples. “I need to go.” He stood to leave but Ronson didn’t move.
“Here me out, Mat. Please, sit down.”
Mataio looked at the man across from him, all bones in a shirt several sizes too big. His shoulders drooped and he seemed to have trouble holding up his head.
Mataio sat.
“Is it possible someone else was there, and you didn’t know?”
“I hit her once. She died.”
“Instantly?”
He hesitated and Ronson prompted him again. “Did she die instantly, Mat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I didn’t stop to look.”
“You buried her before you checked?”
“No. No! I…I… ran away, but I came back.”
The memory pushed itself forward uninvited. Without stopping to check if she was dead or alive, he’d sprinted through the brush, out onto the main track toward home, when he heard her call his name. The relief he’d felt at the sound of her voice was as vivid as the plunge of despair when he returned and her eyes sat open, staring vacantly.
“How long were you gone?”
“It felt like a million years.”
“How long, Mat?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Long enough for someone to come in and hit her a few more times?”
It wasn’t possible. “No-one knew where we were. No-one knew the spot. Only us.”
“What would you rather believe, Mat? You killed La’ei, rather than accept she told someone else about your secret spot.”
“It was our place.” He sounded like the fifteen-year-old he’d been back then.
Ronson’s voice rose. “It was your place. I get it. But if she happened to tell someone else— someone important to her at the time—who do you think it would have been?”
The two men stared at each other. Both knew the answer.
Fui.
Ronson broke the silence that sat heavy between them. “Michael Fui had a lot to lose if La’ei went public with the pregnancy. She was sixteen. He was thirty-two.”
Mataio knew there was something else he should be processing, but all he could think about was her betrayal. Did she tell Fui about their place? How many times did La’ei take him there? Did they use it as a meeting place? Is it where she got pregnant?
Ronson continued. “Fui’s already doing time for domestic violence in Loddy. There’s talk he’s been boasting about someone else doing his time for murder.”
And there it was. The thread he’d missed. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge Ronson’s words. It would mean his entire life had been built on a lie. His sacrifice? All for nothing.
His head might explode. He couldn’t let his thoughts go there.
Instead, he focused on the letter from Sunny in his room. He would let himself read it again when he got back. She’d tell him about her week. Her job, her apartment, the Samoan food, his aunt, his cousin, the weather. He’d imagine himself there with her. Then he’d read it again. And again. Anything to stop the parallel universe Ronson suggested.
“I have to go,” said Mataio. There seemed to be no breath in his lungs. Was he even sure it was Ronson and not himself with the lung cancer? The air in the room disappeared. His body felt so cold. Ronson’s concerned face blurred. He could see the man’s mouth moving but couldn’t understand the words.
Then the room darkened into nothing and his mind went beautifully quiet.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunny didn’t know how to say no when Carrie sidled up to her with a plan. On the day Violoa left for New Zealand, Sunny found herself keeping watch while Carrie searched the director’s office for a book of passwords.
Almost everyone was eating dinner in the food hall, so the risk of discovery was low, but they only needed one person to walk by—even a young child casually mentioning they saw an adult in Violoa’s office and it would mean instant dismissal for the both of them. Violoa was extremely private when it came to her office.
Sunny didn’t ask how Carrie got a key—better not to know. It felt a bit like high school all over again, being dragged into trouble and not wanting to appear weak by refusing to get involved. She really didn’t want to be there.
Sunny pretended to be on a call and walked in vague circles with the phone held to her ear, so she could see every angle.
The click of the door made her spin around. It was Carrie, looking casual, as if she broke into people’s private office’s every day of the week.
“You got it?”
“Yep,” she said, and waved her phone over her shoulder as she walked back to her room. “You coming?”
Sunny checked her watch. Tulula would be bathing Atali by now. Her daughter would be in bed by the time Sunny caught the bus home. Maybe she’d ask Carrie to drive her home. The thirty-five-minute bus ride took six minutes in a car.
Carrie’s room nestled between two dormitories. The single bed took up almost the entire space, and the walls were painted a dirty yellow. There were no chairs and they both sat on the bed—Carrie against the pillows and Sunny perched on the edge, close to the door. The adrenaline from being lookout still pumped through her.
Carrie pulled her computer onto her lap and waited a painfully long time for the internet to kick in. “There are three accounts,” she said, tapping at her keyboard. “Two are banks from Samoa, and one looks like an international.”
Sunny scrolled through her messages while she waited for Carrie to log in. Laurence had texted thirteen times today. He’d taken her and Atali to Paddles for lunch yesterday and she’d told him she wouldn’t allow the medical tests on Atali. That had been a difficult conversation given he’d paid for her taxi and a gourmet crab salad.
He took it well, then asked her out again. Just the thought of it made her stomach flip. What did he want from her now?
Carrie squealed, and Sunny panicked. “Shit, you scared me.”
“Check this out,” said Carrie, and turned the screen for Sunny to see. “This is the refuge account.” Carrie began to take photos of the screen and scroll down through the transactions. “Notice there’s no cash deposits here. All those tourists who pay in cash—where does that go? And the money from the refuge shop?”
“She pays me in cash sometimes.”
“Nowhere near as much as what is donated,” said Carrie, indignantly.
“Anything else?” Sunny wanted Carrie to shut the whole thing down and walk away. It felt like such a betrayal, whether Violoa had been dishonest or not. You can’t fix cheating with cheating. Sunny knew that.
“I’ll try another account,” said Carrie, and flicked through her phone to find the photos of the other passwords. “This one looks like her personal account.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she listed it as her personal account.”
“Oh.”
“Let me look.”
Sunny scrolled down the list. A regular income arrived every month from something called JonYhk and she withdrew most of it each month in cash from an ATM in the city. “What do you think she does with it?”
“Clothes? A secret lover? Lap dances?” Carrie guessed.
Sunny laughed nervously as Carrie stared at the screen.
She took a few more photos and logged off the second account. The third, foreign bank account didn’t work with the password she entered.
“Don’t try again,” said Sunny, flustered. “If it locks you out, she’ll definitely know someone was looking.”
“Not necessarily. She’ll assume hackers. Not us.” She tried again, taking care to tap every letter slowly. “We’re in,” she said with a half manic grin.
“How much?” asked Sunny, afraid to look.
“Virtually nothing. It’s all attached to some shares—maybe a superannuation account. How old do you think Violoa is?”
“No idea. She could be anything between fifty and a hundred.”
Carrie chuckled and slid the computer closed.
Relief flooded Sunny. It was over. “So, what do you think? Any solid evidence?”
“Not really. It’ll be hard to pin anything on her.”
“What were you going to do if you found something?”
“I don’t know. Confront her?”
Sunny nearly slipped off the bed. “You’re kidding me?”
Carrie leaned over and switched on the overhead fan. “Well, yes.”
“Do you even have a plan?”
“Sort of.”
“Does it involve stalking?”
“Not stalking. Surveillance.”
“Are you going to tell me your plan?”
“Do you really want to know? It’s probably better if you don’t.”
Sunny knew that was true. She couldn’t afford to take risks like Carrie, who was a single, twenty-something-year-old backpacker. Sunny had responsibilities. She had a child. “You’re right. I don’t wanna know.”
“Good,” said Carrie. “Cause you wouldn’t like it.”
Chapter Sixteen
A range of advertising campaigns had begun for the diet pill, C2HO, street name BrinnThin. One TV ad showed a family playing together in the park, all within a normal weight range, laughing and throwing a ball—a Labrador romping happily between them. Another ad showed a man puffing up a set of stairs with a voiceover telling the audience we fought millions of years of evolution every time we attempted to diet because, biologically, our bodies wanted to store fat in case of famine. It wasn’t our fault, the voiceover said. Let’s take on our human genetics for what they are—outdated and obsolete.
The ads went on. Focusing mostly on health, how the drug was made from a natural compound, how obesity is the number one cause of most other health issues. Even the bottle the pills came in looked organic and preppy.
Laurence felt a cold chill every time an ad ran. They were all over the internet as well. He imagined it had ramped up more on the mainland—in Samoa it was hard to tell the extent of it. They still ran early episodes of Bold & The Beautiful here.
He read through Junior’s doctor’s report and blood results once again. “All levels in a normal, healthy range.” The doctor had been thorough. He understood the brief. Find something. But there was nothing. Two years after losing 200 kilograms, Junior seemed completely unaffected. Any organ degeneration had reversed itself and he seemed to be in excellent health—a miracle considering his history.
To his credit, Junior had been completely co-operative—not complaining at some of the more invasive tests. The large cheque he received certainly helped with his co-operation, but he did it all with a good nature. His skin hadn’t yet shrunk back to normal and he’d even allowed them to take a sample of it for testing. He needed stitches for the hole they dug.
Without any evidence, Laurence needed a new angle.
He lay on the bed with a notebook and pen and stared out the window, willing ideas to come. If he couldn’t discredit the drug, how else could he stop it?
The genetic deformity lead was a dead end. After spending time with Sunny, he was convinced Junior wasn’t Atali’s father. Sunny wanted people to think he was, but his instinct told him she lied.
His phone beeped. There was only one person he wanted it to be. When her name appeared, he smiled. He couldn’t help it.
Sunny: do you own surveillance equipment?
Laurence: hah! what kind of reporter do you think I am?
Sunny: I need binoculars
Laurence: sorry
Sunny: what about a trench coat?
Laurence: in this weather?
Sunny: you call yourself a reporter. Never mind.
Laurence: anything else I can help you with?
Sunny: *eye roll
Laurence: we still on for tonight?
Sunny: if u bring dinner?
Laurence: yep see you at 6
Sunny: