He made his way across the pavilion, lost himself amongst the dancers and dashed through the thickening shower to the paint-peeling gate in the fence. It swung open with a groan, drowned by the sudden start of the Macarena.
The backdoor yielded at the turn of the knob.
Down the hallway, his eye caught on a small vase he’d forgotten to store with the others. He cradled the delicate, orange-shaped glass. It even smelled of oranges, though that might have been his imagination.
“Might as well take care of you while I’m here.” He peered around doorways. “Zach?”
No answer.
The walls on the second floor were the same floral wallpaper he’d helped his mum glue up, it’s faded colours bright in spots where pictures had once hung. The first penguin he’d saved; Zachary crying over a lost ice-cream at the beach; Noah on Zach’s shoulders, face upturned to the seagull-filled sky.
The painting Zach was after.
Unshed tears bubbled in Noah’s chest. He hurried into his old bedroom, the first glimpse of yellow wall blinding.
His bed, twin night shades winking at him like teardrops either side. Rummaging came from the wardrobe where half the paintings were wrapped and stored with the vases. “Come out. Let’s talk about this.”
The rummaging halted abruptly; Zach backed out of the wardrobe.
Only, he was a little too tall. His clothes too dark.
And he held a sack at his side.
Fear scurried through Noah’s veins. Intruder.
It took all his effort not to cave to the overwhelming—and very rational—urge to flee. But those paintings and vases were no longer insured. And that shiny black rubbish sack bulged.
“Drop it.” The orange vase left his palm, a kneejerk reaction, and hurtled through the air.
“What—jeepers!”
The intruder shielded his turning face with the sack in time for the vase—
It thunked against something hard in there and dropped, shattering against the hardwood floor. A sea of ochre shards glittered over the four feet between them. An expense that would tip Noah into overdraft.
He pulled out his phone, fingers shaking, voice—from years of practice—steady. “I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t, please.” Despite the sack barrier, the intruder’s voice rang clear and deep. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding? Did you confuse this house with your own?”
“Sort of? Yes?”
“Nothing tipped you off by the second floor? Likely story. Empty your sack.”
“Um. No?”
“I’m calling.”
“Hold on, hold on. Give me a sec to catch my breath and explain. You frightened the bejeezes out of me.”
“Likewise.” Noah paused. A fair hearing was an acceptable request. “Go on.”
“I got back early—”
“Would you please lower your sack?”
“That depends.”
The man was hardly in a position to negotiate. “On what?”
“What you might throw at me next!”
Ah. A little unexpected. An intruder shaking in his . . . Wait, socks?
Dread came to him in increments, little tickles in his stomach, then giant waves that sloshed around, making him swallow burning bile. He bit down on a laugh.
“What do you mean, you came back early?” Noah asked slowly.
“My mum and sister are expecting me next month.” Inch by cautious inch the sack lowered. Black-brown hair, forehead, fairly standard eyebrows. “I had a fight with . . . a friend.” Dark eyes, crinkled skin at the edges. “And decided to relocate ahead of schedule.” A nose, slightly too big for him, a dimple in his cheek.
Noah stepped back, colliding with the wall. “Wade?”
Wade frowned, and then his sack dropped in a plonking rush.
Noah stiffened inside. A tightness that made his throat hurt, his ears pulse. Wade recognised him, too. From then.
He stared at Noah, and Noah raised his chin and stared back.
Twelve years ago, Wade had been a lanky teenager held together with confidence and an easy-going smile, forever escaping the Ferrars’ house to hang with his friends at the junkyard behind their old school.
That boy had grown into his stature.
He had more muscle on him, and another inch, but there was a softer edge to his confidence. A wariness in his expression. The baggy shirts were gone, in their place a form-fitting black t-shirt with Trust Me, I’m a Mechanic scrawled over the chest.
A wide, energetic smile transformed Wade’s face; instinctively, he started forward, arm outstretched for a handshake—
He hissed and hobbled back, a trail of oozing red following him to the bed. “Bloody hellhounds.”
“Nothing quite so imaginative, sorry.”
Wade lifted those brown eyes, and the quirk of his lips jumpstarted Noah.
He dashed out of the room, calling behind him for Wade to hold tight.
The first aid kit still sat above the mirrored bathroom cabinet. He grabbed it, pausing briefly at his reflection—neat stubble bearding his jaw, serious grimace. What must Wade see in those green eyes?
He shook himself and hurried back to his bedroom. Wade sat at the end of his bed, ankle hooked over his knee.
Of course. He’d removed a curving shard of orange glass along with his sock, and half his foot was forking canals of blood. Wade stared at it, face pale. “I didn’t get it all out.”
