Page 35 of Whispers of Sweetwater

The morning air still held the cool of night when Brianna stepped out and onto the front verandah of her cottage, a mug of tea warming her palms and her breath curling faintly in front of her. Having followed her, Sherlock now lay stretched beside the door, chin on his paws, ears flicking lazily at a fly that wouldn’t quit. She smiled softly. She needed normal this morning. Something soft and grounding. Sherlock gave her that, but so could her mum, so she grabbed her mobile and called her.

The phone rang twice before Nina answered, her familiar voice bright despite the hour. ‘Morning, love. I was just about to water the garden.’

Brianna exhaled slowly, the sound catching the edge of something tight in her chest. ‘Hey, Mum.’

‘Love, are you okay?’ Nina asked instantly, her mother-radar kicking in. ‘You sound … I don’t know. Quiet.’

‘I’m just tired,’ Brianna lied gently, curling her legs up onto the seat and tucking the phone between shoulder and ear. ‘It’s been a big week. Emergency callouts and the like. You know how it is.’

‘You’ve never been great at pretending you’re okay when you’re not,’ Nina replied, her voice softening. ‘You can tell me anything, Bri. You know that.’

And she wanted to. God, she wanted to tell her beautiful mum all of it. About the break-in. About Molly’s fears. About the blackmail, and the money that had vanished into shadowy accounts. About Jack. But her dad was a cop. And not just any cop. Logan Steele was the most principled, by-the-book officer Huntingvale had ever known. If he found out someone in Sweetwater, the very town his precious daughter was calling home, was being blackmailed, he’d have no choice but to act. Both professionally and personally. And that wasn’t fair to Molly. Not yet. Not without more answers. Not while she was still so scared. Not when she’d asked her to keep this quiet, for the time being.

‘Brianna, are you still there, love?’ Nina’s voice echoed.

‘Oh sorry, yes, I’m here.’

‘What’s going on, Brianna? Please talk to me.’

‘I know I can tell you anything, Mum,’ Brianna said softly. ‘And I will. Just not today. Okay?’

There was a pause on the line, and then the faintest smile in Nina’s voice. ‘All right. But don’t leave it too long. Secrets fester, and they’re heavier when you carry them alone.’

Brianna nodded, even though her mum couldn’t see her. ‘How’s Dad?’

‘Grumpy this morning,’ Nina laughed. ‘He dropped his thermos getting out of the cruiser and now he smells like pumpkin soup. He says crime rates might have dropped around town, but soup accidents are on the rise.’

A real smile tugged at Brianna’s mouth. ‘That sounds about right; always the larrikin, Dad is.’

‘Isn’t he ever,’ Nina chuckled.

They chatted a little longer – about the tomatoes finally fruiting, the neighbour’s overgrown bougainvillea hedge, a parcel of books that had arrived from Nina’s second cousin. Normal things. Safe things. But when the call ended and Brianna set her phone on the table, the feeling of normalcy thinned. The day felt too quiet. The world too still. She pushed off the chair, her tea now forgotten, and opened the screen door with one hand on the handle, just as her phone buzzed again, loud and sharp in the stillness. It rang once as she stepped inside. Twice before the screen door slapped shut behind her and Sherlock. She glanced at the screen, at the void where a number or name would usually appear.

She quickly swiped to answer then lifted the phone to her ear. ‘Hello, Sweetwater Vets, Brianna speaking.’

She was met with silence.

And then, breathing.

Quiet. Controlled. Measured. Deliberate.

‘Who is this?’ Hearing no reply, her voice sharpened, but she reined in her urge to shout at the caller, just in case it was, in fact, a client in a bad-reception area. ‘If this is someone needing help, you need to speak up, or move to higher ground, so I can hear you properly.’

Still nothing.

‘Can you hang up and call back; maybe it’s a bad line?’ Something deep inside of her screamed that it wasn’t, and neither was it someone needing help.

She tried to remain calm, cool and collected as she stayed by the phone a moment longer, listening to the empty line’s echo in her ear, before it clicked to silence. The quiet in the cottage suddenly felt thicker now, heavier. The kind of quiet that didn’t belong to morning peace, but to something … watchful. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement – Sherlock, rising from where he’d just curled by the door. Not lazily, not with his usual morning stretch, but with a sudden, rigid focus. He gave a low growl as his tail went stiff, his shoulders squared, and his ears pricked towards the backyard.

Swallowing a scream, she felt her pulse skip hard.

The air had changed – too still, too heavy. Dashing forwards, she flicked the lock on the screen door with a sharp click, then stepped back just enough to covertly see through the gap between the curtains framing the lounge-room windows. With her eyes darting left, then right, she scanned past the verandah railings to where the early light slanted through the thicket of trees. It was the kind of golden light that should have felt safe, comforting. Alluring, even. But it didn’t. Instead, it felt like something, or someone, was standing just beyond it.

Waiting.

Watching.

Sherlock growled again, a little louder this time, warningly, his hackles bristling into a rigid line down his spine as he crept forwards. With his muzzle pressing against the mesh of the flyscreen, the snarl in his throat deepened like a storm rolling in. Brianna’s stomach tightened. She followed his gaze while taking three slow steps back until her left shoulder brushed the doorframe of the kitchen. All the while, Sherlock’s eyes were locked towards the side gate, where a small patch of lawn met with the gravel path leading down to Molly’s cottage.