Paint peeled from the shack’s fibro walls; rust stains dripped from the gutters like stale blood. A towel flapped like a threadbare flag on the verandah rail, the naked pole of a fishing rod next to it. Melanie tried to ignore a row of mounds in the lawn. The one at the right was fresh, an arched bed of rocks with a cross made from driftwood, while the others were older, flatter and sparsely overgrown. Jack’s Rover was parked in a lean-to garage of bare timber and warped iron beside the house. ‘Is he home?’ Helena whispered. ‘I hope so.’ It felt so good to lie down, hidden in the scrub. Melanie wondered if she would be able to get to her feet again. The clearing around the shack seemed very open, and she was very, very tired. Helena sounded exhausted, too. Fresh bloodstains streaked her dress and hat. The sun was high, and no breeze penetrated the underbrush.
