E-BOOK - Under the Midnight Sky

Australia, 1948. Two young sisters disappear without a trace. Five years later the youngest returns, but refuses to speak of what happened to her older sister – or the man who abducted them.

More than six decades later, small town journalist Abby Bardot is haunted by her own childhood abduction, secretly fearing the wrong man was imprisoned. So when a teenager disappears from a nearby forest reserve, she sets out to expose the town's dark history and warn other girls of the dangers.

When the newspaper tries to suppress the story, Abby seeks help from reclusive crime writer Tom Gabriel. Tom is cynical and closed off, but his resistance vanishes when they discover a hidden attic in his house with evidence of imprisonment from over 60 years ago.

As they work together to unravel the house’s tragic history—and overcome their own emotional scars—what they discover in Tom’s attic might just hold the key to finding the missing girl alive.

CHAPTER ONE
SHAYLA

The minute she startled awake that morning to the sound of her mother yelling, she knew it would be the shittiest birthday ever. Fifteen. Yeah, big deal. Nothing special about today, unless you counted her step-father’s gropy hands. Anyone’d think Shayla had accused him of murder, the way her mother carried on.
Well, she’d had enough.
She stomped from foot to foot on the deserted roadside, her runners puffing up dust as she glared along the old highway. No sign of town anymore. Just trees and … well, trees. She’d walked half the day hoping to catch a ride, but now the sun was sinking. It was nearly five o’clock. She’d thought hitching to the coast was a great idea. Heaps of people travelled between Gundara and the coast every day. But where were they when she needed them?
“Come on, someone!”
Her messenger bag twitched at the sound of her voice. She placed her palm gently on the zippered flap.
“Sorry, Mrs Bilby. You must be totally bored.”
The bag wriggled, and a frenzy of scratching came from inside. Shayla zipped open a corner and a hairy black nose pushed out, followed by bright black eyes. She placed a torrent of kisses on the little fur face until the rabbit stilled, then took a wad of cling wrapped apple slices from her pocket. She slipped a piece of apple into the bag and grinned as the rabbit happily gobbled it up.
“Plenty more noms when we get to Dad’s, Mrs B.” She zipped the bag shut. “I bet he’s even got his own vegie patch.”
Her stomach grumbled. She tucked the remaining apple slices back in her pocket, out of temptation’s way. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a sandwich? Birthday cake would have been nice, if anyone had bothered to make her one. She licked her dry lips. She’d drained her water bottle hours ago, and now she needed to wee. Again. But ducking into the bushes might cost her a ride.
If only she’d taken the train. If only she had more than sixteen lousy dollars in her pocket, because she’d need that on the coast to get to her dad. Her real dad. Anyway, the cops’d be all over the trains and they’d drag her back to her mother.
“That’s not gonna happen. Not today. Not ever.”
She walked to the centre of the road and frowned around at the stillness. She hadn’t seen her dad in four years, barely remembered what he looked like. He was dark-haired and had brown eyes like her. She knew where he lived because Mum blurted it out one night on a drunken bender. You don’t need him, she’d warned. He’s a selfish prick. But he was Shayla’s dad, and Shayla needed him now. He’d take her in. When she told him what her step-dad was up to, he’d totally let her stay. At least a few weeks. Maybe even forever.
A faraway drone broke the stillness. A car? She squinted hopefully along the road. A cloud of dust plumed over the trees and then a boxy white ute jounced around the bend.
Shayla stuck out her hand. “Come on, come on.” It drove right past. She glared after it. “Dickhead!”
Mrs Bilby squirmed inside the bag, but settled after a few gentle pats.
It would be dark soon. Shadows gathered in the bushes, sliding sticky-black fingers across the bitumen. She rubbed her arms through the thin sleeves. Mum’s glittery red bomber jacket looked awesome, but it didn’t hold the heat. When night fell, she would freeze.
She eyed the road anxiously. “Someone, please.”
This road got creepy after dark. Last summer she used to come out to the old campground with some school friends, drinking and kissing boys, getting naked with whoever, the usual. It had been a blast. They built a bonfire, sat around telling messed up stories about zombies and psychos, creeping themselves out. One kid swore he’d seen a ghost in the trees. It was for real, man. Floating there in the moonlight, watching us.
Probably just some harmless weirdo, but they stopped coming here. No one actually admitted to being scared, but they’d all heard the stories. All been warned by their parents. People died out there, you know. Young girls just like you. Stay away from the place, especially at night.
Shrugging off a shiver, she took out her phone and dialled her dad’s number. Just her luck, no signal. She wandered up the road, wafting the phone above her head. Still nothing.