Chapter 7: Safe in Brisbane

Nobody slept.

At first light Rhys stood at the edge of the garden, looking east at the empty sea.

"She's closed the door on us," he said. "Nobody is going to open it from the outside."

"So we open it ourselves?"

"With anything that sends a signal."

Abel stirred the pot over the fire.

"Radio," he said. "The helicopter had a good set. If any of it survived, you could call the coast guard direct."

"It was under the tide most of the night," I said.

"Low tide's at nine."

Rhys looked at me.

"I'm going to the wreck," he said. "I won't ask you to come."

"Good, because I'm not asking you to ask."

I handed Junie to Abel, and Abel took her without a word, which was how I knew how worried he was.

The helicopter lay on the black sand where the surf had dragged it overnight, wedged on its side with the sea licking at the cockpit.

The smell was bad, burnt rubber and old salt.

Rhys went in through the broken windscreen first.

I followed him because I wasn't going to stand on the beach while a man pulled my rescue out of a wreck.

The cockpit was a tight tangle of cables and shattered glass, and water sloshed around our knees.

"Careful," Rhys said, and put his hand out to steady me over a jagged strut.

I took it before I could stop myself.

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