Page 33 - WaitingForMurder

“Is that...?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, staring so hard through the gloom that my eyeballs hurt. “It might be.” I fumble with my phone, but the torch isn’t strong enough to make a difference. “There’s something inside.”
“Or someone,” says Florence.
“Mum!” I shout across the reservoir. “Mum!” But she’s not listening.
“Mum!” My voice bounces around between the
trees and birds take off, wheel and land again, but Mum and the others are happy chatting in the cool of the evening and it’s us who can hear them, not the other way around.
“I’ll get her,” says Florence, already running back along the dam and down the steps.
While she’s gone I lean as far as I can and try again to see through the fading light – it’s darker inside the car, like there is something that isn’t just eels or weed, but it’s tantalisingly too far away to be sure. I take a pic with my phone and try zooming in on it, but it’s grainy and indistinct.
As I try to make sense of the shapes I can see, the final strand of sunset blinks out at the top of
Waiting for Murder by Fleur Hitchcock Uncorrected Sample
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