I only have a minute or two, at most.
And then the phone comes alive, the battery symbol replaced with Phoebe’s home screen. I sigh in relief, remembering how the phones were so old and cheap that most of us didn’t bother using passcodes back then.
I start with the photo album. I know I don’t have time to read through Phoebe’s texts, but I may have just enough to scan her photos for anything out of the ordinary.
I steal another glance out the window, just as Josh steps away from the car and towards the store.
I scan the screen, which is now filled with thumbnail images,most of which I recognize. A landscape shot of the Inn’s backyard, the wild outback sprawling in front of the camera. A photo of the Mob all huddled together after our bungee-jumping adventure in Cairns, another of our group at a Sydney nightclub. And then one of Phoebe and me on our first night together. I swallow a burst of emotion.
But the most recent image is unfamiliar. It’s a close-up of Phoebe, clearly taken at night, her face fuzzy against a coal black background. As I look closer, I realize it’s a video, not a static photo as I first thought, and I click on it eagerly.
When the image fills the screen, I instantly see what hadn’t been visible in the thumbnail. Phoebe’s face is covered in scratches, a harsh bruise blooming on her cheekbone. And her eyes are two giant moons, fear imprinted on her features.
I check the time stamp: 11:14 p.m. on December 25, 2015. Over an hour after I left her.
And undoubtedly shortly before she died.
My breath catches. Despite everything I’ve done to get here, there’s a part of me that still isn’t ready to know exactly what happened to Phoebe. That isn’t ready for the truth.
But it’s now or never.
I press the play button.
Her words are quiet but rushed, as if she was hurrying to get them out before someone stopped her.
“I’m leaving you this video, Claire.” The sound of my name hits me with a shock, momentarily freezing my rapid heartbeat. “Because I want you to know what happened. To explain. But more than anyof that, to warn you.”
Despite the musty heat of the shop, a shiver runs through me.
Suddenly, her head jerks to look behind her, as if she’s heard something. When she turns back to the camera, her eyes are more frantic, her words coming even faster than before.
“The people we’re friends with, they’re not who you think they are. One of them is a bad person. A really bad person. And I don’t want you to get mixed up with him like I did.”
I hear the bell chime above the door. Josh is coming in, but there’s one second left in the video, and I can’t bring myself to turn it off. Instead, I turn around so my back is facing the door, as if I’m focused on picking out a soft drink. Phoebe’s voice continues to talk at me.
“Claire, you need to stay away from Josh McBride.”
45
Phoebe
Then
“Stop.”
I spin around, taking in the source of the command that froze the blood in my veins.
“What are you doing?” I ask, irritated to hear the tremble in my voice.
“What does it look like? Looking for you.”
He approaches me from the side—not the front as he would have done if he’d been heading directly from the Inn. How long has he been out here searching for me?
“Josh.” His name is a whisper on my lips.
I didn’t recognize him at first, not in the first few weeks of the program.
Not until that night in the Whitsundays.
