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I fiddle with my necklace.
“Are you going to get out?” the Cabi man asks gently, the wash of early morning sun causing him to squint at me.
Startled, I stare from him back to the three media vans parked on my front lawn, to the ten or more journalists and photographers, to the removal truck beeping and backing, beeping and backing, followed by a calamity of strangers carrying our furniture down the driveway, and then back to the driver who appears concerned I may have fallen into a catatonic state. Which I haven’t. ‘Cause I can hear the reporters, see the men reaping our belongings, feel my hands turning to stone. But I can’t breathe.
He tilts his head. “Ah…can you hear me?”
“Um.” I swallow, forcing a response. “Yeah.”
“Is that your house?” He gazes at the devastating fascia of our once-beautiful estate. I remember when my dad bought it for my mum, she had spun in the centre of the ballroom like something out of a Disney movie.‘Look, girls! Like from Beauty and The Beast. Please say you approve.’And my dad watched from the doorway, his eyes always on her when she was happy. “Do you need—”
“No. No.” I shake my head, push away the memory, and tear my eyes away from what is clearly no longer my home. “That’s not my home,” I breathe, my voice airy as though it is wind slipping through gaps in floorboards. Wooden ones… Like the beautiful ones we have in that house. I snap myself out of it to look at the man. “Can you take me—”
Then I see her, a microphone in her hand, a smug smile stretched—the bitch who did this.
“Bitch,” I hiss.
Before I know it, I’m throwing the Cabi door open and bolting across the road towards the redheaded woman who swore to me she would keep my father’s dealing out of the media. Promised me that in return for a favour, she would hide the fraudulent documents.
“Oi!” I march towards her, my fists curling in tight at my sides. “You! You did this!”
She touches the shoulder of a cameraman, nodding politely and smoothly and unaffected, and I’ll smack that cavalier right off her red-painted lips.
“Kaya Lovit,” she coos, performing a caring tone, but I see the bubbling of excitement at my newsworthy appearance. “I didn’t leak the information.”
“Bullshit!”
“I didn’t. Your father has been under investigation by the Australian Tax Office for years. Not months. It was only a matter of time. This”—she widens her arms for the devastating scene— “has been a long time coming. They need everything, sweetheart. Full access to the house. And your belongings, well, they are being seized. I am so sorry.”
The cameras are suddenly on me.
I stop dead in my tracks, my anger turning to panic, retreat mode freezing my muscles. Looking around, I see lenses and eyes locked on me, circling me, feel them eager to catch my meltdown or possible assault on their beloved editor, Lorna Jackson. I bet they’d enjoy either.
I should bolt and call my mum, find out which of our holiday homes she’s at and go, but my body is shaking with rage. I growl at Lorna, “You swore to me—"
“Have you spoken with your mother?” she asks me, her tone professional—newsworthy.
Ugh.
The cameras close in.
My palms get sweaty. I think about my mum’s warning message last night.It is better if you stay at Chloe’s or one of your friend’s houses after your party. Call me before you come home so I can explain.I didn’t listen. I never do. And I’ll surely hear about it when she sees the news.
“You make me sick,” I spit out to Lorna and turn on my flats, my back rigid as I head towards the Cabi only— I freeze.
He’s gone.
No.
I stall, alone on the street, the sound of reporters’ footsteps approaching me cautiously as though I may spook like a dog. I’m more likely to maul. They’ll see.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Glancing over my shoulder at the cameras focused on my every move, I consider punching the glass lens if not for the man…No.The one carrying my pink suitcase across the lawn right now.
Not them!
My eyes lock on the case, knowing what is inside. The silliest things and the sweetest. Worthless. Nothing important to anyone. But important to me.
