Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,1

January, probably mopped or hosed down a bunch of times too. Any trace of Henry has been scrubbed clean, the same way The Shallows was drenched and wrung out by that storm.

I don’t feel his presence here. Not in some psychic or spiritual way – I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. I’m all about facts and clues and tangible evidence, and making all the pieces fit together. I do, however, believe in gut instinct. And right now I’m struggling to imagine Henry’s wet footprints leading from the waiting room out onto the platform, in the same way I find it hard to accept he’s a runaway. Henry’s like a brother to me. He wouldn’t leave forever without saying goodbye.

Or maybe that’s just the guilt talking.

Moving through the doorway to the edge of the platform, I glance left and right along the rails. A small skink darts across a wooden sleeper into a tuft of dead grass. It’s a still afternoon. Limp and overcast. I close my eyes and try to recall the pitch black of that January night, the thrashing trees and sideways rain, the thundering wind as it pummelled buildings and moaned through cracks like a tortured soul. I know why I risked going out in that weather, but what was Henry’s reason? What happened that was so desperate he’d rather take his chances on the train, in the city, away from everything he’s ever known?

‘Afternoon,’ says a voice behind me.

I spin around to find an elderly man shuffling through the entry gate towards the waiting room. He touches his fingers to the tip of his flat cap and doesn’t seem to recognise me, even though I’ve smiled at him on the street since I was six.

‘Hi, Mr Milburn,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Chloe Baxter.’

He pauses, tilting his head back to examine me through his multifocals. It takes him a moment to reconcile the image of the sixteen year old who left here a few months ago with the one who’s returned. When he does, a flicker of his brows is the only acknowledgement that I’ve cut off my long, dark-blonde hair, revealing a mousy crop underneath. The summer glow in my skin has faded to pasty white, and I’ve ditched my light floral dresses for a sombre black shirt and jeans. I’m reminded that’s how it is in The Shallows – people pretend to mind their own beeswax and no one ever says anything to your face. Of course, when it comes to car boot sales and sausage sizzles, this small town reeks of community spirit. But as soon as there’s a whiff of trouble, nobody wants to get involved.

‘I have something for you,’ I say to Mr Milburn, hurrying to my suitcase near the station’s entrance. I slide a folder from the side pocket and tug out a piece of paper. Across the top of the page are the words STILL MISSING, with a large colour photo of Henry underneath. I’ve been plastering these flyers all over train stations and shopping centres for months.

Have you seen thirteen-year-old Henry Weaver? it reads. Henry is Caucasian, about 153 cm tall with a thin build, blue eyes and light brown hair. He may be wearing a green baseball cap and black sneakers, and carrying a navy and yellow backpack.

‘Would you mind putting one of these up at the bowling club?’ I ask. ‘I made new ones with a different photo.’

Mr Milburn’s lips stretch thin as he peers at the paper. He and his wife lived next door to the Weavers for years before Mrs Milburn passed away. He knows Henry and his older brother Mason. He knows their mother.

Then again, who doesn’t?

Finally accepting the flyer with a liver-spotted hand, he studies Henry’s photo and the description.

Henry was last seen in The Shallows in the NSW Southern Highlands on the evening of 10 January. He may have boarded a train between the hours of 10 pm on 10 January and 1 pm on 11 January.

Mr Milburn regards me with cloudy eyes. ‘Ever consider the young lad might not want to be found?’

I stare after him as he continues his slow shuffle into the waiting room, unsure of how to respond. I haven’t let myself entertain that scenario.

Trailing over to my suitcase, I feel a sudden ache of loneliness. I wish Dad would hurry up and get here. My mother complains that everyone in the Southern Highlands lives on country time, and says a decade of living here has ruined