The Shadow House(53)

Changing direction, I jogged the short distance to Kit’s house but, finding the windows dark and the door locked, I pivoted again, hurrying back around the dam to the office instead. The thought of confessing anything at all was painful – Kit would almost certainly laugh at me. But then again, he was the highest level of authority at Pine Ridge, he’d been there the longest, and if anyone should be able to provide some sort of explanation, it was him.

I jogged over the grass, past the playground and the community hall, slowing only when the converted shipping container came into view. As I passed the dry goods store, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. Be calm, I told myself. Stay cool. Inhale, exhale. When finally I felt like I had my nervous system back under control, I approached the office.

The curtains were drawn across the large picture window at the end and the sliding doors were closed. I knocked, but there was no answer. No lights, no movement. I tried the handle and, surprisingly, the door cracked open.

‘Hello? Kit, are you here?’

Nothing. Dammit.

Slipping inside, I closed the door behind me. Kit’s office, like his home, was small but clean and well ordered. Running the length of the back wall was a white benchtop with built-in drawers and three computer workstations. A tangle of cables snaking out from the wall, and a huge blinking black tower.

Directly above, succulents dripped from a shelf of the same length. The whole place smelled of new carpet and Kit’s delicious citrusy cologne.

I folded my arms and chewed my bottom lip, trying to think where else Kit might be. I had to tell him about the note; and I needed him to help me find the Kellermans.

And then I had an idea. Casually, I wandered over to one of the workstations and tapped on the keyboard. The corresponding monitor sprang to life, but the screen was password protected. Hmm. Kit probably kept all business-related contact details on his phone or computer – but if I was lucky I might find some contracts or legal documents filed away somewhere, perhaps from the sale of the land? I opened a few drawers but found nothing interesting. Under a scramble of pens, charger cords and sticky notes, I unearthed a plastic document wallet stuffed full of paper, but it just turned out to be info sheets on environmentally abusive multinationals and protest fliers. Throwing Away the Future, it said. How Corporate Giants Still Have It Wrong on Plastic Pollution ‘Solutions’. I tossed the whole lot back in the drawer.

I turned in a slow circle. If I were a contract of sale, where would I be? To my right was a small kitchenette and coffee machine; to my left, a coffee table and two armchairs. On the wall above the table was a large whiteboard, covered in writing. I stepped forward to take a closer look. In black and green erasable markers, someone had drawn a neat table with four columns and written the words COLLAB. LIVING across the top. The first column held a list of names. The second column contained a series of bullet-pointed information, the third was for addresses, and the fourth column held just a tick or a cross. I scanned the names column for Kellerman but couldn’t find it. About halfway down, though, I found my own name. Alexandra Ives (37). And in smaller lettering beneath: Oliver (14), Kara (BB). There was my old address, the name of Ollie’s school and the profession I’d supplied (‘childcare educator’; I hadn’t worked in over a year but had decided that ‘stay-at-home mum’ didn’t strike a financially secure enough tone). In the third column on my row was Jenny’s name and address, but the fourth column was blank; no tick, no cross. My fate had not yet been decided.

I found Layla’s name, and Shannon’s, plus many others that I didn’t recognise. Some had a question mark where their temporary accommodation should’ve been, which suggested that they were new or hopeful residents. There were phone numbers, postal and email addresses, websites, jobs, places of work. I wondered if Maggie was aware of the sheer number of ‘city folk’ Kit had lined up.

Turning away, I rifled through a couple more drawers. I checked the photocopier, the printer tray and the cupboards in the kitchenette. In an alcove behind the kitchen, I found a storage cupboard full of stationery. Quickly checking the door, I rummaged through the shelves. There were notepads, pens, pencils, markers … ink cartridges, stacks of paper … Sellotape, white-out, staples, paperclips … flash drives, spare chargers, extension leads …

And on the very bottom shelf, I saw packing tape, scissors, Kraft paper and a fat roll of bubble wrap.

Kneeling down, I swept my hand along the shelf and pulled out a whole stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes. Medium-sized. Brown. Exactly the same as the ones that had turned up at my house.

I sat back on my haunches, my body pulsing. It’s a stationery cupboard, I told myself. Nothing unusual about postage materials kept there. But I couldn’t stop the chill that was spreading slowly through my chest like a hoarfrost.

And then I heard voices outside.

Jumping to my feet, I dashed back out into the main office space and saw Kit and Layla through the picture window, rounding the corner near the terraced veggie garden, heading towards the office.

Shit.

I probably had about half a second to get out before they got close enough to see the front door of the office. Without thinking twice, I snuck out and hurried around to the back of the shipping container, where I flattened my back against the wall and waited. Kit’s and Layla’s voices got closer. Then I heard the door open and close.

I let out a slow, shuddery sigh of relief. They hadn’t seen