Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7 Amy felt their eyes on her as she took the phone. Her face grew hot and she turned so that Dan couldn't see it. "Wh-what do you want, Ian?" She hated herself for stuttering. Pressing her lips together, she promised herself she wouldn't do it again. "Now, that's not much of a greeting," Ian said in his silky British accent. "But I suppose I deserve it." "You deserve worse than that," Amy said. "I know. I have done some terrible things to you. But we're in a contest. I learned from my father that the only important thing is to win," Ian said. "I hear his voice in my head all the time, like after a cricket match. Ian, I don't care if you played well. Didn't you notice that your team lost? If you expect a pat on the back, you're not getting it from me!"

Amy felt a spurt of sympathy. But Ian had manipulated her before. She wasn't going to fall for it again. No matter how sincere he sounded. "Tell it to your therapist." "Look, I deserve everything you're saying. I'm not calling to gain your trust," Ian said. "I'm calling because I have some information." "Tell it to someone who cares," Amy said. Dan moved closer so he could try to hear the other side of the conversation. Amy backed away. "Do you expect me to—" "It's about your parents," Ian said. "About their death." Amy froze. "My mother told me everything. They were murdered." Amy felt a buzzing in her ears. She couldn't concentrate. She just kept hearing the word murdered. Parents… murdered… Parents… murdered… "Amy?" She heard Ian talking, but she couldn't make sense of what he was saying.

Was it something she'd always known somehow? Deep down in a place she was afraid to look? The fire… wet grass against her legs… Dan shivering in her lap… smoke and fire pouring out into the night air… What was that? The image had just popped into her head. Amy put her fingers on her forehead and kneaded it, trying to make the image go away. "…wanted to talk to you about it. A temporary truce. We give you our word that nothing will happen…." Parents. Murdered. "Will you come?" Ian asked. "Tell me what you know." Amy struggled to keep her voice level. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "This phone is not secure." "What?" "Trust me. It's not. Listen, I'll meet you in an open place with lots of people— The Rocks Market at Circular Quay. Meet me in front of the

Museum of Contemporary Art at three o'clock." Amy said nothing. "I hope you do," Ian said, and hung up. "So, what did the creep say?" Dan asked. "What did he expect you to do this time? No, don't tell me. You're going to fall for whatever he said, right? Oh, Ian," he said in a high voice, fluttering his eyelashes, "take me for a sail on your S.S. Dreamboat…" Amy turned on him fiercely. "Cut it out, dweeb! He just asked for a meeting!" "Stop the madness!" Dan said, holding his head and rocking back and forth. "My sister is a love alien!" "DAN!" "All right, you two," Nellie said. "Separate corners." She peered worriedly at Amy. "But you're not going to meet him, are you, Amy? Because…" "I wish you two would stop treating me like I'm completely stupid," Amy said. "Hey, if the Crocs fit," Dan muttered.

Amy jammed her hands in her pockets. She had to be alone and think. Because the idea was just too huge. She couldn't begin to talk about it. Not yet. Parents. Murdered. Amy turned and flung herself back into the house. Shep was just heading out, jingling his car keys. "Everybody ready to hit the road? We have time for a quick tour of Sydney, then let's head to the market for some grub." "I'm going to hang out here," Amy said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Jet lag just hit. I need some downtime." Nellie looked at her sympathetically. "You'll feel better after a nap." "Are you going to dream about your dreamboat?" Dan asked. "Down, boy," Nellie said to Dan. "Let's give Amy a rest." They cleared out, and Amy was left alone with Ian's voice in her head. Murder. Was he lying? Or did he know who killed them? Amy bent over and took deep breaths. Someone

had killed her parents. Someone she probably even knew. The Kabras couldn't be trusted. She could be walking into a trap. She didn't care. Because inside her brain one question burned: Who? The late afternoon sun was still strong as she left the bus stop and walked toward the museum by the harbor. Circular Quay was a busy spot for tourists. She was relieved to find it crowded and lively. It was easy to lose herself in the wandering throngs. She stopped at the first store she found that sold touristy things and bought a baseball cap that read OZ. She pulled it low over her face as if she was shading her eyes from the bright afternoon sunlight. She wished she could be one of the tourists with a camera, ambling through the maze of cobblestone streets and alleyways. This was one of the oldest parts of Sydney, and the stores and sidewalk cafés she passed looked tempting. Ahead,