Chapter 1

Darkness. Silence. Sally’s head pounded as she woke. Why was she sitting with her knees up? Her lower back ached. Where was she? She stretched out her hands. Wood.

On either side of her. In front. Above her. A box or crate. Stretching out her arms, she followed the contour of the wood. It curved. Like a barrel. Her heart raced and her breath became quick and shallow.

Why was she in a barrel? And what had happened to her date? She called out for help. Her voice was a whisper, dry, muffled by the walls. The sound echoed around her, but no one responded. She was alone. Had her date done this?

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she replayed the night. Him sitting opposite her, her trying not to grin at how handsome he was. Everything was perfect. The restaurant. How he was already at the table waiting for her, unlike others.

He knew about wine and ordered a local Pinot, and when they ordered and settled into the night, how easily the conversation flowed. He talked about his work in IT. She talked about her job in sales. But then what?

He asked for the bill. She offered to pay half, but he waved her away. He said something she liked. She remembered now. You can get the next one if it bothers you. Next time. She liked that.

He was different from the others. Even the way he paid cash with crisp notes from his wallet. Most people paid by card. The waiter looked happy, so it must have been a good tip. She was generous and liked that in others. Then they left.

Outside, the air was mild. Summer was on its way. She’d felt light, giddy. It was hard to tell if it was because of the glass of wine she finished or that the night was going so well. She had a good feeling about this one. A group of girls in their teens wearing luminous short dresses bustled past them, huddled together, arms linked, swaying like they had been drinking.

They passed the police station and came to the Esplanade. His arm linked in hers as they discussed which way to go. The options were to go straight ahead to Schnapper Point Road and then down to the pier and yacht club, or cross the road and walk along Mother’s Beach and Shire Hall Beach until the foreshore reserve prevented them from going any farther.

The beach was well populated at night with couples looking for privacy and kids smoking vapes and sipping cruisers in the shadows away from prying parental eyes. But she let him pick which way to walk. Why? All because he paid for dinner? She felt a pang of regret.

They turned right and walked along the Esplanade, past a mix of original, restored weatherboards and newer mansions with uninterrupted views out across the bay, picking out the ones they liked. Halfway along she stopped at number 820, a neo-Tudor style clinker brick and shingle-tiled house that most locals knew.

Its name was Combe Martin, and it was one of Mornington’s best-known homes. He didn’t know the place but could see the appeal. The last time it came up for sale, she went to the open house with her friend Anna. The estate agent frowned as they walked in, so Anna grabbed her hand like they were a couple.

He laughed, enjoying the story, so she continued telling him about the refined elegance of English workmanship and seven hundred square metres of luxury living, and how away from the agent’s suspicious glare they had hurried around the property like excited children. Imagining themselves sipping drinks with their respective loved ones in the mahogany library, throwing fabulous dinner parties in the dining room with its French doors, and enjoying family time in the spacious kitchen with a butler’s pantry.

Did she bore him?

The old Sally would tell him how the master bedroom had captured her heart with its fitted walk-in robe, sumptuous en suite and panoramic views of the bay. How she imagined herself lying there with her significant other. Or that she knew she would never own a home like that, no matter how much she saved.

She didn’t belong in a house like that. The house would always know she was a visitor who would only stay until its proper owner turned up. And that every time she passed the property, she felt both awe and loathing at the promise of what could never be. The new Sally knew not to say things like that.

New Sally also didn’t tell him that as she stood in that bedroom, she felt how much she wanted a family and someone to love. How she knew time was running out. How she often caught herself watching her elderly parents with renewed interest. How one remembered the half of the story the other one forgot. How they put sunscreen on each other’s back.

She wanted a different version, of course. All kids did. New Sally knew not to go into any of that. She’d made that mistake before. Sharing too early. Telling things like they were. But then would come the signs. The glancing at other tables. Checking the watch. The realisation she’d blown it again.

Not this time. This one was different. Maybe even the one? Which was why when his hand slipped into hers like they had been together much longer than three hours, she stole a furtive glance and agreed to what came next.

Gesturing to the right, he asked, “Is Mills Beach along there?”

Yes. She knew it was deserted at night. He told her a story about how his father only ever took them to the beach twice, and once was to Mills Beach. She felt sorry for him. Then he asked about the hill.

The one that Sally and her friends struggled up after a day at the beach. She told him how Anna and Di would run ahead while Sally panted her way to the top, which was why she had joined a gym and got fit.

She didn’t tell him that at fifty-eight kilograms, she could now bench press a hundred, run thirty minutes, and couldn’t remember the last time she did less than fifteen thousand steps a day. How following clients around liquor stores to get their order helped and that Mills Beach was no match for her now.

She didn’t want to brag.

He asked if they could go. She knew better than to follow a stranger, even a cute one, down to a dark beach. But instead of saying no, she checked her phone to make sure it had enough charge. Why did she do that? Pathetic.

They walked to the beach, but then what? Why couldn’t she remember? Was she drugged? Did he slip something into her drink when she went to the bathroom? Drugs could cause a person to lose hours.

A chilling thought circled. Was that why he gave the waiter a large tip? Did the waiter see something? Was it his way to placate him? But if he meant to hurt her… why a barrel? It made no sense. That was the worst part.

There were barrels at work. She’d been in one before. After the new bar opened, someone had suggested they see who could fit. Sally, Gavin, and the new girl in accounts were the only ones small enough to squeeze in.

She had felt claustrophobic and wanted to get out, but Lucas asked her about the smell. He said each wooden barrel had its own unique scent that reminded him of a campfire with a hint of sawdust.

Everyone laughed, but unperturbed, he kept saying how much he loved the earthy, smoky, and warm scent that brought out the nuances of the drink inside. Was that where she was now? At work? Had she taken her date to the brewery? The bar might have been open, but then what?

Her mouth was dry, like a normal morning. Was it Saturday morning? The brewery was open on Saturdays. But it was too quiet. Trucks and the forklift would be moving around. She sniffed. All the brewery’s barrels had a scent. Nothing. So, if she wasn’t at work, where was she?