A few days later.

Constable Hector Martinez of Mystery Cove was inadvertently and somewhat happily back home—in a place he wanted to escape since he was sixteen—staring thoughtfully at his desk with its flickering computer screen locked on the login page of Mystery Cove Police Station.

For once, he wasn't bored, he was pondering. Ever since his hopes and dreams of impressing the bigwigs back in the city were dashed, that's all he had going for him. Pondering, and he pondered that Sunday morning, the tenth of December—forgetting all about the tradition of taking his mum on their annual Christmas shopping.

Why hadn't there been any 'Stay and help us, oh, great Hector,' by the Surry Hills po-pos, as he'd hoped? Why was there no, 'We'll be in touch. Let's solve this together,' olive branch held out? Why had there just been this, 'Thanks for bringing these in for us'—all that evidence he'd gathered alone—as if he wasn't a cop but some good Samaritan doing the right thing and calling it in on the Police Helpline?

Why hadn't they offered him a bloody job yet?

'It's late in the year and we're a few men down for the holidays, but we'll definitely look into it and get back to you if we need anything else from you-know-who. Just keep the package safe until further notice. You can claim any expenses incurred—Gordon will show you how.' Those had been Sergeant Winter's last words as he shook Hector's hand firmly while Lead Senior Constable Gordon had tried very hard but failed to hide his damn smirk. Another smack on Hector's eager-to-prove boyish face.

'Keep the package safe'. When had he become a bodyguard? When had Devi's status shifted from a 'victim' to 'the package'? Was she not a person? Was he not a bona fide cop?

Questions. Questions. Oh, so many questions swirled in his mind. And Hector sat there, nursing day-old stubble—for he couldn't bring himself to do anything after that depressing drive back last night. And he thought. Thoughts that stewed internally as he tried—a little too late—to come up with ways he should have responded, the ways he should have asserted his contribution and aptitude in that case that was making headlines all over the world. He deserved a slice of that fame pie, dammit!

At least they let me study the CCTV footage as many times as I liked before dismissing me. Hector had thought while driving out of Sydney's hectic traffic and into the open highways that day, and he still thought that as he sat there, slowly chewing his lips, replaying those images in his mind. The CCTV footage may as well have imprinted onto his brain, what with the number of times he watched them. Yes, it was true they hadn't allowed him to grab a copy of the footage, but he had taken copious notes during the viewings, so many notes he'd needed a new notebook or two.

Gordon had thought him crazy. He couldn't understand what Hector's fascination was with those boring, grainy videos that showed nothing of significance. What could he garner from watching them again and again? The main event was missing. Coincidence had it that the moment Devi disappeared, all electronics aboard had gone dark, possibly because of a nearby lightning strike. It had taken the generator to restart a few minutes later, by which time Bhawani was screaming for 'help'. All hell broke loose on that dark deck outside Devi's room then. Folks gathered to watch the spectacle in shock, but nothing more.

Devi had vanished.

Naturally, Hector as disappointed to know there was a blackout in the CCTV. He would have given anything to see who'd plunged that knife into Devi Dhungel's back. What had happened in those dark five minutes on board between Devi and Bhawani stepping out of the room, looking left and right, then Bhawani screaming?

Could it be...? Hector hadn't let himself finish that thought per se. He wanted to keep from forming theories too early, not until he had all the facts.

"You look a little obsessed. There's nothing new in those videos we haven't already combed," Lead Senior Constable Gordon had criticised, walking past the viewing room for the umpteenth time that day. A peel of laughter had rung all the way back to the room minutes later. Hector had never doubted Gordon was making fun of him with his pals in the break room.

"Laugh all you want," he had muttered. "I'll solve this before you can figure out what's going on, you little schmuck!" Because what Gordon hadn't known was that Hector's fascination with those grainy images was deeper than theirs. They all knew the names behind those faces, sure, but he knew them from an entirely novel perspective. Devi's. It was the reason he had watched them videos as many times as he could stand it, studying them for personal ticks, for minute tell-tale body language in the days leading up to the event. Things that could help him solve the who-dun-it so Devi could be safe again.

If Gordon had bothered to transcribe Devi's interview from Hector's Dictaphone instead of sashaying around the station as if they were better than him, they too would have learned what he'd garnered about these 'persons of interest'. After all, didn't they say a picture spook a thousand words? And those words were clashing with the varying statements from the 'witnesses' on file or the verbal accounts Hector had painstakingly gathered himself, despite his horrible disguise as a 'crime reporter'.

And what Hector had learned on that last day in Sydney was worth some pondering. For some things weren't as clear as they'd once been. There were anomalies, between others' accounts and statements of the events leading up to the disappearance, compared to what Devi remembered. So who was telling the truth and who was weaving some grand porkies?

I have to solve this before they do. Hector stared at those three-notebook worth of notes on his dusty old desk, open and inviting. 'Hey, look at me, read me, absorb me so you can solve this mystery and say, 'Take that, Sergeant Winter. Take that, Gordon-the-asshole! While you sat on your hands, planning your Christmas holidays, I fucking solved it!'

"I'll show them!" Hector finally shifted, grabbing the first of those notebooks filled with notes he'd taken from the suspect interviews, from file reviews, and his viewings of the CCTV footage. "I'll show them, and then, Chief will have to approve my transfer from here ... he has to."

He poured over them again, reminding himself of where each of the suspects was at the time Devi and her sister stepped out of her room and onto the deck—for what reason, he'd have to ask Devi again. Her sister had said, rather unconvincingly, 'Maybe to get some fresh air?' But fresh air in that weather, he doubted it very much.

As the cool of the morning got replaced by the heat of the day, the ceiling fan rattled, struggling to do what it should. Outside, Hector could hear the cicadas cry for water; the flies gorge on the feast left out by the pub—bins overflowing for the council pick up. Sweat pooled and trickled from his armpits and other crevices, he read, mumbling to himself, trying to memorise the order of events, the locations of each party; their movements after Devi 'vanished'.

When he thought he had it all in his head, he paced, absorbed in formulating plausible theories.

That was when the tattered and useless screen door squeaked open and his Deputy stepped in—after a week-long disappearance!—so naturally, Hector screamed, startled. "What the fuck, Steve!"

"Oh, heya, Heck. How's it goin?" Steve Murray, a solid-built man, slightly on the short side—and a tad touchy about it—wore nothing but short shorts, showcasing his muscular quads, and a faded T-shirt sporting some not-so-fashionable wear-and-tear holes. The man also needed a long-overdue haircut (who said mullets could make a comeback?).

He scratched his head sheepishly and repeated, "Whatchya doing?"

"Where the fuck have you been?" Hector stared at the man. "And what's that you wearing? Didn't I say at least wear the damn uniform shirt in case the Chief pops in?"

"I couldn't find me shirt. And Ma's back's given out again. She needed me around the farm ... You know how it is." Steve, or as the locals sometimes called him, Stoive, chuckled, walking over to his dustier than the outback desk perpendicular to Hector's.

No. Hector didn't know 'how it is'. Sure, he lived in the Australian Outback, but a farm boy, he was not. His parents never wanted him to become another Stoive or Davo or Gazzas in this fun-forsaken land. The man had soft, pristine hands, for goodness' sake.

Steve dropped himself on the plastic chair—yep, the man used a plastic chair—and flung his dry, dusty, thonged feet up on the desk. "You working?"

"Trying!" Hector pouted.

"What you working on? That old novel of yours? I thought you gave that up ages ago."

Ah, the long-forgotten novel. Years ago, influenced by the unspoken expectation of being the only son of a famous literary writer, some in the publishing world had looked upon him to dazzle them with his own fascinating stories. Like father like son.

Thus, Hector had attempted a novel, fashioned after his favourite PI characters, Sherlock Holmes and Poirot.

Since then, countless years had passed, and he was still stuck somewhere in that muddling middle, and, frankly, ready to abandon it. Perhaps now, Devi's case, his only case, could inspire him still. But being a writer had never been Hector's dream. It had been his father's. A father who'd betrayed their trust. So no, he wasn't about to pursue that career should policing not work out for him.

"The novel?" Hector asked, feigning ignorance.

"Yeah, the one you told me about, years ago ... You almost done with that?" Steve picked at something in his teeth and waved a fly away. "Your dad would be proud."

Hector bristled at the mention of his dad. "No. I'm not working a story!" Though it wasn't entirely true, was it? He was working on Devi's story, and the stories of all those people he'd interviewed, trying to patch which pieces went where on a jigsaw puzzle. "I'm... I'm working on a legit case. You'd know this if you'd bothered to check in from time to time. This is your workplace, remember?"

"Whatchya mean a legit case? Here, in Mystery Cove?" Steve dropped his feet off the table. "What is it? Can I help, boss?"

Can he help? Hector cocked his head to the side. Sure. Why not? He could use a sounding board. "Your Ma won't need you?"

"Nah, her back's fine. I was just fibbing so you don't chew me ear off." Steve bolted up from his seat, shaking his head. "So, tell me about this case? Is it about that woman who turned up on our beach?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Brady's daily bulletin, the Town Tattler." Steve blinked. "How else would we get our news?"

"You actually read that shit?"

"Read it? It's the only thing I read. Brady's a talented SOB."

Hector felt his throat constrict. Brady? A talented SOB? Really? "It's a legit bulletin?"

Steve, ill-aware of his boss's confusion, nodded. "Me ma says he used to work for the SMH—that's the Sydney Morning Herald, you know—before his pa had that bitch-of-a-stroke. Poor, Mr Moriarty. It's why Ma says Brady came back home, to look after his folks and take over the family farm and business. That's a man right there!"

Hector stared at his deputy, suddenly feeling a strange sense of admiration come over for a man he'd been avoiding since that truth-or-dare incident last Christmas. Brady Moriarty was the man?

Brady Moriarty was the man! Heck, even he couldn't deny it now.

Hector cleared his throat and began passionately telling Steve all about Devi, the woman who'd been occupying his mind these past two weeks.

By that evening, Deputy Steve Murray asked, "You trust Devi? Everything she said?"

Such a simple question. But it got Hector thinking. Do I trust Devi? "Why would she lie?"

"People do strange things." Steve shrugged.

"She has amnesia!" Hector shook his head, welcoming the reprieve from the heat the evening was promising. "Why the fuck would she lie? It's not like she can stab herself and jump off the deck. Who in their right mind would do something so fucking stupid?"

"What if she wasn't in her right mind?"

"Her blood work came back fine. Just some alcohol."

"Well then." Steve stared at the notebooks laid outside by side. "Someone is lying. That knife didn't stab your girl by itself."

"That's what I've been saying." Hector sank to the edge of the desk with relief. "But who?"

"Who?" It was then that his deputy paced, mumbling as Hector had done earlier that day. "There's a way to check, the only way to check who's telling the truth ... Corroborate their stories with hers. Again."

Steve turned to Hector Martinez then. "You gotta shake her memories loose, boss. Tell her what you saw on the cameras. Win her trust. Get her to trust you with her secrets as she might her lover. I bet she knows deep down who it is that tried to off her... maybe she's just too scared to admit it. To let that memory surface. Make her feel safe. Make her feel like with you, nothing and no one can touch her again, and then—"

Hector's eyes went wide then. "And then she might remember?!"

"Exactly!"

"But how do I get her to trust me like that?" Hector blinked. It was probably the last thing Devi wanted. To trust another person, especially a stranger.

"Spend time with her. One-on-one. Show her you care." Steve softly prodded a finger at Hector's chest. "Mean it."

"Mean it?"

"Yep. Mean it. Show her you actually care for her. Me ma always says women love that shit. The caring, sensitive sorta fella."

And that was when it happened, as Steve continued to mumble, "Go off books. You're not a cop anymore. You're her friend. Approach her that way. She's already at your Ma's. Go stay there a few nights. Care for the woman. Whatever it takes, boss. I can even cover for you. I'll tell the Chief you wanted a fucking Christmas holiday for once ..."

"What about the station?" Hector asked, a flutter in his chest told him this was exactly what he needed to do to solve this case. Go off books. "You think you can handle the station for a while?"

"What's the worst that can happen while you're gone?" Steve grinned then. "Gavin's gonna blow a gasket? Hunter and his friends are gonna piss themselves on goon bags and pass out on the beach? I got this, boss."

And there it was. The moment Hector Juan Martinez decided to take the biggest leap of faith in his life. He was going to leave Mystery Cove and its people in the hands of his incompetent deputy, while he went home to get close to Devi Dhungel for the sake of the case and his career.

"I'm gonna solve this!" Hector gathered his notebooks, burning to get out of there.

"Yeah, you are!"

Bless Steve's enthusiasm. But Devi Dhungel wasn't a pleasant person to get close to, was she?