The truth never dies

At the edge of the car park the path turned from compacted dirt to soft sand, ribbed with tufts of beach grass. Seagulls swooped overhead, wings outstretched, feathered angels. The old lighthouse stood proud further along the coast at Eden Point, a white scar in the granite sky. Alex experienced a curious sensation, as if it was watching her. She looked for her mother to ask if she felt it too, but Denny was already walking towards the dunes.

‘Wait for me,’ Alex called, but her mother just marched away.

Swapping her jacket for a hoodie in the back of the car, and then taking off her shoes, Alex Tillerson followed Denny down the hill to the beach, praying that no one would drive 10 kilometres out of Merritt looking for a second-hand Toyota to steal, because she hadn’t renewed the insurance yet.

The sand was cold beneath her feet as her mother receded into the distance, making her way towards the slate-black rocks at the headland. Denny’s short grey hair was being pushed upward by the wind into a spinnaker-shaped sail. Denny was shrinking in real life