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F r i d a y, 12/4/19

Dear Diary,

I could've hugged Spencer or kissed her or done both.

Once again, she'd proven to be an outstanding star!

"Spence! You're a genius!" I exclaimed as I rushed forward to envelop her in a big hug. "How come I never think of doing cool stuff like that?"

Spencer chuckled and pushed herself away from me, her eyebrows twerked upwards in amusement. "C'mon. The bug's connected to a recording app on my laptop. We'll be able to hear everything that goes on."

Hastily, the two of us retreated to my bedroom after throwing a few words of parting at the new maid who was shuffling around like a nervous pigeon afraid to fly. As I jumped onto my bed and patted the empty spot beside me, Spencer retrieved her laptop from the computer bag strapped over her shoulder and opened it up.

Entering the app, she pressed a few buttons before selecting P L A Y.

"Nam nuzhno razobrat'sya v etoy probleme."

Spencer's eyes widened in shock. "What the...? Whose talking?"

"Is - is that ... Russian?" I furrowed my brow in surprise.

Spencer swivelled her head around to stare, amazed, at me. "How do you even know that?"

"I studied Russian for a bit last semester," I shrugged. "It was part of our credit score."

"Can you recognise any words?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't. But I'm one hundred percent certain that's Russian."

"But whose talking in bloody Russian and why?" Spencer flailed her hands in the air. "Maybe the app is not working properly..."

"My dolzhny nachat's docheri Ernesta."

"No! Wait! Did you hear that?" I grasped Spencer's arm so tight she let out a yelp of pain. "Someone said Earnest...They're talking about my father!"

Spencer's mouth fell open. "Hang on...you're telling me that the Barbies can speak Russian? What is going on?"

I gritted my teeth, glaring at the screen until the recording stopped. "I don't know," I spat. "But I'm going to find out...no matter what it takes."

Spencer nodded understandingly. "I'll phone Rick and give him an update. You, Jo, stay put. You're injured and in no condition to be running all over the countryside after a half-crazed woman who owns a gun and speaks Russian. If you leave the house again, it could look suspicious. You never know who might be watching you."

These words of forewarning sent a prickle of fear through my skin. "Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," I grumbled as Spencer packed up her laptop and prepared to leave. "You don't think that new maid..."

"Is Andrea's eyes and ears?" Spencer finished for me. "Of course I do."

"Well, if that's the case, there's no way in hell I'm staying here on my own!" I protested.

"Jo, you have no other choice!" Spencer rebuffed me. "You have to stay otherwise Andrea will know something is up. Don't worry. I've got your back, okay?"

I nodded soberly, allowing Spencer to pull me in for a tight hug. "I'm scared, Spence," I whispered into her hair. "This whole situation is getting wildly out of control. I just wish Dad would come back home."

"He will, I promise you that much," Spencer smiled reassuringly at me as she pulled back. "Stay safe, Jo Marsden, because there's no way in hell I'm attending your funeral any time soon, you got me?"

I almost smiled back.

But the heaviness of the atmosphere and the mixed emotions of overwhelming sadness and anger clouded my brain.

There was not a doubt in my mind now.

Andrea Melcox was a dangerous woman.

For the remainder of that day, I paced the floor, in my room, in the hall, downstairs. I couldn't keep still. I couldn't focus on one, single thing. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't relax.

No matter how hard I tried.

It was nearing evening and the darkening shadows of night were casting their foreboding presence over the house. I was in my room, sifting through some old, dusty boxes I had found in the attic.

I had just finished going through a few, old photo-albums when I saw it.

A pair of binoculars.

What a score!

Eagerly, I pulled them out of the box and lifted them up to my eyes so I could adjust the lens. Stepping out onto the balcony that was adjacent to my room, I rested both forearms on the circular rail that wound its way around the secure boarding.

I peered through the binoculars and swung my gaze westward, watching as the waves of froth cascaded against the golden glitter of the sand.

Without warning, a figure, mostly silhouetted against the setting sun, stepped into my line of sight. Frowning, I zoomed in on the intruder only to realise that this certain someone was very wet, very shirtless and very familiar.

Camden.

Hoping that he wouldn't turn around and see me spying on him, I stayed put, watching as he walked down the stretch of beach in front of the house. However, just as he turned his back to me and jogged over in the direction of the surf shop, I saw a most shocking sight.

Scars. Heaps of them. All criss-crossed patterns across the broad, olive skin of his back.

I drew back with a sharp gasp.

What the hell?

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