"Think. Think."

I'd been wondering about where to start for days. Although I knew I could ask for my friend's help, for once, I felt as if there were some things that I just needed to do on my own.

Dad was passed out on the couch, an empty beer bottle lying on its side. His hand was hanging from the couch, his fingers dangling over the bottle.

"Hey Dad, how is your day going?" I mutter, walking past the lounge room and into the kitchen. "Yeah, my day's been great. Thanks for asking."

I pour myself a glass of water, my eyes trailing towards my backyard. The water was flat today, the tide right out. I wanted nothing more than to just sink under the waves where I could finally relax. But that wasn't going to happen.

I had a lot to do today. Starting with entering my dad's office yet again.

I should give credit where credit was due. If nothing else, my dad has an excellent filing system. Maybe a little over the top for a home office, but in this situation, I was grateful.

Despite the fact I knew he was well and truly passed out, I still open the door to his office cautiously. The curtains are drawn and I flick the light switch, waiting for the bulb to illuminate the room.

The filing cabinet that I'm after is in the far left corner of the room, waiting patiently to be opened.

I kick the door closed with my barefoot, striding over to it. I knew that the credit card statements would still be in here. Probably from the past ten years, not that I needed them to go back that far.

I just needed anything from when mum went missing or maybe just before. Dad kept all our statements piled together for each year. He had always said he never trusted the internet and therefore kept paper copies of everything.

If we ever had a fire, shit really would hit the fan. He was a borderline hoarder. Often, as stealthy as I could be, I threw out any of the papers I knew he wouldn't need.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the cabinet in front of me. I open it slowly, listening to it whine loudly. I grab a handle of the statements from five years ago, dated close to the time mum went missing.

I place them down on the desk, separating them apart on the table when I hear a knock at the front door. My fingers pause of the paper as I feel my stomach plummet.

I grab my phone from the back pocket of my denim shorts, frowning. There were no messages from my friends informing me they were coming over. I had no new notifications from anyone at all.

There's another knock now and I cringe. If dad heard it and woke up, he might see that I'd been in his office.

"Fuck," I mutter, glaring as I run towards the front door. I glance into the lounge room. Luckily, dad hasn't moved at all. He's still just as unconscious as he was before.

I swing the door open, my hand on my hip. "What the—"

I stop midsentence when I realise exactly who it is. "Laderman," I state, dumbfounded. "What the fuck?"

"Always greeting me with the warmest of welcomes," he mumbles, trying to bypass me to get inside.

I lean my shoulder against the doorjamb, stopping him in his tracks. He stares down at me, eyebrow cocked.

"Why are you here?" I snap, almost as an accusation.

I scan his outfit. He's wearing denim shorts and a white t-shirt, which annoyingly shows off his sculptured body. His signature backwards cap is, of course, sitting backwards on top of his brown locks.

"Phase two of our plan," he says nonchalantly. "I thought I could help."

"I've already started and I don't need—"

"Great," he shoves past my shoulder, much to my many protests.

His eyes wander around the entry, faltering when he gazes into the lounge room. "Your dad had a big night?" he laughs, bemused.

I freeze, wondering how to even deal with this situation. My palms begin to sweat but there is no way I am going to stumble in front of Rhys Laderman.

Boys like him played with people's weaknesses and the last thing I needed was for him to use my dad's alcoholism against me one day. He'd probably tell all his friends that he was a drunk whilst they sat around, laughing at my expense.

I shove him back towards the doorway, embarrassed that he had seen my house at all. It was nothing like where he lived.

I'd been to Rhys's house once when I was younger, back when we were ten. I'd been invited to his birthday party, along with the entire class. It was that time in school where your parents always felt obliged to invite the entire class, making sure everyone was included. Inclusivity was always important to teach children. But as you grew up, you started to realise that no matter how hard you tried, people like Rhys Laderman were always going to finish out on top.

The world was not a fair place. It was evident in Rhys and I. We may have lived in the same town, but we were still living in two separate worlds entirely.

"Geez," he laughs. "If you wanted to get this close to me, you should have just asked."

"Shut up," I snap, rolling my eyes.

Rhys wraps his hands around my wrists, prying my grip from his shoulders. His thumb skims over my pulse momentarily and I feel it quicken beneath his touch.

I fold my arms against my chest, staring at him. "What are you here for, Rhys? You already helped me with the file. I don't need help in my own house."

"An extra pair of eyes couldn't hurt, right?" he grins.

I clench and unclench my fists. He was so infuriating.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I don't need you to—"

"Cora Cadigan," he shakes his head. "We made a deal."

"Um," I scoff, "no, we definitely did not. You said you could help me get into the police station. You have already done that, so..."

"So, I'm here for phase two."

"Rhys..."

"Cora..." he mocks.

"You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Nope," he smirks, leaning back against the door as he closes it. "Never."

"Asshole," I mutter.

"Crazy," he jabs back, working his jaw.

"Follow me then," I mumble, storming back over to the office.

I wait for Rhys to enter the office before I close the door behind us. Walking back over towards the desk, I lean in to begin reading the statements. A sense of deja vu passes over me when Rhys joins in.

I can't concentrate. All I can think about is that I'm letting down my friends. We hated Rhys. We hated his sense of entitlement. Yet I had just let him walk into my house like he owned the place.

No wonder he had a big ego. People like me were fueling it by allowing him to get away with whatever he wanted.

I feel so guilty that I quickly text the group chat, asking them if they wanted to all stay over later tonight.

"Earth to Cadigan," Rhys raps his knuckles against the desk.

I pocket my phone, turning back to him. "What?"

"What exactly are we looking for?"

"I'm looking for something from my mum's old card statements. From the card left behind. I don't know, I just thought maybe there could be something she bought on it before..."

It suddenly sounded like a stupid idea when I said it out loud. What were the chances of finding anything that could correlate with mum's disappearance? And even so, would I be able to know if something stood out as suspicious?

"Good work, detective," Rhys nods, picking up a piece of paper and studying it. He walks over to the desk chair, making himself at home as he swivels back and forth, reading away.

"I don't get you," I frown, watching him attentively.

"Huh?"

"I don't get you," I restate. "You're confusing."

"How so? Enlighten me, Cadigan."

"You're like two different people. First, you act all secretive and closed off and now...now you're all happy and willing to help me. It just doesn't make sense."

Rhys slowly loses his grin, his face turning placid. He shrugs his shoulder, playing with his cap. "I'm not one to back out when I say I'll help someone. If nothing else, I'm loyal."

"Wow, so modest," I sarcastically remark.

He rolls his eyes. "Do you always have to be so negative? It's not like I said I was the hottest person alive or anything. Jesus."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I huff. "I didn't ask for your presence here today."

"You're still not grateful," he mumbles under his breath, shaking his head.

"Rhys—"

A cough sounding from somewhere in the house stills me. My eyes widen and Rhys must acknowledge my fear because he suddenly stands from his chair.

"Cora?"

"Shut the fuck up," I whisper to him, placing a finger against my mouth.

He frowns at me, puzzled.

God, he probably thought I was nuts. He didn't understand how troubling it could be for both of us if dad walked in right now.

Dad's drunken laughter echoes down the hallway and I close my eyes, breathing out slowly.

There was no coming back from this. Rhys was seeing me. He was seeing the most exposed parts of myself. The parts I only let my friends see on occasions when I was at my worst.

The back door slams and I jump, gripping my chest. I walk back over to the desk, leaning in and picking up another statement with shaky fingers.

"Are we just going to ignore that?" Rhys yawns nonchalantly, clasping his hands behind his head as he leans back in the desk chair.

"Ignore what?' I say, feigning innocence.

"The fact you just got shit scared by your dad walking past."

"I wasn't scared," I snap.

"Yes, Cora," Rhys whispers, leaning forward. "You were."

I meet his eyes momentarily before looking away. He was watching me with a look of concern and it unnerved me.

"If you must know, he just doesn't like me being in here, alright? Happy now?"

Rhys picks up another sheet but I can tell he's distracted by something.

"Just ask it."

"What?" he questions.

"Whatever you want to say, say it."

"Cora..."

"Fucking say it, Rhys. Say whatever you want to say," I snap, balling my hand into a fist. One of the statements tears at the side and I curse under my breath.

"Does he...hurt you?" he asks earnestly.

I still, my hand outstretched to pick up another statement. I gulp, turning to stare at him.

"You mean, like, psychically?" I say harshly, practically spitting the horrible words.

He doesn't answer but his silence speaks volumes.

"Why? Because we're a lower class family you just think I must have a rough home life, is that it?" I say, incensed.

"What?" he scoffs, "of course not! That isn't—"

"Sorry that we can't all be like you, Rhys. With two parents who are idolised by our community," I quip, indignant. "But my father works just as hard as any other person in his job. And don't insult me by calling him an abuser."

"You're completely twisting my words!" he says, incredulously. "And what gives you the right to always talk badly about my family, huh? You're such a fucking hypocrite!"

I stare at him, exasperated. I try to find the right words for my comeback but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

I place the statement back on the desk, my shoulders slumping.

He was right. He was fucking right and I hated it. I was being hypocritical. But the last thing I would ever do is admit defeat with Rhys. I just couldn't.

"I think you should leave," I whisper, staring at my feet.

"For once, Cora," he growls, "I think you're right."

He breezes past me, slamming the front door behind him. I flinch, waiting for dad to come inside but he never does.

I sit behind the desk, taking up the space Rhys had left moments ago. I place my head against the wood, groaning.

This felt useless. I'd picked up plenty of papers by now and nothing seemed to be jumping out at me.

"There must be something," I whisper to myself. "Just one sign, that's all I need."

I place each individual paper out on the desk, scanning over each month carefully. It was mostly just money being taken out for food shopping, or at our local mall, nothing much else.

I scan down a few more and suddenly, something catches my eye. When I scan back up to the top, I see it there too and again for every other month of 2015.

"What the hell?" I whisper, my eyes flickering to the filing cabinet.

I crouch down, opening up the drawer and checking the year before. Then the year before that and the year before that. All the way back until it suddenly stops.

Seventeen years ago.

My mother was receiving payments, the only payments on that card each month since I was born. $700 a month.

It had only stood out to me because it was the only amount she was receiving instead of losing. Besides, I knew it wasn't her income. Mum had always been a struggling, self-made artist. She would never have made the same amount each month. It always differed with her buyers.

So why was she receiving this amount specifically every month? Did it have something to do with me?

I couldn't tell if the money stopped after she went missing because the card had expired shortly after and we never needed a new card for her.

My gut churns. I felt like this meant something. But how did the cops not find this when the card was found in her car? How did they not look into this?

I didn't know what was going on, but I wanted answers. And I wanted them soon.