I can’t get Peter Cho out of my mind. It has nothing to do with his smooth olive skin and his dark, mysterious eyes. Nor with the way his hair shone midnight-black under the sitting room light. And not because of his body – you know that coiled spring look, like someone’s ready to pounce? Or at least move really fast? Mainly, I can’t stop thinking about how sad he looked, like he wished he didn’t have to be here, breaking such bad news. I’ve been feeling sad too. We all have. It’s like Melissa has been dragged back to life, along with the pain Ouma and Oupi felt when she vanished. All the raw fear and the tears.

Nor can I stop thinking about Mr Cupido. He always used to come around to see Ouma and Oupi, bring them baskets of home-grown veggies, pass the Sunday Times on when he’d finished with it so that Ouma could do the crossword. He made a special point of coming here on every anniversary of Melissa’s disappearance with flowers for Ouma and beers for Oupi and him. They’d sit outside on Melissa’s bench and look at her picture and talk about all the wonderful things she used to do and what a happy girl she was.

Later, after I was born, and after my mom ran away and left me here, I’d sit on Oupi’s lap and listen to them, and Mr Cupido used to say things like, “She may be gone, my dear friends, but there is still hope that she is out there.” Was he gloating as he spoke? Would anyone be so cruel?

So Oupi and Ouma didn’t want to do anything, but I felt I had to do something. I couldn’t let it go.

Talk about things working on your mind. It got so I’d jump every time I saw a shadow. The wind in the trees sounded scary and threatening and I felt like I was being watched, that there were eyes everywhere. Maybe that’s the sort of thing that happens when ghosts come visiting. They shake up the air, make everything smell and sound and look and feel different. Was it Melissa? Was she waiting to see what would happen, what we would do?

Well, after a few days I could have told her. Nothing. Nada. Niks. Zilch. Life settled back into the same-old same-old. School, homework, TV, Facebook, eat, sleep. I’ll probably look back on these days and wonder why I didn’t enjoy them more. Take advantage of all the time I had to sleep and do nothing. But not now. Now all I want are answers.

I’ve started watching the house next door, where Selvin lives. The other Cupido – the son of the killer. I never really bothered to notice him much before this. He’s just a tubby, chubby, little, middle-aged man.

But actually – maybe it’s because I’m hyper-sensitive, so aware of what Peter Cho said about his father – but there is something off about him. It’s not my imagination, I know it. When I’m in my room I can clearly see his comings and goings. He goes to work. He goes out occasionally in the evenings – council business, probably. But once he goes inside that’s it. The windows and heavy curtains are always closed too. And no-one ever comes to see him. The one time a woman came around to the house, he spoke to her outside on the stoep. Took some papers from her and waved her goodbye. Not very sociable. OK, OK, so those aren’t grounds for suspicion; people who live alone can get a bit set in their ways. But what about this? I’m a morning person – five, five-thirty, and I’m awake. Up, out of bed and ready for my shower. One morning I heard his car going into his garage. Next thing I saw him putting a spade into his shed. Who goes gardening in the middle of the night I ask you?

Who is Selvin Cupido? Is he our good neighbour and kind Ward Councillor? I’m doing the maths here. He must be in his forties. Which means that he’d have been twenty-something when Melissa vanished. Old enough to know if his father was up to something. Old enough for anything in fact. I’m sorry. I don’t care what Oupi says about letting the past stay buried, I want to do some investigating. And you know what? I’m not going to do this all on my own. Peter Cho started this whole thing off. The least he can do is see it through with me. I’m calling him tomorrow, and he’d better say yes.

So I phoned Peter Cho. I have to say he could have sounded happier to speak to me. I mean my heart did a funny little squiggle when I heard his voice again. I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? He’s got one of those low, old-before-their-time voices, gravelly. It’s probably because he’s a smoker. I smelled it on his clothes the other night. Definitely a habit he’ll have to break, if –

OK, back to our conversation. It wasn’t like I could jump right in and ask him to help me spy on Selvin Cupido and the house next door. He’d have laughed and cut me off. So instead, sorry to say this, but I did a bit of emotional blackmailing. All about how I never knew Melissa, the shadow who has haunted our lives, and how much I look like her, and maybe there was stuff about her that he’d remembered. And how I felt she wasn’t at rest. Could we meet, just to talk about it all again? I babbled on and on; it happens when I’m nervous. There’s no pause button.

When he finally got a chance to speak, his voice was softer. “I can’t get her out of my mind either,” he said. “Let’s meet.”

“Cool,” I said. My heart was racing.

I liked the idea of seeing Peter Cho again. I wasn’t too sure how he’d feel about me tricking him into meeting me, though. I’d deal with that when I saw him.

***

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