Chapter 14
WE WERE on our way to Avalon by 7.15 am, stopping halfway at a roadside cafe for a greasy bacon and egg roll and coffee. Frankie only had a couple of bites of her roll. Avalon was a small, sedate coastal town whose main claim to fame was good surf. Although the waves were sparse and choppy, a bunch of optimistic surfers was lined up past the swell, looking like seals in their black wetsuits as they waited for a decent wave.
Twenty-six Seagull Ave was a five minute drive away and one block back from the beach – a two storey brick home, framed by palm trees with a patch of velvety green lawn in front. A late-model Toyota stood in the driveway.
‘Someone’s home,’ I said. I looked at Frankie. She’d hardly said a word all morning. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘No, but my stomach is.’
I too
