Alle Kapitel von werewolves : Kapitel 31 – Kapitel 37

A cool amber glow trembled at the top of Jake’s beer glass. The frothy head of Tooheys New danced as he took a slow sip—cold, sharp, the kind of bite that felt like comfort if you didn’t look too closely.Photo albums carpeted the coffee table: bent corners, sun-faded covers, time pressed flat between plastic sleeves. A younger Leslie with baby Jake. Tom at a backyard barbie, tongs raised like a trophy. Beach days. Birthdays. Split knees, patched hearts.A loose photo slid half out. He teased it free.Byron Bay at sunset—Kimberly laughing, auburn hair blown sideways, freckles bright. His arm was around her waist; the other held a melting ice-cream. He couldn’t help the smile that showed up before he could stop it.That had been a good day. No fights. No distance. No weight.What the hell went wrong?It hadn’t been a single blow-up. No betrayal. Just something unspoken creeping in like fog. One day she’d walked out, and he hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even known why.His phone buzzed.PR

The dim concrete underbelly of the apartment block—oil stains, fluorescent flicker—hid something out of time.Amid the bland curve of modern sedans and anonymous SUVs, one shape stood apart: a low-slung form under a heavy grey blanket, dust piled thick as if it had slept for years.Jake clattered down the stairs, bootsteps echoing. His eyes found the familiar silhouette tucked deep in the corner.He grinned. “There you are.”He peeled the cover back. Dust swirled in the light like ash from a campfire. Beneath it, a jet-black 1985 Pontiac Firebird emerged—sleek, restored, and somehow still gleaming under months of grime. Midnight paint turned the fluorescents into a noir reflection; the gold pinstripe winked through the dust. Dead centre on the plates: HOT 1.“Hello, beautiful.”His palm skimmed the bonnet—reunion and ritual. He’d rebuilt this car bolt by bolt between deployments, welding steel and sanding down the parts of his life that wouldn’t keep.“Dad’s home.”Hood latch, click,

The automatic doors of St Vincent’s Emergency burst open with a hiss as a paramedic pushed in a gurney, his face drawn tight with urgency. He was broad-shouldered, grizzled, eyes tired from nights that never ended. The gurney rattled over tile, cutting through the hum of voices, the far-off sirens, the steady blip of monitors.“Motor vehicle collision!” he barked. “Male, fifties. Cardiac arrest en route—ROSC in the rig. Vitals unstable.”Dr. Kimberly Hall, twenty-six, sharp-eyed and composed, was scanning charts when the commotion reached her. Auburn hair in a neat ponytail, stethoscope hanging like a badge of office and burden, she pivoted and met the team outside Trauma Bay Two.“What have we got?” she said, already falling in beside the moving bed.“Multiple rib fractures—likely left-sided flail segment,” the paramedic said. “Suspected punctured left lung; decreased air entry, tracheal deviation at pickup. Left chest is dull and tight. Shattered femur—mid-shaft. BP trending down. H

The tide at Botany Bay was low and patient, the kind that lapped at rock ledges and took its time about everything. Tom Michaels stood on the headland with a rod in his hand and the wind at his back, a thermos of bad coffee cooling at his feet. Sydney hummed on the horizon—airport beacons winking, freight lights moving like slow constellations—but out here it was just salt and night and the hopeful tick of line through a roller.He was early. Jake’s flight would land in under an hour. Tom told Leslie he’d swing by the headland first, wet a line, clear the nerves that had crept in since the last phone call. Fathers didn’t say “I missed you” easily; a snapper on ice and a hot breakfast sometimes said it better.The rod tip trembled. Not a bite—just wind—and then settled again.A second rhythm arrived, so soft he mistook it for the basin-belly thud of waves under rock. It wasn’t. It was quicker than the sea and steadier than wind. A pulse. Like someone else’s heartbeat laid alongside his