Operation Silverton

“Every great adventure starts as a secret no one else is meant to hear.” — Michelle Richards

In the small, remote town of Broken Hill, friendships weren’t just woven through convenience—they were anchored in survival. The vastness of the land, the isolation from metropolitan distractions, and the relentless heat of the Outback created a world in which connection meant everything. For Violet and her tight circle—Mandy, Michelle, and Rebecca—those bonds had become their compass, guiding them through the rough terrain of adolescence like stars over a desert sky.

Nestled along a sleepy, eucalyptus-lined street, Michelle’s home exuded a sense of gentle permanence. Its weathered brick façade bore the tell-tale signs of a hundred summers—faded red under the bleaching sun, softened at the corners by years of dust storms and laughter echoing off its verandah.

As Violet and Mandy drew near, the scent of fresh muffins—blueberry and chocolate, if Violet had to guess—drifted from the open kitchen window, wrapping them in a sense of home before they’d even reached the porch. The wooden steps creaked cheerfully beneath their feet, worn smooth by time and countless visitors. Wind chimes sang a lazy tune overhead, stirred by a breeze that carried the dry hush of afternoon stillness with it.

Violet paused on the threshold, her hand resting on the cool brass of the doorknob. Her gaze swept the familiar yard—sun-faded deck chairs, a lazy tabby sprawled on the garden wall, the faint hum of cicadas underscoring it all.

“I always love coming here,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It feels like stepping into another world.”

Mandy, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair behind her ear, nodded. Her voice was soft but certain. “Michelle’s mum could turn a cave into a cottage. I swear, if they'd let me, I’d move in tomorrow.”

Violet laughed, the sound light and genuine, loosening some of the heaviness that had settled over her during the past few days. It was easy to forget the weight of missing women and whispered secrets in a place that smelled of baked goods and lemon polish.

With a shared smile, they pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The interior of Michelle's home welcomed them like a favourite book—familiar, comforting, and layered with stories that clung to every corner. The scent of fresh baking mingled with the faint aroma of eucalyptus oil, the kind Michelle’s mother used to mop the wooden floors. The furniture, a patchwork of eras and textures, bore the wear and love of years gone by: well-cushioned armchairs softened at the arms, crocheted doilies atop side tables, and faded rugs that had once been bold but were now mellowed by sun and time.

Soft lighting bathed the rooms in a golden hue, the sort that made every surface look warmer, every wrinkle on a photo frame seem deliberate. The floral wallpaper—pale pink roses on a cream background—might have been considered old-fashioned elsewhere, but here it added a sense of gentle continuity. The walls were lined with family photographs: sepia-toned portraits of stoic grandparents, grinning school photos with wonky fringe cuts, and blurry snaps of summer picnics out by the Mundi Mundi Plains.

The kitchen was the soul of the house. Its table, with its cheerful yellow-and-white checkered cloth, stood like a sun in the centre of their universe. It groaned under the weight of generous hospitality: a platter of warm muffins, the blueberry ones still steaming slightly, chocolate chip nestled beside golden lemon poppy seed. A jug of homemade lemonade—complete with floating slices of lemon and a sprig of mint—gleamed with condensation, promising a cool reprieve from the lingering heat outside.

Michelle swept through the kitchen with the confidence of someone utterly at ease in her surroundings. Her dark, tousled hair was pinned back loosely with a butterfly clip, though strands kept escaping to frame her face. She moved with a kind of natural rhythm—half mischief, half grace—as she gestured for them to sit. Her hazel eyes sparkled with amusement at something unspoken, and a few freckles dotted her cheeks, a sun-dappled map of her time spent riding bikes and exploring old mining tracks.

“Come on, you lot,” she said, brandishing a tea towel like a flag of welcome. “Mum’s just pulled the last tray out—if you don’t grab a muffin now, you’ll be left with crumbs and regrets.”

Violet grinned as she slid into one of the well-worn wooden chairs, its familiar creak like an old friend clearing its throat. Mandy followed with a soft sigh, tossing her backpack beside her with a casual thud, while Rebecca—already nibbling the edge of a chocolate chip muffin—offered a muffled greeting from across the table.

The girls sat shoulder to shoulder in the fading afternoon light filtering through the lace curtains, the world outside momentarily forgotten. The rhythmic tick of the kitchen clock, the clink of spoons in lemonade glasses, and the occasional laughter bubbling between bites formed a symphony of ease. It was the kind of moment Violet wished she could press between the pages of a book—safe, golden, untouched by mystery or fear.

Rebecca, ever the studious one, was the first to break the contented hum around the table. Her voice, though soft, carried that familiar undercurrent of resolve that made people listen. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tidy braid, and her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with the quiet fire of someone who knew exactly what she wanted. Where others scribbled notes on the backs of exercise books or lost homework to wind and bus seats, Rebecca kept her things perfectly ordered—her folders colour-coded, her notes cross-referenced, and her ambitions sharp as pins.

“I’ve been thinking about applying to the University of Melbourne,” she said, her tone teetering between excitement and nervousness. “Their medical programme is one of the best in the country. Can you imagine… me, a doctor?”

For a moment, the table fell still. Violet looked at her friend with a wave of pride. Rebecca had always carried herself with a calm, quiet strength that gave weight to her dreams. She reached across the table and gave Rebecca’s hand a warm, firm squeeze.

“Of course I can imagine it, Bec. You’re the smartest person I know. They’d be mad not to take you.”

Michelle nodded, grinning as she brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Absolutely. ‘Dr Rebecca Monk, GP.’ Or maybe something fancier—cardiologist? Neurologist? What’s the poshest kind of doctor you can be?”

Rebecca let out a small laugh, her cheeks tinged with pink. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve got to survive the HSC first.” She glanced down at her lap, though a smile still played on her lips.

Mandy piped up, tapping her spoon against her lemonade glass with mock solemnity. “I can already see it. You, in a crisp white coat, saving lives while the rest of us are just trying to figure out what day it is.”

“Speak for yourself,” Michelle snorted. “I plan to be lounging on the French Riviera by then, selling abstract paintings for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“And I’ll be the one working triple shifts in some rural hospital, patching up motorbike accidents and treating heatstroke in the middle of nowhere,” Rebecca replied, her tone dry but good-humoured.

Violet chuckled, the warmth in her chest spreading outward. These were the moments she lived for—their futures laid bare on the table like a deck of cards, full of promise, hope, and the kinds of dreams that felt possible only when shared in the safe afternoon glow of a friend's kitchen.

Mandy, with her vibrant personality and irrepressible spirit, brought a different kind of fire to their circle. Her voice rose animatedly as she leaned across the table, her fingers brushing crumbs aside in her eagerness to share. Her green eyes glittered with mischief, and her short hair—dyed with streaks of bold colour that Michelle's mum politely pretended not to notice—caught the warm light as it bobbed with each emphatic gesture. There was something untameable about Mandy, a raw, brave spark inherited not just from her father’s role in the police force but from a core belief that rules were often more like guidelines.

“Do you remember the time we rode out to the old Silverton mines?” she said, her grin stretching wide. “We were convinced we’d find buried treasure!”

The room burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the faded wallpaper and mingling with the faint strains of a radio playing quietly in the next room. The memory swept over them like a gust of dust-laden wind—dry heat, long shadows, the scent of cracked earth and iron ore still vivid in Violet’s mind. She could almost feel the thrill again: handlebars rattling over rocky paths, the wind tugging at her plaits, and the giddy, reckless joy of doing something forbidden.

“Oh, Lord,” Michelle groaned, laughing through her nose as she reached for another muffin. “I thought my dad was going to have a conniption when we came back looking like we’d rolled through a red dust storm. He was convinced we’d tumbled into an abandoned shaft and been possessed by ghosts or something.”

Rebecca gave a long-suffering sigh, though her lips were curved into a smile. “I still can’t believe you talked me into that, Mandy. I was absolutely certain we’d be picked up by a stranger or arrested for trespassing.”

“But we didn’t!” Mandy declared, thumping her hand on the table for emphasis. “And admit it, it was brilliant. Come on, Bec—when’s the last time you did anything that exciting, eh?”

Rebecca didn’t answer straight away. Her smile lingered, but her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding it.

As the laughter subsided, a comfortable hush settled over the kitchen like a warm blanket after a long day. The soft clinking of cups and the faint creak of wooden chairs were the only sounds that remained, and for a moment, the girls were simply still—content in one another’s company, wrapped in the calm that followed their shared amusement.

Violet found her gaze drifting across the familiar faces around the table. Each one so different—so distinct in thought, manner, and ambition—yet together they formed something rare and whole. Michelle, radiant with that effortless coolness and grounded energy that made people feel instantly at ease. Mandy, bold and impulsive, with her spark of rebellion and sharp sense of justice that never let anything slip by unquestioned. And Rebecca—quietly brilliant, deeply driven—whose reserved nature belied a tenacity Violet often marvelled at.

A swell of affection rose in Violet’s chest. It was like looking at the fragments of a stained glass window: mismatched in shape and hue, but when joined together, they caught the light in beautiful and unexpected ways. Each friend filled a space in her life the others could not, and together, they created something vibrant and unbreakable.

The room, still rich with the scent of butter and sugar, echoed faintly with the last notes of their laughter. But beneath that soft joy was a quiet tension—something that pulsed beneath the surface like a drumbeat too low to be heard but too deep to ignore. The kind of unspoken thing that didn’t need naming for it to be felt.

The disappearance of Sally Harlow hung between them. It wasn’t spoken of in every conversation, but it was always there, lurking in the corners of their thoughts like a half-remembered dream. Everyone in Broken Hill felt it—an undercurrent of unease carried on every gust of desert wind.

Michelle broke the silence, her voice gentle and measured. “Violet, you’ve been quiet,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she turned towards her friend. “What’s been on your mind?”

Violet blinked, her thoughts pulled into focus by the question. She hadn’t meant to drift so far. The warmth of the kitchen, the laughter, the momentary safety—they’d lulled her for a time. But the weight hadn’t lifted.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate as she glanced around at the faces she trusted most. The kitchen light above flickered slightly, casting the room in a deeper amber hue, and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock seemed suddenly louder—an echo of time slipping away.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Sally Harlow,” Violet said at last, her voice quiet, careful. “Her disappearance... it just doesn’t sit right with me. There’s something about it that feels... unfinished. Like we’re only seeing a part of the story.”

A hush fell over the table once more, heavier this time. The tone had shifted. Even Mandy, usually quick to jump in with a joke or jab, remained still, her gaze sharpening with curiosity.

Each of them had heard the rumours. They’d seen the posters, heard the grown-ups whispering in the shops and on verandahs. They knew the boundaries their parents had started to quietly draw—where not to ride their bikes, when to come home. Sally’s name was on everyone’s lips, even if no one wanted to say it aloud.

“I’ve been trying to piece together what happened,” Violet said, her voice steady but hushed, as if speaking too loudly might unravel the fragile courage she’d summoned. Her gaze swept across the table, searching her friends’ eyes for a flicker of understanding—or belief. “I feel like there’s something we’re missing. Something important. And… I think it might be connected to an old case. From Silverton.”

Michelle sat up straighter, the playful glint usually present in her eyes replaced by something darker, more cautious. “What old case?” she asked, her tone a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Vi, what are you talking about?”

Violet drew a slow, steadying breath, the weight of their attention pressing on her like the oppressive heat before a summer storm. “In Mr Clarke’s history class, he told us about a woman—Emily Sullivan. She vanished near Silverton, back in 1886. Alone, on some kind of expedition. They never found her.” She paused, the memory of the lesson flickering vividly in her mind. “The similarities to Sally… they’re too close to ignore.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall cut through the silence like a metronome keeping time for thoughts too uneasy to be spoken aloud.

Rebecca was the first to break the silence, her voice cautious, measured. “But that was over a century ago,” she said, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. “Surely it’s just a coincidence? People go missing in the Outback all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re connected.”

Michelle leaned forward, the scent of lemon poppy seed muffin still faint on her breath as she rested a reassuring hand on Violet’s forearm. “Vi, I get it. I do. And I know you’ve got the sharpest instincts of any of us. But this sounds… well, it sounds like something out of a novel. Don’t you think the police would’ve picked up on it if there was anything to it?”

Violet’s eyes flashed, not with anger, but with a restless, gnawing frustration that had been building for days. “Maybe they don’t know about Emily Sullivan,” she replied, her tone urgent now. “Or maybe they do and dismissed it as some dusty old case with no relevance. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re on the edge of something. Something big.”

Mandy, who had remained unusually quiet, finally stirred, folding her arms on the table. Her voice was quieter than usual, but steady. “My dad’s not a fool, Vi. He’s poured everything into this case. I’ve seen what it’s doing to him. If there were any connection to some century-old disappearance, don’t you think he would’ve found it?”

“But what if he hasn’t?” Violet countered quickly, her words tumbling over one another. “What if he’s too close? Or too focused on the here and now to see the bigger picture? We’re not bound by protocols or red tape—we can see things differently. We’ve grown up hearing the stories, exploring these places. We know the land, the people. Maybe that gives us an advantage.”

The silence that followed was different this time—less sceptical, more uneasy. It hovered over the table like a gathering storm. The warm air of the kitchen seemed to grow heavier, the scent of muffins and lemonade now cloying, almost intrusive. The safe, familiar space they had shared for years felt, for just a moment, like it didn’t belong to them at all.

The girls glanced at one another, no longer certain where the line between curiosity and danger truly lay.

"Violet," Rebecca said gently, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her glass, "I know you want to help, but this could be dangerous. We're not detectives. We're just kids."

"But we're not just kids," Violet shot back, her voice trembling with passion, eyes wide with conviction. "We're part of this town. This is our place—our streets, our stories, our people. Sally’s disappearance isn’t some distant newspaper article. She was here, walking the same streets we do, eating at the same cafés. And if there’s even the smallest chance that we could help find her—or find out what really happened—don’t we have a responsibility to try?"

Her words lingered in the air like the dust that often clung to the windowsills after a storm—unsettling, inescapable. The others said nothing for a long moment.

Michelle was the first to break the silence. Her eyes met Violet’s, steady and serious. “Alright,” she said slowly, “let’s say we believe you. Let’s say there is some kind of connection between Sally and that woman from history. What exactly are you suggesting we do?”

Violet leaned forward, elbows resting on the table’s edge, her voice low but resolute. “We start with research. We dig into Emily Sullivan’s story—whatever we can find in the school archives, the library, old newspapers. And we gather everything we can about Sally Harlow. Compare details, timelines, locations. Maybe there’s something others have missed.”

Mandy tilted her head, one eyebrow raised, her fingers idly spinning the salt shaker between her hands. “And then what?” she asked, half-sceptical, half-intrigued. “We stumble across some buried clue that’s eluded the police for over a hundred years?”

“Then,” Violet said, her voice brimming with quiet excitement, “we use the Girl Guides camp to Silverton as our cover. Think about it—we’ll be right there, in the very place both of them disappeared. We’ll have time away from adults, a bit of freedom to poke around. Talk to locals. Visit the old sites. Look for patterns. Feel the place for ourselves.”

As the words left her mouth, she watched their expressions shift—not to disbelief, but to something closer to wonder. Anticipation. The buzz of a challenge unfolding.

Rebecca exhaled slowly, shaking her head, though her lips betrayed the beginnings of a smile. “This is mad. Absolutely mad. But…” Her voice faltered, caught somewhere between rational concern and youthful yearning. “It’s... intriguing. I’ll give you that.”

Mandy’s grin was spreading fast, her earlier scepticism evaporating. “It’s brilliant,” she said, eyes gleaming now. “We’ll be on official, parent-sanctioned camp—plenty of excuses to explore. And if we’re careful, no one will suspect a thing. Imagine it, girls! Us, solving a century-old mystery. I mean, how many people ever get to say that?”

The excitement that passed between them was almost electric, like the scent of ozone before a summer storm. The worn wooden table, with its checkered cloth and half-eaten muffins, had suddenly become a war room, a planning table, a place where something truly extraordinary was beginning.

And none of them—not even Violet—could have guessed how deep the rabbit hole would go.

As the plan began to take shape, the atmosphere in Michelle’s kitchen subtly transformed. The earlier apprehension, the weight of uncertainty, seemed to lift like steam from the still-warm muffins, replaced now with something altogether different—purpose, unity, and a fluttering anticipation that stirred beneath their school uniforms like the first breeze before a summer storm.

The girls huddled closer around the table, their chairs creaking softly as they leaned in, conspiratorial. Their voices dropped to hushed tones, not out of necessity—Michelle’s mother was humming in the garden and no one else was nearby—but because it somehow felt right. Sacred, even.

“We should start planning what we need to bring,” Mandy said, her voice brimming with energy. Her green eyes were alight with mischief and method, her fingers already twitching as if itching for a pencil. “Notebooks, obviously. Maybe a camera, if someone’s got one at home—oh, and a proper torch. We don’t want to be poking around ruins in the dark without a light.”

“Old maps,” added Rebecca thoughtfully, her fingers drumming against the table. “The historical society might have some. I’ll check the library, too—they keep a collection of regional survey maps. Might be useful to compare old landmarks.”

Violet nodded, heart racing. “Good. Let’s meet up again before the trip to make a proper checklist. We’ll divide things up fairly—gear, research, everything. And for now...” Her tone grew more serious, drawing their full attention. “Let’s keep this between us. We can’t have the others in the Girl Guides getting wind of it. If it sounds like mischief, we’ll lose our chance to do it at all.”

“Agreed,” Michelle said firmly. “Loose lips sink ships.”

Mandy gave a mock salute, her expression solemn but playful. “Operation Silverton stays top secret.”

Outside, the shadows had grown long and soft, pooling under the frangipani trees and stretching across the footpath in dusky streaks.

Reluctantly, they began to gather their things. The half-eaten muffins were packed into paper napkins; the last of the lemonade was drained from their mismatched glasses. The earlier tension was gone, replaced with something more enduring: a quiet resolve.

Violet lingered at the threshold as the others trickled out. Her gaze swept the kitchen—the soft folds of the checkered tablecloth, the ceramic jar of mismatched cutlery, the half-empty fruit bowl on the counter. This room, worn and lived-in, held something intangible. Safety. Friendship. Memory.

These were the things she’d carry into Silverton, more vital than any torch or map.

She turned at last, stepping out onto Michelle’s wide veranda, the timber planks creaking beneath her feet. The air was cooler now, kissed with the faint scent of eucalyptus and the dusty perfume that always followed the setting sun in Broken Hill. Overhead, the sky was painted in a breathtaking wash of pinks, oranges, and soft purples, the final brushstrokes of a mild spring day.

Violet paused on the top step, breathing it all in—the scent of the evening, the warmth of her full belly, the echo of laughter still ringing faintly in her ears. She felt something stir in her chest then, a sensation she couldn’t quite name: part courage, part wonder, part fear.

The road ahead was uncertain. The questions unanswered. But something deep within her knew they were on the edge of something that mattered.

With each step towards home, her resolve grew firmer. Whatever lay hidden in Silverton—beneath its red dust, its crumbling history, its long-buried secrets—she wouldn’t face it alone.

They would uncover the truth. Together.