Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  I nod impatiently. When we adopted Imogen, we knew everything there was to know about the case. This might be news to the police, but it’s far from fresh information for us.

  ‘He’s been living in Perth, in and out of homes, in and out of trouble as a teenager. He never really settled anywhere and ended up in some group homes, by the sound of it, then working on the mines. His name was changed to Tristan.’

  My stomach twists. I picture the little boy, broken and alone, and something inside me tugs as I think about his agony.

  ‘He’s an adult now, but about three months ago he went missing. Didn’t show up for work, hasn’t been seen by neighbours or anything, just disappeared. The police over in Perth didn’t treat it as suspicious, though. He’s a grown man, and there was nothing to suggest foul play. He didn’t have much of a community, so they figured he was just something of a drifter.’

  I narrow my eyes.

  ‘So … what? They think their disappearances are linked?’

  A muscle in Dylan’s jaw pulses. He looks at me, as though weighing up whether I can cope with what he’s about to say.

  ‘Oh, just spit it out,’ I plead. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘They found a bunch of information at his house in Perth about Adelaide. Looks like he was planning to come over here, although there was no information as to why.’

  I keep staring, waiting for Dylan’s words to sink in, for their weight to crush me.

  ‘They think he might have been looking for Imogen. They think he might have taken her.’

  Chapter 29

  IMOGEN

  The first time she’d tried to sit upright, she’d fainted and had woken up all twisted on the bed, her arm completely numb from having been squashed under her ribcage. The effort to straighten herself out again had sapped all of her energy, and she’d given up on moving for the rest of the morning.

  But the stranger had come, with his kind hands and his nourishing words and his delicious soup – this time with thin strands of chicken bobbing at the top along with the vegetables – and she’d wanted to try again. As he’d walked into the room, she’d clenched her jaw and heaved herself into a sitting position, breathing deeply to retain consciousness as darkness pressed in around her.

  ‘Look at you, little one,’ he’d exclaimed, and she’d smiled broadly, her first smile since … well, she didn’t know how long it had been. She could see his mouth beneath the shadow of his hat, the corners twitching upwards, a shy smile of his own. She studied the curves of his lips, the smattering of blond stubble across his square chin, the way his jaw moved when he spoke, desperate for clues, greedy for information.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, a mug in one hand, a spoon in the other.

  ‘You strong enough to feed yourself?’ he asked, waving the spoon in her direction.

  She shook her head slowly, careful to avoid sudden movements. Sitting up had been so strenuous that she couldn’t achieve much more than simply not collapsing. She knew that trying to lift something – even a spoon – would require more energy than she had.

  He nodded, and as he fed her the soup, she focused on collecting her thoughts, on completing a sentence. Her heart pounded as she mustered the courage to ask. She realised, as the words were on the tip of her tongue, hot like the liquid that he was feeding her, that she was scared to hear the answer.

  When she’d thought she was going to die, when her days were nothing more than snippets of agonising consciousness, barely awake, halfway lucid, nightmares wrapping themselves around her aching, confused mind, she hadn’t thought to question what was happening.

  Then, when she first saw the stranger, when the shadow had appeared at the door and whispered that he’d take care of her, she’d been too relieved by the human contact, by his kindness, to wonder who he was or what she was doing with him instead of at home, with her family.

  It had only begun to dawn on her the previous night that she could be in some kind of danger. Except … she couldn’t be in danger, because he was looking after her. He had told her, over and over again, that he’d take care of her, that she’d be OK. And he’d nursed her back to health, back to life. But then an image of her family would pop into her mind again and the confusion would cloud her head, bringing her all the way back to the beginning: was she in danger?

  ‘Who are you?’ Imogen croaked.

  He paused, the spoon hovering just below her chin.

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m Brad.’

  She frowned. Brad. Yes, that rang a bell. But why couldn’t she remember who he was, or how she knew him? She strained against the fog in her brain, thinner than it had been in days, but still swirling and obscuring access to her memories. She fought through it, battled to see beyond the silvery mist, and gasped.

  ‘Brad!’

  The phone. The messages. The one person who seemed to understand. How had she found him? And where was she?

  ‘You’ve been through a lot, little one,’ he said. Why did he keep calling her that? ‘I promise I’ll give you all the answers you’re looking for. But you’re still weak. You need to rest.’

  ‘No,’ she said, forcing herself to remain alert. She’d had enough oblivion. She needed to know. ‘I’m fine. I need to know what’s going on. Why can’t I remember?’

  ‘You’ve been really sick,’ Brad said. ‘Like, really, really sick. I was worried there for a while. I’m sure your memories will come back, you just have to be patient. But you’re safe with me. And I’ll help you fill in the gaps. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Brad said. ‘We’re at my place. Well, my temporary place until … well, it’s just for the time being. It’s no palace, I know that. But it’s starting to feel more like home.’

  ‘Why aren’t I home? Where is my family?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you’d remember this part. You remember talking to me, right? Our text conversations?’

  ‘Yes,’ Imogen said. ‘Well, I remember that there were text conversations. I remember a feeling more than what we actually said. I felt—’ She stopped, embarrassed. Her cheeks warmed as she realised what she had been about to say to this stranger, this man who she barely knew, barely remembered knowing. She had felt safe, she was going to say. And like he was the one person in the world who truly saw her for who she was.

  ‘You felt what, little one?’

  ‘Why do you keep calling me that?’

  ‘What else do you remember?’ he asked, ignoring her question. ‘Do you remember the first time I contacted you, what I asked?’

  Imogen squeezed her eyes closed and strained to remember, to not give up, her memories slowly getting closer until she could almost reach out and touch them. They danced and shimmered like a mirage, ever-moving, disappearing when she looked directly at them, but the more she focused, the clearer they became.

  There had been a Facebook message. From a stranger. She remembered that much. He’d asked her to do something. What was it? Something about her family.

  ‘The DNA test!’ she shouted, adrenaline surging through her as the rest fell into place. ‘How could I forget that? My family …’ She trailed off, a fresh wave of despair and betrayal washing over her, overwhelming her.

  ‘They’re not your family,’ Brad said gently.

  She looked up at him, at the shadow over his face. He hadn’t told her how he’d known she should do the test. He hadn’t said why he had been willing to pick her up in the middle of the night when she fled the home that had been a lie.

  But now she understood.

  ‘You are,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you? You’re my family.’

  His lips twitched upwards again, and she felt her heart growing, expanding. Her stomach exploded with butterflies as he reached up and tugged on the peak of his cap, his face coming into view. Despite her nausea, her exhaustion, the ache she felt deep in her bones, despite
the anguish at the memory of the people she had believed were her family, despite the many questions still swirling in her head, Imogen felt like she might burst with joy.

  The man in front of her was no stranger. Looking at him was like peering into a mirror. The light blond hair, the caramel eyes, the dimple – just one – marking his left cheek.

  ‘Are you my brother?’ she whispered, almost too scared to hear the answer in case it was no. If she was wrong about this, she thought she might break.

  ‘I knew you’d get it, little one,’ he said. ‘I am your brother. Your big brother. And I promise you, you’re safe with me.’

  Chapter 30

  KAT

  I press my back against the cool metal of the fridge and close my eyes as a blast of cold air envelops me, the bead of sweat that slides between my breasts making my skin tingle. When I told Linda that the police were coming to update us on the case, she offered to take Jemima, who I’d just picked up from school when the phone rang, for as long as we needed.

  I walked my daughter the few doors down, despite her insistence that she could find it herself. I didn’t let go of her hand until she was safely inside the front door. Even now I can’t help but worry. The meaning of safety has changed for me. I once thought that if my children were under my roof, nothing bad could happen to them. How stupid I’d been.

  I text Linda to check that Jemima is OK. She texts back immediately and assures me that she won’t let my daughter out of her sight. I sigh and let my arm drop to the floor. I’m aware of how much Linda is doing for me, and I’m grateful for it. When all of this is over, when Imogen is safely home, I’ll do something nice to thank her. But right now I have more important things to think about.

  The short walk along our street has drained me. The heat isn’t showing any signs of abating, and it’s sapped what little energy I have to offer. Even the light breeze is hot, like the devil is breathing down my neck. I know I need to get up soon, to prepare for the police to arrive, but I need a moment to cool down, to stop the panic that sits inside me, hotter than the air outside. As I focus on the sensation of the tiles against my legs, the back of my neck prickles. Not from the sudden change in temperature. There’s something else.

  Opening my eyes warily, I look up, instinctively knowing what I’ll see before I lift my gaze. And there it is: a huntsman spider, its body thick and black, its thin, hairy legs spread menacingly.

  It’s out of reach, up high in the corner of the ceiling, probably basking in the electric chill that envelops our house, just like I am. I shudder. Usually, I’d leap straight for the vacuum cleaner and chase the swift, unpredictable thing around until I sucked it up with a satisfying whomp. But, right now, I’m too drained to react.

  I watch lethargically as it creeps slowly towards a fly that’s settled above the sliding doors, and as it edges closer, I try not to think about the little boy with hate in his eyes. It’s a memory that’s haunted me for years, the knowledge of what our decision meant taking my breath away whenever I’ve thought about it.

  The spider edges closer to its victim, its legs stretching carefully, its hairy body propelling hungrily forward. I hold my breath. In a movement so swift and accurate that even the fly couldn’t have seen it coming, the huntsman leaps onto its prey, capturing it with a scuttle of skinny legs. Emotion rises in me so forcefully that before I know what’s happening, I’m standing, energised by rage, coiled for action.

  I reach for the spray under the sink. Moving carefully so I don’t scare off my victim, I hold the can high and press the button, waving the can with abandon, following the predator as it sprints for safety. Unwilling to let go of its meal, it’s slower than usual, although still lightning-fast. I leap over a chair, my finger pressing down on the aerosol release button, the toxic stench surrounding me in a deadly cloud.

  After a few seconds, the huntsman falls from the wall, and I know I’ve won. It lies on the cold tiles, its body convulsing, until it gives up with a shiver. I step on it for good measure, my stomach churning as the crunch reverberates through the soles of my shoes and into the tiny bones in my foot.

  ‘Kat?’

  I look over my shoulder and burst into tears.

  In three short strides, Dylan has his arms around me, protecting me, holding me together so I don’t crumble into pieces here on the kitchen floor.

  ‘There was a huntsman,’ I sob into his chest. I let him hold me, taking comfort in his broad chest, knowing that with his arms around me, I’m safe. ‘Would you mind getting rid of it for me, please?’ I sniff. ‘I can’t bear to touch it.’

  Dylan reaches for the paper towel and mops up the sticky remains of the spider. Stepping back into the kitchen, he disposes of it just as the doorbell rings.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I say, and I stride out of the kitchen to answer the door.

  Troy and Ruben are standing on the front porch uncomfortably, so I usher them in and hand them glasses of ice water, which they accept gratefully. It’s beginning to feel like a routine, now: they call, our hearts leap in hope and fear, they tell us they haven’t found Imogen but they have new information, or more questions, for us. We wait, fragile with nerves until they arrive at the door, sweaty and weary.

  ‘You said you have an update?’ Dylan asks them as he sits next to me on the sofa.

  ‘We do,’ Ruben says, draining his water in one long gulp.

  I watch a droplet of condensation slide slowly down the glass, pooling on the coaster. The officer clears his throat.

  Troy straightens and takes over from his partner.

  ‘We managed to gain access to Imogen’s social media accounts,’ he says. ‘And we found some messages from someone calling themselves Brad S.’

  I sit up straight, my nerves humming with fear.

  ‘It seems that the account was used solely for contacting your daughter, as we haven’t found any additional information yet, but right now we’re working on the assumption that this Brad S is the Sanders boy, Imogen’s brother.’

  ‘What kind of messages?’ Dylan asks, the same words ready on my lips.

  ‘The first contact we can see was about two months ago,’ Troy says gently. ‘Brad sent a link to that DNA testing company Imogen ended up using and asked her if she wanted to know the reason why she felt like she didn’t belong.’

  He lets the last part of his sentence hang in the air before the weight of it crashes over us.

  ‘Did she ever talk about that, about feeling like she didn’t belong?’

  Dylan and I look at each other. I look away again instantly. I focus on my hands, on keeping them in my lap, on twisting my wedding ring around and around my finger. I don’t look up when I speak.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice small, my tongue catching on the letters. I clear my throat. ‘She never told us.’

  Ruben coughs, and Troy gives him a sharp look. It’s too late, though. I already know what his cough meant, and I’ve thought the same thing myself. She shouldn’t have had to tell me. I should have known. She’s a teenager, and she’s adopted. I should have done everything I could to make sure she never felt isolated. Instead of worrying about her nature, looking for signs of violence, I should have been looking for signs that she was unhappy. That she felt like she didn’t belong in her own family.

  No wonder she left. No wonder she listened to the words of a stranger, someone who validated her secret fear. No wonder she listened to him when he said he could explain why she felt something that she’d never spoken out loud, should never have had to.

  I let her feel like an outsider. I pushed her away, into the hands of someone dangerous; unstable. I did this.

  It’s my fault.

  Chapter 31

  KAT

  The night is stagnant; the heat like a blanket that muffles movement and dulls the rhythmic tick tick tick tick hiss of the neighbour’s sprinkler and the chirrup of nearby crickets. Overhead, the Milky Way smudges the sky, a painter’s stroke of light that lends a ghostly glow to the t
rees below. There’s no hint of wind, not a whisper of a breeze, so the leaves that usually sway back and forth are eerily still, as though they’ve given up, exhausted.

  There’s a smell to the heat, too; it’s sharp and bitter, a dusty kind of decay. The scents of dead grass, melting bitumen and overchlorinated pools sit low and heavy in the night, adding to the suffocating temperatures.

  I sip the air in slow, shallow breaths; anything too sudden burns the back of my throat and scorches my lungs. Even at this time, even without the sun, there’s no relief. I drain a glass of water, now tepid after only a few minutes outside, and wipe the sweat from my top lip with a damp forearm. I don’t want to be out here, but I can’t bear being inside, either. After the constables left, I was certain that the walls were pressing in on me, moving closer and closer, threatening to trap me in the world I’d so carefully and deliberately built. I had to escape, had to get outside so I could think.

  I should have known that Imogen would find out eventually. I should have planned for it, prepared myself.

  No, that’s not it – I just should have been the one to tell her; it never should have come down to this. But I’ve been so scared of what it would mean – her being in possession of the truth – that I took the coward’s way out. I kept her in the dark, telling myself that it was for her own good, for her safety.

  Of course she ordered the test. Of course she replied to the mysterious message that Brad S had sent her. He offered what I didn’t: answers. Even if she’d never asked the questions, she deserved to know.

  My hand shakes, and the paper I’m holding rustles gently, reminding me of the words I’ve read over and over again since the police left. I lift up the printout that Troy handed me on his way out the door and read the messages they found on Imogen’s Facebook Messenger account.

  Hi Imogen, you don’t know me, but I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. Because I bet you’re wondering why you feel different from your family, like an outsider …? If you are, if I’m right, then get this test done. I’m not some creep, I can explain everything, but only if you want to know. Only if you’re looking for answers. I’ll be here if you want to talk.