by Elle Croft
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Braidwood,’ he says, genuine warmth in his voice. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m assuming what I say here will be kept confidential?’
‘You’re not a client, so I can’t legally guarantee it, but unless you’re about to confess to a crime, I’m sure your secret will be safe with me.’
I hesitate, staring at the line in the middle of the road. This is my last chance to back out, my last opportunity to turn around, go home and pretend I’d never even considered this ridiculous and dangerous plan. It’s the final opportunity for me to do as the police instructed: trust their expertise, trust that they are doing everything they can to find my daughter. Then I think about the days that have passed since Imogen disappeared, the lack of anything resembling a lead. I grip the steering wheel and take a breath.
‘Well, the reason I’m calling you is … Imogen is actually Amy. Amy Sanders. We adopted her around fifteen years ago.’
I let the revelation settle on Sally’s defence lawyer before I speak again.
‘I need access to Sally Sanders.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘I’ve looked it up,’ I interrupt him, my resolve strengthening now that the weight of my confession is off my shoulders. ‘I need to be on her approved visitor list, which means Sally needs to add me to it. But I don’t have time to go via the regular routes. And I can’t call her as I’m not on the approved call list. But I’m guessing you are. So I need you to call her, convince her to put me on that list and get me an appointment with her today.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the road,’ I say. ‘Driving to the prison.’
There’s a whooshing sound, a deep sigh from the lawyer. ‘Look. Mrs Braidwood. I’m really sorry about your daughter, I honestly am. And I’d love to help, but I don’t know how speaking to my client is going to change anything. She doesn’t have your daughter.’
‘Yeah, I know that,’ I say impatiently. ‘But Brad, Sally’s son, has been in touch with Imogen, and possibly other members of the family. I don’t know how, but I need to know if he’s been in touch with Sally, if she knows anything about his plans that could help.’
‘Shouldn’t the police be looking into this?’
‘Probably,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t know if they are. They keep telling me to just sit at home and wait, and I can’t do that. Look, I know it’s a long shot, and I know it might not help me find Imogen, but I have to do something, why is that so hard for people to understand? I can’t just sit around. I have to find my daughter. Please help me.’
There’s a tapping sound, as though he’s drumming his fingers on a desk, contemplating my plea.
‘I can’t promise anything,’ he says eventually. ‘But I will try to call Sally, and I will ask the question. I must warn you though, I haven’t spoken to her for some time, so I don’t know how willing she will be to speak to me. And I doubt all of this can happen as quickly as you want it to. But I’ll try. I’ll do my best.’
I thank him and give him my number and then hang up, hurtling towards my daughter’s past and the woman who’s been giving me nightmares for fifteen years.
Chapter 36
KAT
Five hours later, I’m exhausted and running out of fuel. I groan, frustrated. The air conditioning is chewing through my petrol, but it’s far too hot to be stingy with the air. My dashboard tells me it’s forty-eight degrees outside, and judging by the liquid silver shimmering along the horizon, I’m certain it’s hot enough for the roads to be melting.
I spot a sign for a petrol station in twenty kilometres and glance nervously at the gauge. It tells me I have forty-three left in the tank. I hope it’s clever enough to account for the air con. Once I get there, I’ll text Dylan and tell him he needs to pick Jemima up from school today.
A fresh wave of anxiety washes over me as I consider what lies ahead; the convict I might soon be meeting. I keep picturing the moment I’ll come face to face with her, the words I’ll choose, the things I’ll have to leave unsaid if I want her to help me.
My phone rings, and I’m grateful for the interruption. It’s Griffin.
‘Kat speaking,’ I answer.
‘Hi, Mrs Braidwood, it’s Owen Griffin.’
‘How did you go?’ I ask, bracing myself. I need this to be good news; I have no plan B.
‘Well,’ he sighs heavily, ‘she agreed to see you. But she couldn’t get visitation before tomorrow.’
‘Damn it. OK. Thank you,’ I say, fear and relief coursing through my blood.
Dylan’s going to be furious with me. If I tell him where I am, or what I’m planning, he’ll make me come home, or he’ll tell the police and they’ll stop me. Or, even worse, he’ll drive over here to convince me to come back. I’ll have to invent a lie believable enough to keep him from meddling, just until tomorrow. I’ll face his wrath once I’m done, when I have what I need. At least, I hope I’ll have what I need. I hope this won’t be for nothing.
‘You have an appointment at ten o’clock in the morning. You’ll need photo ID, and don’t bring anything inside that you don’t need. And just … be careful, OK? I know this woman, and I wish I didn’t. She’s evil, Mrs Braidwood. There’s no other word for it.’
‘Thank you,’ I breathe. ‘I’m really grateful.’
‘I hope I don’t regret this,’ he says. ‘Let me know how you go tomorrow. And best of luck with finding your daughter.’
I thank him again and hang up, a strange mixture of fear and hope brewing inside me. What if this is the answer? What if she knows something that will lead me to Imogen? I try to put a lid on my imagination. I don’t want to set my expectations too high only to be disappointed tomorrow, but if Brad really is trying to get his family back together, then it’s not completely implausible to think that he’s been in touch with his mother, or that she’s somehow behind this, encouraging him to bring them all back together again. My stomach heaves, and I breathe deeply, in through my nose and out through my mouth, until the nausea subsides and my light-headedness abates.
I try to prepare myself for looking into the eyes of a killer, of facing someone who I’ve only ever seen in a few photos that were released to the media, the same ones I saw when I searched for her online yesterday. Whenever I think of her – and I really, really try not to – I am confronted by my own conflicting emotions. Boiling-hot rage at the things she did to those children – to my daughter – comes first and foremost. But, inevitably, another emotion comes creeping in, making me wonder what kind of person I truly am: gratitude.
Of course I wish she’d never done those heinous things. Of course. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Imogen. I’d never have my beautiful daughter. The day I met Imogen – still Amy, then; her new name wasn’t chosen until a few weeks later – I felt it, deep within me. It was a stirring, an ache of instinct, from somewhere in a place hidden from me until then, a part of myself I’d never accessed before. I recognised her. She was mine. I knew then and there that I’d do anything to protect her. I loved her, fiercely and wholly, in a way I couldn’t explain.
The only other time I’ve felt that way was the day Jemima was born. She was our surprise, our miracle. The doctor told us that it wasn’t so uncommon, that couples who had previously struggled to conceive would later fall pregnant when they weren’t trying.
When I looked into Jemima’s eyes, I felt the exact same emotions that I’d experienced when I met Imogen. Impossible as it may seem, my maternal instinct was visceral, even with my adopted daughter. It was real. She was mine and I would give her the life she deserved. I would protect her, even if it meant putting my life on the line.
I grit my teeth as I hurtle towards the devil who brought my daughter into this world. She might be a psychopath, but she doesn’t have what I have. She doesn’t have a family; not any more.
I took it from her.
I’ve already won.
Chapter 37
IMOGEN
>
It had taken, Imogen guessed, about forty-five minutes for her to get dressed. She’d had to stop for frequent breaks to sit – or even lie – down for minutes at a time, while her head swirled and her vision narrowed to a tiny point of light. Her muscles ached like they did the day after a volleyball tournament, screaming with every movement.
But despite her uncooperative body, Imogen knew that she was getting stronger, and she revelled in the small victories. Like being able to stand, and talk, and string an entire thought together without passing out or slipping into that strange middle ground between waking and nightmares, the place filled with snippets of reality, too fast and slippery for her to catch them.
Slowly, cautiously, holding onto the walls for support, she shuffled down the hallway and walked through an archway into what she presumed was some kind of living room. It wasn’t much bigger – or more appealing – than the room she’d been confined to. The floor was covered in sticky green linoleum, and the furniture looked as though it had been picked up off the side of the road on hard rubbish day. There was an olive-green armchair, with dark stains dotting the arms and seat. The sofa beside it, which Brad was sitting on, looked like it came from a grandma’s house, the delicate floral pattern faded, the fabric torn here and there to reveal cheap spongy stuffing.
‘Hey, little one, you’re walking! Here, let me help you.’
He crossed the room in two strides and was at her side, gently guiding her by the elbow towards the armchair. Imogen leaned into him, grateful for his strength, his solidity. She landed heavily on the lumpy armchair with a sigh of relief.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ Brad asked.
She nodded, licked her dry lips.
‘I think so.’
‘And were the clothes OK? Sorry, I did my best, I didn’t know what size you were, so I just had to guess.’
After her bath, Imogen had wrapped herself in the towel that had been hanging from the rail on the opposite wall and had sat on the edge of the bathtub staring at the pile of filthy, sweaty clothes she’d been wearing for … well, too long. She could smell them from where she sat, the stench making her stomach turn. She hadn’t wanted to put them back on, but she didn’t have the energy to walk to the bedroom to see whether there was anything there she could wear. She’d wracked her brain, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d brought clothes with her when she left home. Her memory of that night was still a little fuzzy.
There had been a small knock on the bathroom door.
‘Amy?’
‘Yes?’ she’d called out, falsely bright. It was so strange being called by someone else’s name, only it wasn’t anyone else’s. It was hers.
‘I don’t know if you want … I have some clothes here …’
Brad had sounded shy, apologetic, but at that moment, if she’d had the energy to move, she’d have leapt up, wrenched the door open and hugged him. She’d told him he could come in, and he’d appeared, holding out a plastic Target bag. She’d thanked him profusely, and when he’d closed the door again, she’d looked inside and found three T-shirts, all too small, a pair of denim shorts, far too tight, and a skirt with some pink floral pattern that she was pretty sure must have been found in the kids’ department. There was also some underwear, which was, to her relief, the correct size. Imogen’s heart swelled as she imagined her brother browsing Target for clothes, completely unsure of himself, but wanting her to be comfortable.
A tear found its way down her cheek. She didn’t even remember him until yesterday, didn’t know he was her brother, and he’d looked after her when she was at her absolute worst. She couldn’t help but think about Kat and Dylan, and their notable absence. Yes, she’d run away, but where were they? Weren’t they supposed to want to look after her? But then again, she wasn’t their daughter, was she? Not like Jemima.
‘The clothes are great,’ she said as she shifted her weight. ‘Perfect size.’
It was a lie, but Brad’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning, and she knew in that moment that she’d do whatever she had to so that he always looked so pleased.
‘Awesome, sis. OK, now how about some food? Real food, not just soup?’
Imogen nodded. ‘Food would be great.’
‘I should warn you, it won’t be fancy. Does an omelette sound all right?’
‘Sounds incredible,’ she said, watching as he turned his back to her and busied himself in the small nook that could generously be called a kitchenette.
While he cooked, she looked around, familiarising herself with the strange house. There was a coffee table, chipped and rickety, and, strangely, an empty pram pushed against the wall opposite her. It made her uncomfortable to look at, although she couldn’t say why, so she focused instead on the small window to her left, beside what she assumed was the front door. It was covered by a dusty mesh curtain, the kind she saw in her friend’s nanna’s house once, but through the flimsy fabric she could see lush green gum trees and thick scrub. She frowned.
‘Are we still in Adelaide?’
‘Yep,’ Brad said above the sizzle of eggs in a pan. ‘Just up in the hills. I like the peace and quiet out here.’
‘Have you always lived here?’
The idea that he’d been so close, and yet completely out of her reach, was too awful to consider.
‘Nah, I grew up over in Perth. Been there till just recently.’
‘So what made you come here?’
He turned around and looked directly at her.
‘You.’
He’d pulled his hat off to cook, and when his eyes met hers, she felt a thrill of recognition, of connection. Imogen’s face grew hot and her insides warmed. Had he really moved across the country just to find her?
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because family is everything, Amy. I’d finally got my life together, but it just didn’t feel right, because I wasn’t sharing it with the most important people.’
‘So who is our family? Where are our parents?’
Brad laughed and turned back to the stove to flip the omelette. ‘I’ll answer all of your questions in a minute, but unless you like burned eggs, you’re going to have to give me a second.’
Imogen wondered if it was possible to explode from having too many questions sitting unanswered inside her. All she wanted to do was fire every single query – about her past, about her present, about him, about who she really was – at Brad, and get all of the answers in one neat package. She had been in the dark for sixteen years. She didn’t want to wait another second.
Brad walked across the room holding a plate out for her. She took it gratefully, and instantly began cutting up the first solid food she’d had since …
‘What day is it?’ she blurted out. She couldn’t have even guessed how long she’d been there. It could have been days, weeks, or even months. The idea of it having been so long sent a cold trickle down her spine, although she wasn’t sure why. In the end, she was right where she belonged, with her brother. She’d stay forever if she could.
‘It’s Thursday afternoon. You’ve been here for five days. Sorry, I should have told you. You must be so confused.’
She shrugged, but she wanted to cry. She was confused. She was scared – not of Brad, or of his house – but just because she couldn’t understand what had happened, or what might come next. She felt untethered, like there was nothing stopping her from floating away, higher and higher until she reached the atmosphere, and further still, into nothingness.
‘Little one,’ he said, walking over with his own plate and gently putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s OK if you’re feeling overwhelmed. You’ve been through a lot.’
He sat down and shoved a forkful of omelette in his mouth. Imogen did the same, making a mmmm, that’s delicious face, even though it was rubbery and definitely needed salt.
‘I’m going to tell you everything,’ Brad said to her from his place on the floral sofa. ‘But there’s something I need to talk to you about first.’
She swallowed. ‘OK.’
‘This is really hard,’ he said, not meeting her eye. ‘I really didn’t want it to be like this, and I was hoping for better news, but …’
‘What?’ she asked, her stomach now a solid tangle of knots. She put her fork down.
‘When we got here, and you got so sick, I was so busy taking care of you that I kind of forgot about the fact that you’d run away from home. There’s no signal or Wi-Fi here, so I wasn’t seeing any news, but on Tuesday, when you were out of the woods, I decided to go get some supplies and check the news. I figured you’d have been reported missing, that there was probably some kind of search going down.’
Imogen’s heart dropped. She hadn’t thought about that when she’d left – she hadn’t been thinking about anything, other than just getting away from the people who were holding her captive in a lie. She’d never considered that her escape from her bedroom window could end up on the news. She chewed the side of her thumbnail, her stomach squirming at the thought of all that attention.
‘But when I finally got into a spot with signal, I looked and … I’m so sorry, little one. There was nothing.’
Imogen felt like she’d been slapped.
‘They’re not looking for me?’ she whispered, hoping he couldn’t hear the devastation in her words.
‘I’m sorry,’ her brother said, looking at his toes. ‘I really am. You deserve better.’
‘No,’ Imogen said, shaking her head. ‘No, they would be. They might be liars, but they wouldn’t just let me run away from home without trying to find me.’
Would they?
‘That’s what I thought,’ Brad said. ‘So I got in touch with Kat. I found her on Facebook, sent her a message to let her know that you’re with me, and that you’re OK. She replied, and … well, I really hate to be the one telling you this, but she … she said that you shouldn’t come back.’
‘What?’ Imogen whispered.
He had to be mistaken. Imogen had once gone to the beach with some friends without telling their mums, and Kat had found out and been beside herself, flying across the sand and screaming Imogen’s name at the top of her lungs. It had been social suicide, but it had taught her not to go out without saying anything. Surely Kat would be losing her mind right now?
