by Elle Croft
‘I’m right here, little one,’ he said, stroking her hair.
She let her eyes drift closed, and as sleep claimed her wearied mind, she decided that Brad was the kindest and most gentle person she‘d ever met. If he turned out so great, then their parents couldn’t be bad people. It was impossible.
Her lips stretched into a drowsy smile. Maybe being Amy would turn out OK.
Chapter 47
KAT
My head spins as petrol fumes hit my lungs. I breathe in deeply, enjoying the sudden lightness, the sweet chemical scent that overpowers everything else. The pump jolts in my hand and I’m brought back to my senses. The tank’s full, and I need to get back home, need to find a way to get to Brad so I can find Imogen.
Because if it’s me he’s really after, and if taking Imogen is just a way to get revenge on me – on us – then she could be in more danger than we thought. Revenge is a completely different beast from reunion; it’s driven by rage and in-
justice, not love. If he’s hell-bent on retribution for what he saw as our unforgivable act – taking his sister and leaving him behind – then there’s no telling what he’ll do to get even. What if he wants me to feel what he did, the loss of the girl he knows as Amy, who I know as Imogen? The thought rages inside me, a blaze that scorches my heart, my lungs, the marrow inside my bones.
I slam the car door closed and start the engine. Only three hundred kilometres to Adelaide, and a full tank to get me there. I should be home before dark. I’ll be there to kiss Jemima goodnight, to sit with Dylan and work out what the hell we do next, how we keep fighting, keep searching, keep believing that we’ll get our daughter back. I pull out of the petrol station and back onto the highway.
The only comfort I have is that Brad wants her with him. I have to believe that no matter how much pain he’d like to cause me, he doesn’t want to hurt his sister. Although … perhaps, with genes like his, his idea of love isn’t the same as the rest of us. If he loves the way his parents did … I shake my head. It’s not worth thinking about. Giving in to thoughts of his DNA only leads to thoughts of what’s running through my own daughter’s blood, and I refuse to believe the worst of her.
Besides, if there’s one thing I am certain of when it comes to Imogen, it’s that she’s strong. I think about the girl I saw in the school nurse’s office just last week, her face bloodied and bruised, and I know that Imogen wouldn’t go down without a fight. She wouldn’t let herself be hurt. But the relief is fleeting. If she does fight, maybe that will anger him. Maybe that will make things worse.
I let out a scream of frustration and punch the steering wheel. It feels good, so I let another scream tear up my throat, contracting my lungs until I can scream no more and I have to gasp for breath, and then I let another one rip, all of the fear and confusion and anger and what-ifs escaping in a burst of noise and emotion. I slam my fist against the wheel again and again, the car horn blasting in time with my grief, and I relish the pain as the side of my hand becomes bruised and tender.
Spent, I slump back in my seat and hit cruise control. I take my feet off the pedals and watch the nothingness whir past me. There’s not another soul on this stretch of road. It’s apocalyptic. Nothing but dust and bugs and, occasionally, a snake writhing its way across the shimmering road, graceful as water and utterly deadly.
I reach for the radio, needing something to distract me from my own thoughts, and to keep me awake on the monotonous drive home. All the way here I was pumped up on adrenaline, imagining what I’d say to Sally, picturing a triumphant moment where she, cowed by my love for Imogen, confessed to knowing exactly where my daughter is being held. Now I’m deflated, confused, scared, ashamed and exhausted. But I can’t let myself fall asleep on the road. Imogen needs me.
As I press the audio button and scroll through my playlists, I spot a notification above my messages icon. I didn’t hear my phone beeping. Frowning, I tap the message to open it. It’s from a withheld number. When the message appears on my screen, I’m jolted awake, the movement so sudden that I swerve unintentionally, my car veering until it’s almost off the road.
I hit the rumble strip and the tyres protest loudly. My bones rattle as I pull the wheel sharply, navigating back to safety. It’s not safe to pull over; there’s nowhere to stop. Instead, I slow down, take a couple of deep breaths, and read the message again slowly:
Remember me? the text begins. It’s the child you left behind, the one you rejected. I’m back – I’ve come to take back what was never yours. But I can see you won’t give up. So why don’t we let Amy choose? Her real family, or the people who lied to her for her entire life? I’ll send you an address tonight. Come alone. Don’t even think about telling your husband, and definitely not the cops, or you’ll never hear from us again. And Amy will be gone forever.
Chapter 48
SALLY
To some extent, I can understand when outsiders – people unfamiliar with prison life, the portion of society that believes those of us behind bars are other, somehow – underestimate me. After all, they want so desperately to be removed from who I am – from what I am – that they’re willing to deceive themselves. They’re convinced that I must be lesser than them, intelligence included, if I’ve ended up behind bars.
It’s a flawed argument, honestly. If you thought for more than a second about the kind of morons you encounter day to day – in your job, at the supermarket, on the roads – you’d know that incarceration and a deficit of intelligence couldn’t possibly be linked. But I know you don’t stop to think about that. You don’t want to. I get it.
What I don’t understand is when people on the inside assume I’m a woman of lesser intellect, simply because I’m here. Of course, just like on the outside, there are people in prison who are utter imbeciles. It’s a statistical certainty, whether you’re in prison or in a boardroom. But sometimes I think people just decide that because of what I did, I must be mentally defective.
I’d like to state here, for the record, that I’m not. I am, in fact, quite intelligent.
And, frustrating as it is to have my fellow criminals misjudge my intellect, I can’t deny that it works in my favour.
If any of the degenerates in this place knew what I was really doing in the library every day, they’d want a piece of my brainpower. They see me, tucked away in the reference section, legal tomes spread before me, and they think it’s just a cover. I mean, sure, it’s a great spot from which to run my business, but that’s just a bonus. I’m not there for the transactions. I’m there for my babies. To protect them. Because they’re not safe out there all alone. They’re exposed to too much, at the mercy of people whose intentions I can’t be certain of.
So, yes, I am trying to appeal my case, just as I told Kathryn. If I can get out of here, then I can look after my babies once again; I can make sure they stay safe. We can be a family, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Do I think I’ll get out? Well, that depends. It all hinges on whether I’m willing to betray my Tim, throw him under the bus for the greater good – the well-being of my children. My new lawyer – the one Brad hired for me, using his savings from working at the mines all those years – tells me that nothing I can do will change Tim’s future. Me stabbing him in the back, claiming it’s all his fault, that none of it was my doing, won’t make his sentence any longer.
But it’s not like there’s any guarantee I’ll be released, even if I do the unthinkable. Because even if it won’t change his future, Tim will know what I’ve done. There’s no worse thing anyone can do to another human than betray them.
Oh, you think what I’ve done is worse? That’s cute. Clearly you’ve never been betrayed; not really. I have. By my own daughter. That pain was greater than losing all the rest of them put together. If Tim turned on me, I don’t think I’d survive it. And I don’t think I have it in me to put him through that.
So I’m doing all I can to read up on my rights and find a way out of here – and of c
ourse, I’m so grateful that my boy is helping – but in the end, I might not succeed. And if I don’t, I need to make sure that my babies are safe without me. I may be incarcerated, but I’m not helpless. As I said, I’m smart. And I’ve got time on my hands.
I’m glad Kathryn came to see me. It confirmed to me what I’ve long suspected, that she feels a sense of ownership over what’s rightfully mine, and she intends to find and reclaim what she believes is her property. It’s almost charming how sincere she is, how much she truly believes that Amy is better with her, playing the role of Imogen Braidwood, blithely ignoring the things that lurk in her blood.
But sorry, Kathryn, you don’t get to make that choice any more, no matter how eager you are.
It’s lucky, really, that I have Brad on my side, a willing helper, someone to carry out my wishes while I’m stuck in here. He’s my hands and feet, my action man. It was something of a surprise when he came back into my life, if I’m completely honest. I suppose maybe I’d started to believe some of the things they say about me, about my abilities to parent. Fifteen years of being told you’re the scum of the earth, with no one telling you otherwise, isn’t exactly great for the old self-esteem.
But then that letter arrived, the one where a stranger named Tristan said he thought I was his mum. When we’d established that Tristan was actually my Brad, I told him that he was welcome to come and see me, although he’d need to use another name. Obviously our communication was more subtle than that – there are people monitoring all of my letters – but I’m simplifying it for you. I don’t want to lose anyone here.
He turned up, in the guise of a journalist, and I’d known the second I laid eyes on him that he was mine. He knew it, too. There was an instant connection, the kind of recognition that you only find with someone who shares your flesh and blood.
He told me about his life, about the family who rejected him and took Amy, about the people who took him in and then kicked him out, and my blood ran cold. All these years, all that danger. I would never have let that happen to him. I would never have exposed him to risks like that.
And it was in that moment that I knew, with total certainty, that I’m a good mum. That no one else ever could – or ever will – do a better job.
And I realised that maybe I could still protect my babies. One of them, at least. It would just take some time, and a lot of careful planning. But I was up to the challenge.
Chapter 49
KAT
My vision blurs. I can’t tell whether I’m going to throw up or faint. Maybe both.
The engine ticks and pops as I sit in the driveway, too exhausted to move.
The front door opens, and Dylan rushes out, opening the driver’s door and embracing me awkwardly as I sit, still buckled in, unsure how to react, how to deal with the information I’ve been analysing for the past few hours on the road.
‘Oh my God, I was so worried about you, I’m so glad you’re safe. Come inside, let’s get you some coffee.’
I nod as he reaches in to unbuckle my seat belt, and I allow myself to be led into the house, Jemima waiting for me as soon as I walk through the front door.
‘Mum, you’re home!’ she says, as I wrap my arms tightly around her.
I’m not sure what Dylan has told her about my absence, but she doesn’t seem distressed, or angry. I’m grateful to him for protecting her from the truth: that her mother took off without a word and drove interstate to chat with a serial killer. I close my eyes, and breathe in the sweet smell of her freshly washed hair, wishing I could absorb her innocence. I tighten my arms around her.
‘Ooof, Mum, I can’t breathe,’ she moans into my chest.
‘Sorry,’ I say, letting her go and wiping tears from my cheeks. ‘Now, young lady, it’s almost bedtime, isn’t it?’
‘Not yet,’ she argues. ‘It’s only eight. And I’ve done all my homework. Can I have an iced chocolate before bed? Please?’
She looks between Dylan and me, and I relent instantly. She drags us to the kitchen, where Dylan makes three iced chocolates, complete with whipped cream and sprinkles. We sip in silence for a few minutes, the sugar slowly bringing my strength back, the familiar surroundings comforting the turmoil in my head.
‘I wish Immy was back,’ Jemima says suddenly, and I think I might crumble right there at the kitchen table.
‘Me too, love,’ I say, reaching across to grab her hand, needing to cling to something so I don’t fall apart.
‘Do you think she’ll come home soon?’ Jemima asks, her eyes wide and pleading, voicing the question I’m too scared to put into words, in case I get the answer I don’t want to hear.
‘Of course she will,’ Dylan says, a little too loudly, a little too vehemently.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, and squeeze Jemima’s hand even tighter. She doesn’t squeeze mine in return.
‘I’m tired,’ she says quietly. ‘I want to go to bed.’
I stand next to her, folding her in my arms.
‘OK, love,’ I say into her hair. ‘Let’s go get you ready.’
I lay on top of the covers beside Jemima, stroking her hair until her breath becomes rhythmic and slow. She’s fast asleep, the stress of the past few days sapping her usual resistance to bedtime. She stirs gently, and I whisper shhhh until she stills again. I curl up next to her, my chest tightening as I try to imagine what this must be like for her.
Imogen and Jemima are close; closer than I expected them to be at this age. As they got older, I figured that Immy would become moody with teenage hormones, pushing away an annoying little sister, distancing herself so as not to damage her social life, delicate as that can be for high-school kids. The hormones did make her moody. Just not towards her baby sister.
They were always whispering and conspiring in one of their rooms, conversations I’d never be a part of. Sometimes I’d hear a blood-curdling shriek or an almighty crash and I’d think that we’d reached the moment when they couldn’t stand each other, when their love transformed into sibling rivalry, or worse. But every time, after a few panicked seconds, I’d hear a peal of laughter and my heart would swell. As an only child, I’d never experienced that. I’d only ever had my parents for company, a relationship that had never involved laughter or secrets or play-fighting. I didn’t have a confidante, aside from the brief existence of an imaginary friend named Casper, and I always longed for a sibling, a constant companion who would turn my lonely, listless weekends into boundless adventures. But watching Imogen and Jemima mended that part of me. I never had it for myself, but I got to provide it for my girls. I got to see it happening before my eyes.
To have it, and then to lose it … that’s a tragedy I can’t imagine. But it’s what Jemima’s going through now. She might only be twelve, but she’s perceptive, and I know she’ll understand the realities of what’s happening. She’ll have thought through all of the possible scenarios, she’ll have considered the idea of never seeing her sister again. Her potential heartbreak is unbearable.
A small voice in the back of my mind reminds me that what Jemima is going through – that pain, that loss, that grief – that’s what Brad had to go through when he was just five, when he didn’t have any family left, when he was confused and scared and without another soul on his side. Only in his situation, no one was working to get his sister back to him. Something inside me tears, a seam coming undone, stitch by stitch, and I almost howl with the pain of it.
So this is my fault. I did this to Brad. I took his only ally, I broke that bond.
Heavy-hearted, I creep out of Jemima’s room. I need to get to Brad. I need to look into his eyes, tell him that I’m sorry for not taking him, too; for stealing Imogen away from him. I need him to understand that my daughter’s life is good and that, whatever he’s been through, she deserves to live the life she’s been given, and to live it well. Maybe we can arrange visits, some kind of supervised time together, so she can get to know her brother, without any possibility of him hurting he
r. I don’t know. All I do know is that if I can just look at him, talk to him, reason with him, I’ll get through to him.
I have to.
There’s a problem, though: Dylan. I don’t know how to get away from him without raising his suspicions. I only just got home after taking off without an explanation, so I’m pretty sure if I did it again, Dylan would follow me, demand an answer.
I should just tell him, tell the police, let other people decide how to handle this. But Brad told me not to breathe a word to anyone, told me there would be consequences if I did. I don’t know how he’d know, but I don’t think I can risk it.
I almost think I’ve decided, until I realise that I can’t trust my own judgement. I drove over seven hundred kilometres to meet with the country’s most dangerous woman, for goodness’ sake. Clearly my decision-making skills aren’t in any condition to be making a call this important alone.
I want to go to the police. I want to let Dylan in, present the evidence as a team, and then trust the authorities to take care of it all. But Imogen’s life could be at stake. And if the police managed to miss information as important as Brad visiting Sally in prison, I’m not convinced they’ll be able to do much to help. It’s too big a risk. I can’t do it.
For now, I need to follow Brad’s rules, play his game the way he wants it to be played. For Imogen’s sake.
I walk into the living room, so absorbed with trying to work out how I can get away undetected, that I don’t notice Dylan standing in the middle of the room, phone in his hand and a deep frown on his face.
‘Kat,’ he says, and I look up sharply. Was I thinking out loud? Did I just let slip what I’m planning? ‘I just got off the phone with the cops,’ he says, and everything stops. Every time the police call, there’s the chance that it’s the worst news imaginable. Every single time, my brain immediately goes to the darkest of places. ‘They haven’t found her,’ he says in a rush as he sees my reaction. ‘It’s nothing like that. They just found the ID of the man who visited Sally. He called himself Dylan.’
