ANNA SNOEKSTRA was born in Canberra, Australia in 1988. She studied Creative Writing and Cinema at Melbourne University, followed by Screenwriting at RMIT University.

She currently lives in Melbourne with her husband and tabby cat.

For my mother.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

Copyright

I’ve always been good at playing a part: the mysterious seductress for the sleazebag, the doe-eyed innocent for the protector. I had tried both on the security guard and neither seemed to be working.

I’d been so close. The supermarket doors had already slid open for me when his wide hand clamped on my shoulder. The main road was only fifteen paces away. A quiet street lined with yellow-and-orange-leaved trees.

His grip tightened.

He brought me into the back office. A small cement box with no windows, barely big enough to fit the old filing cabinet, desk and printer. He took the bread roll, cheese and apple out of my bag and laid them on the table between us. Seeing them spread out like that gave me a jolt of shame, but I tried my best to hold his eye. He said I wasn’t going anywhere until I gave him some identification. Luckily, I had no wallet. Who needs a wallet when you don’t have any money?

I attempted all my routines on him, letting tears flow when my insinuations fell flat. It wasn’t my best performance; I couldn’t stop looking at the bread. My stomach was beginning to cramp. I’ve never felt hunger like this before.

I can hear him now, talking to the police on the other side of the locked door. I stare up at the notice board above the desk. This week’s staff roster is there, alongside a memo about credit card procedures with a smiley face drawn on the bottom and a few photographs from a work night out.

I have never wanted to work in a supermarket. I’ve never wanted to work anywhere, but all of a sudden, I’m painfully jealous.

“Sorry to bother you with this. Little skank won’t give me any ID.”

I wonder if he knows I can hear him.

“It’s all right—we’ll take it from here.” Another voice.

The door opens and two cops look in at me. It’s a female and a male, both probably about my age. She has her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. The guy is pasty and thin. I can tell straightaway that he’s going to be an asshole. They sit down on the other side of the table.

“My name is Constable Thompson and this is Constable Seirs. We understand that you were caught shoplifting from this store,” the male cop says, not even bothering to hide the boredom in his tone.

“No, actually, I wasn’t,” I say, imitating my stepmom’s perfect breeding. “I was on my way to the register when he grabbed me. That man has a problem with women.”

They look at me doubtfully, their eyes sliding over my unwashed clothes and greasy hair. I wonder if I smell. My bruised and swollen face isn’t doing me any favours. It was probably why I got caught in the first place.

“He was calling me foul names when he brought me back here—” I lower my voice “—like skank and whore. Disgusting. My father is a lawyer and I expect he’ll want to sue for misconduct when I tell him what went on here today.”

They look at each other and I can immediately tell they don’t buy it. I should have cried.

“Listen, honey, it’s going to be fine. Just give us your name and address. You’ll be back home by the end of the day,” the girl cop says.

She is my age and she’s calling me pet names like I’m just a kid.

“The other option is that we book you now and take you back to the station. You’ll have to wait in a cell while we sort out who you are. It will be a lot easier if you just give us your name now.”

They’re trying to scare me and it’s working, but not for the reason they think. Once they have my fingerprints it won’t take them long to identify me. They’ll find out what I did.

“I was so hungry,” I say, and the tremor in my tone isn’t fake.

It’s the look in their eyes that does it. A mix of pity and disgust. Like I’m worth nothing, just another stray for them to clean up. A memory slowly opens and I realize I know exactly how to get myself out of this.

The power of what I’m about to say is huge. It courses through my body like a shot of vodka, removing the tightness in my throat and sending tingles to the tips of my fingers. I don’t feel helpless anymore; I know I can pull this off. Staring at her, then him, I let myself savor the moment. Watching them carefully to enjoy the exact instant their faces change.

“My name is Rebecca Winter. Eleven years ago, I was abducted.”

1

2014

I sit in an interview room with my face down, holding my coat tightly around myself. It’s cold in here. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour, but I’m not worried. I imagine what a stir I’ve caused on the other side of that mirror. They’re probably calling in the missing persons unit, looking up photographs of Rebecca and painstakingly comparing them to me. That should be enough to convince them; the likeness is uncanny.

I saw it months ago. I was wrapped up with Peter, a little bundle of warmth. Usually I got teary when I was hungover and just spent the day hiding in my room listening to sad music. It was different with him. We woke up at noon and sat on the couch all day eating pizza and smoking cigarettes until we started feeling better. That was back when I thought my parents’ money didn’t matter and all I needed was love.

We were watching some stupid show called Wanted. They were talking about a string of grisly murders at a place called Holden Valley Aged Care in Melbourne and I started looking for the remote. Butchered grannies were definitely a mood killer. Just as I went to change the channel, the next story began and a photograph came up on the screen. She had my nose, my eyes, my copper-coloured hair. Even my freckles.

“Rebecca Winter finished her late shift at McDonald’s, in the inner south Canberra suburb of Manuka, on the seventeenth of January 2003,” a man said in a dramatic voice over the photograph, “but somewhere between her bus stop and home she disappeared, never to be seen again.”

“Holy shit, is that you?” Peter said.

The girl’s parents appeared, saying their daughter had been missing for over a decade but they still had hope. The mother looked like she was about to cry. Another photograph: Rebecca Winter wearing a bright green dress, her arm slung around another teenage girl, this one with blonde hair. For a foolish moment, I tried to remember if I had ever owned a dress like that.

A family portrait: the parents looking thirty years younger, two grinning brothers and Rebecca in the middle. Idyllic. They may as well have had a white picket fence in the background.

“Fuck, do you think that’s your long-lost twin or what?”

“Yeah, you wish!”

We’d started joking about Peter’s gross twin fantasies and he forgot about it pretty soon. Nothing stuck around long in Peter’s mind.

I try to remember every detail I can from the show. She was from Canberra, a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen at the time she went missing. In some ways, I was lucky the side of my face was bruised and swollen. It masked the subtle differences that distinguished us. I’ll be well and truly gone by the time the bruising fades. I only need to buy myself enough time to get me out of the station, to the airport maybe. For a moment my mind wanders to what I would do after that. Call Dad? I hadn’t spoken to him since I left. I had picked up a pay phone a few times, even punched in his mobile number. But then the sickening sound of soft weight crashing against metal would fill my head and I’d hang up with shaking hands. He wouldn’t want to talk to me.

The door opens and the female cop peeks in and smiles at me.

“This won’t take too much longer. Can I get you something to eat?”

“Yes, please.”

The slight embarrassment in her voice, the way she looks at me and then quickly averts her eyes.

I had them.

* * *

She brings me a box of piping-hot noodles from the takeaway next door. They’re oily and a bit slimy, but I’ve never enjoyed a meal so much. Eventually, a detective comes into the room. He puts a file on the table and pulls out a chair. He looks brutish, with a thick neck and small eyes. I can tell by the way he sits down that my best chance with him is ego. He seems to be trying to take up as much space as possible, his arm resting on the chair next to him, his legs wide open. He smiles across the table.

“I’m sorry this is taking so long.”

“That’s okay,” I say, wide eyes, small voice. I turn my face slightly, to make sure he’s looking at the bruised side.

“We’re going to bring you to the hospital soon, okay?”

“I’m not hurt. I just want to go home.”

“It’s procedure. We’ve been calling your parents, but so far there’s been no answer.”

I imagine the phone ringing in Rebecca Winter’s empty house. That was probably for the best; her parents would just complicate things. The detective takes my silence as disappointment.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll get a hold of them soon. They’ll need to come here to make the identification. Then you can go home together.”

That’s the last thing I need, to be called out as a fraud in front of a room full of cops. My confidence starts to slip. I need to turn this around.

I speak into my lap. “I want to go home more than anything.”

“I know. It won’t be too much longer.” His voice is like a pat on the head. “Did you enjoy those?” He looks at the empty noodle box.

“They were really nice. Everyone has been so amazing,” I say, keeping with the timid-victim act.

He opens the manila folder. It’s Rebecca Winter’s file. Interview time. My eyes scan the first page.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Rebecca.” I keep my eyes down.

“And where have you been all this time, Rebecca?” he says, leaning in to hear me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I was so scared.”

“Was there anyone else there? Anyone else held with you?”

“No. Only me.”

He leans in closer, until his face is only inches from mine.

“You saved me,” I say, looking him right in the eyes. “Thank you.”

I can see his chest swell. Canberra is only three hours from here. I just need to push a little harder. Now that he’s feeling like the big man, he won’t be able to say no. It’s my only chance to get out of here.

“Please, will you let me go home?”

“We really need to interview you and take you to the hospital to be examined. It’s important.”

“Can we do that in Canberra?”

I let the tears start falling then. Men hate seeing girls cry. It makes them uncomfortable for some reason.

“You’ll be transported back to Canberra soon, but there is a procedure we need to follow first, okay?”

“But you’re the boss here, aren’t you? If you say I can go they have to do what you say. I just want to see my mom.”

“Okay,” he says, jumping out of his seat. “Don’t cry. Let me see what I can do.”

He comes back to say he’s worked it all out for me. I will be driven to Canberra by the cops who picked me up, and then the missing persons detective who worked on Rebecca Winter’s case will take it from there. I nod and smile at him, looking up at him like he’s my new hero.

I’ll never reach Canberra. An airport would be easier, but I’m sure I can still get away from them somehow. Now that they see me as a victim, it won’t be too hard.

As we walk out of the interview room, everyone turns to look at me. One woman has a receiver pressed to her ear.

“She’s here now. Just let me ask.” She puts the receiver against her chest and looks up at the detective. “It’s Mrs. Winter—we finally got a hold of her. She wants to talk to Rebecca. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” the detective says, smiling at me.

The woman holds out the receiver. I look around. Everyone has their heads bent but I can tell they are listening. I take the phone and hold it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Becky, is that you?”

I open my mouth, needing to say something, but I don’t know what. She keeps going.

“Oh, honey, thank God. I can’t believe it. Are you okay? They keep saying you aren’t hurt, but I can’t believe it. I love you so much. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.”

“Stay where you are. Your father and I are coming to get you.”

Damn.

“We’re just about to leave,” I say, in almost a whisper. I don’t want her noticing my voice is all wrong.

“No, please, don’t go anywhere. Stay where you’re safe.”

“It’ll be quicker this way. It’s all sorted out.”

I can hear her swallowing, heavy and thick.

“We can be there really soon.” Her voice sounds strangled.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. Then, looking around at all those pricked-up ears, I add, “’Bye, Mom.”

I hear her sobbing as I hand the phone back.

The last glow of sunlight has disappeared and the sky is a pale grey. We’ve been driving for about an hour and the conversation has dried up. I can tell the cops are itching to ask me where I’ve been all this time, but they restrain themselves.

This is lucky really, because they would most likely have a better idea than I do where Rebecca Winter has spent the past decade.

Paul Kelly croons softly on the radio. Raindrops patter on the roof of the car and slide down the windows. I could fall asleep.

“Do you need me to turn the heater up?” Thompson asks, eyeing my coat.

“I’m okay,” I say.

The truth is I couldn’t take my coat off, no matter that I was starting to feel a bit hot. I have a birthmark just below the crook of my elbow. A coffee-coloured stain about the size of a twenty-cent piece. I’d hated it as a kid. My mother always told me it was the mark left by an angel’s kiss. It was one of the few memories I have of her. As I grew up I sort of started to like it, maybe because it made me think of her, or maybe just because it was so much a part of me. But it wasn’t a part of Bec. I doubted that either of these idiots had looked closely enough at the missing persons file to see the word nil under birthmarks, but it wasn’t worth the risk.

I try to force myself to plan my escape. Instead all I can think about was Rebecca’s mom. The way she had said “I love you” to me. It wasn’t like when my dad used to say it, when someone was watching or when he was trying to get me to be good. The way she had said it was so raw, so guttural, like it was coming from her core. This woman that we are zooming toward really does love me. Or she loves who she thinks I am. I wonder what she is doing right now. Calling her friends to tell them, washing sheets for me, dashing to the supermarket for extra food, worrying that she wouldn’t sleep because she was so excited? I imagine what will happen when they call her to tell her that they lost me on the way. These two cops would probably get into a lot of trouble. I wouldn’t mind that, but what about her? What about the cleanly made-up bed waiting for me? The food in the fridge. All that love. It will just go to waste.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, seeing a sign for a rest stop.

“Okay, honey. Are you sure you don’t want to wait for a servo?”

“No.” I’m sick of being polite to them.

The car veers onto the dirt road and stops outside the brick toilet block. Next to it is an old barbecue and two picnic tables and behind that is solid bushland. If I get a decent head start, they won’t be able to find me in there.

The female cop unclicks her seat belt.

“I’m not a kid. I can take a piss by myself, thank you.”

I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me, not giving her a chance to argue. Raindrops fall onto my face, ice against my sweaty skin. It feels nice to be out of that sweltering car. I glance back before I walk into the toilet block. The headlights beam through the rain, and behind the windscreen wipers I can see the cops talking and shifting in their seats.

The toilets are disgusting. The concrete floor is flooded, and scrunched-up wads of tissue float around like miniature icebergs. The place stinks of beer and vomit. A bottle of Carlton Draught rests next to the toilet and the rain beats against the tin roof. I imagine what my night tonight will be like, hiding in the rain. I’ll have to wander until I reach a town, but then what? I’ll be hungry again soon and I still don’t have any money. The last week has been the most horrible of my life. I’d had to pick up men in bars just to have somewhere to sleep, and one night, the worst one, I had no other option but to hide in a public toilet in a park. Jumping out of my skin at every noise. Imagining the worst. That night felt like it would never end, like the light would never come. The toilet block looked a bit like this one.

For a moment my resilience slips and I imagine the other alternative: the warm bed, the full stomach and the kisses on the forehead. It’s enough.

The bottle breaks against the toilet seat easily. I pick a large shard. Squatting down in the cubicle, I hold my arm between my knees. I realize I’ve started to whimper, but there’s no time now to be weak. One more minute and that cop will be checking on me. Pushing down on the brown blotch, the pain is shocking. There’s more blood than I expected, but I don’t stop. My flesh peels up, like the skin of a potato.

The lining of my jacket slips against the open wound as I pull it back on. I throw the gory evidence in the sanitary bin and wash the blood off my hands. My vision is beginning to blur and the oily noodles swirl in my stomach. I grip the sink and breathe steadily. I can do this.

The slam of a car door is followed by footsteps.

“Are you all right?” the female cop asks.

“I get a bit carsick,” I say, checking the sink for blood.

“Oh, honey, we’re almost there. Just tell us to pull over if you want to be sick.”

The rain is heavier now and the sky is a rich black. But the icy-cold air helps to fight the nausea. I clamber into the back of the car and pull the door shut with my good arm. We veer back out onto the highway. I rest my throbbing arm up next to the headrests, afraid of the blood beginning to drip down to my wrist, and lean my head back against the window. I don’t feel the sickness anymore, just a floating feeling. The even patter of the rain, the soft tones of the radio and the heat of the car lull me into a near sleep.

I’m not sure how long we’ve been driving in silence when they start talking.

“I think she’s asleep.” The man’s voice.

I hear the squeak of leather as the woman turns to look at me. I don’t move.

“Looks like it. Must be tiring work being such a little bitch.”

“Where do you think she’s been this whole time?”

“My guess? Ran off with some man, married probably. He must have gotten sick of her and given her the boot. I reckon he was rich, too, by the way she’s been looking down her nose at everyone.”

“She said she was abducted.”

“I know. She’s not acting like it, though, is she?”

“Not really.”

“And she looks in pretty good nick, considering. If she was kidnapped, he must have been pretty fond of her. That’s all I’m saying. What do you think?”

“I don’t give a shit honestly,” he says. “But I reckon there might be a commendation in it for us.”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t she be in a hospital or something? I don’t know if ass hat was really meant to just let her leave when she clicked her fingers.”

“What is the protocol, then? I know what we’re meant to do when these kids go missing, but what about when they come back?”

“Fucked if I know. Must have been hungover that day.”

They laugh, and then the car is quiet again.

“You know, I’ve been wondering all day who it is she reminds me of,” the female cop says suddenly. “It just hit me. It was this girl back in high school who told everyone she had a brain tumor and took a week off school for the operation. A bunch of us started a drive to raise money for her. I think we all thought she was going to die. She came back right as rain on Monday, though, and for a few hours she was the most popular girl in school. Then someone noticed that none of her hair was shaved, not even an inch. The whole thing was a crock of shit from start to finish.

“That girl, she looked at you just like our little princess back there looked at us when we met her. The way she takes you in, surveys you with that cold glint in her eyes like her head is going a million miles a minute trying to figure out the best way to fuck with you.”

After a while I stop listening to them talk. I remember I have to speak to the detective when I get to Canberra, but I feel too dizzy to try to plan my answers. The car pulls off the main road.

I wake to the jolt of the brakes and the light going on as the female cop opens her door.

“Wake up, little lady,” she says.

I try to sit, but my muscles feel like they’re made of jelly.

I hear a new voice.

“You must be Constables Seirs and Thompson. I’m Senior Inspector Andopolis. Thanks for pulling the overtime to bring her down.”

“No worries, sir.”

“We better get started. I know her mother is over the moon, but I have a lot of questions for her first.”

I hear him pull the door next to me open.

“Rebecca, you can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you,” he says. Then he kneels down beside me. “Are you all right?”

I try to look at him but his face is swirling.

“Yes, I’m okay,” I mutter.

“Why is she so pale?” he calls sharply. “What’s happened to her?”

“She’s fine. She just gets carsick,” the female cop says.

“Call an ambulance!” Andopolis snaps at her as he reaches over and undoes my seat belt.

“Rebecca? Can you hear me? What’s happened?”

“I hurt my arm when I was escaping,” I hear myself say. “It’s okay, just hurts a bit.”

He pulls my jacket to the side. There’s dried blood all the way up to my collarbone. Seeing that makes my vision fade even more.

“You morons! You absolute fucking idiots!” His voice sounds far away now. I can’t see the reaction from the cops; I can’t see their faces paling. But I can imagine.

I smile as the last of my consciousness fades.

2

Bec, 10 January 2003

Bec had decided months ago to live her life as if she was being watched. Just in case there was a film crew hiding behind a corner or her mirror was two-way. It meant no more yawning without covering her mouth or picking her nose on the toilet. She wanted to always look exactly like a happy, pretty sixteen-year-old girl should.

This felt different, though, this prickling on the back of her neck. This felt like there really was someone watching her. She had been feeling it for a few days now, but every time she whipped her head around there was no one there. Maybe she was going mad.

It would be scary for your worst fears to be coming real all around you and everyone to just dismiss you as crazy. Their next-door neighbour, Max, used to yell all night. Her mom told her he must just be arguing with someone on the phone, but she’d peered through her curtains when he’d woken her at 4:00 a.m. one morning, and there he was, screaming at no one in the dark. He threw a rock through their kitchen window a few weeks later. Her dad made a call that night, and Max was taken away. When he came back, he didn’t yell anymore. He just sat on his stoop and stared into the middle distance, slowly getting fatter and fatter.

Would it be better to feel afraid all the time or to feel nothing at all? She hadn’t decided yet.

The sun glared down at her through a milk skin of clouds. She would probably be burnt if she stayed out here much longer. But she liked this image of herself. Lying on her back in Lizzie’s swimming pool. Green bikini, freckled arms outstretched, belly button filling up with water as she breathed. She wondered if she was being watched right now. The bedrooms of Lizzie’s brother and father looked down onto the pool. She’d caught both of them staring at her a few times over the past year. It should gross her out, but it didn’t.

The sound of feet slapping against the concrete, a moment of stretched silence and then the surface of the water exploded as Lizzie cannon-bombed. She came up for air giggling madly, her wet hair plastered over her face.

“I almost got you!”

“You’re such an idiot.” Bec laughed, trying to dunk her back under the water. Lizzie grabbed her waist and they screeched and cackled as they attempted to wrestle, slippery limbs like eels tangling together. Bec dunked Lizzie hard and she came up spluttering.

“Truce?”

Lizzie held out her pinkie finger, still coughing. They gripped pinkies and Bec swam quickly out of the way before Lizzie changed her mind. Bec leaned over the tiled edge of the pool, getting her breath back. She wished this was her house and Lizzie was her sister, although they looked nothing alike. While Bec was lean and relatively flat-chested, Lizzie’s body was all soft and curvy in the right places. Sometimes when Lizzie put on red lipstick Bec thought that her best friend looked just like Marilyn Monroe, but she never told her.

“Oh, now my head is spinning again.” Droplets of water clung from Lizzie’s eyelashes as she stared intently at Bec.

“It’s your own fault.” Bec rested her head on her arm. Her hangover was slipping away. The dizziness was gone and her stomach was beginning to calm.

“Last night was awesome, wasn’t it?” A dangerous little smile crept over Bec’s face as she said it. Lizzie didn’t even know the best bits.

“We’re so lucky.” Lizzie sighed and pushed herself off the edge. “You’d better go, dude. You’re going to get in the shit with Ellen.”

“Crap! What time is it?” Bec pulled herself out of the pool, the baked concrete searing her bare feet as she hopped toward the lounge room. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen bench. It was two thirty; she would only just make it if she hurried. She had an SMS. It was from him. Just woke up. Always have the most amazing nights with you.

Bec was glad Lizzie wasn’t there to see the goofy smile that plastered her face as she ran up the stairs to grab her work clothes. The message ran over and over in her head. It must mean he liked her. She was sure now. She slammed into Lizzie’s brother, Jack, on the landing. His door was open and the grinding sounds of his metal music pumped from his bedroom. He had put a hand out instinctively; it felt hot on her lower back. For a quarter of a second they were so close it was like they were embracing; she could feel his breath, smell his smell. He jerked his hand away.

“Sorry!”

He looked awkwardly at the floor, his face colouring. She realized suddenly she was basically naked and gave a little shriek of laughter as she ran into Lizzie’s room. Pulling off her bikini, she left it a wet green lump on the carpet and put her work uniform on. It stank of deep-fryer oil and stuck to her wet skin. She wished she’d given herself time to have a shower and wash her hair. Bec would usually never go anywhere without straightening it. Grabbing her makeup bag, she smudged on her concealer, smeared on the thick foundation, blush on top, then mascara. She liked to wear liquid eyeliner these days, too, but it was too easy to muck up if she was in a hurry. She’d gone to school looking like a panda once and never wanted to repeat the experience. Pulling on her ballet flats as she walked, she grabbed her bag and took the stairs down two at a time.

“See ya, bitch!” she called to Lizzie, who stuck her middle finger up from the swimming pool.

The gate banged shut behind her as she rushed down the street. It was now 2:43 p.m. She should make it. Her pace slowed. It was too hot to run. The air felt heavy, pushing her down into the road. This was a stinker of a summer. Day after day of over forty degrees. She ran her fingers through her hair; it was almost dry already. Hopefully it wouldn’t frizz.

Sunday was his day off. She wished he was going to be there anyway. They could compare hangovers, rehash the events of last night and laugh. Her thumbs flashed across the keypad: On my way to work now. Boo, wish you were there :). Reading over it again and again, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to be too obvious, although she’d read in a magazine once that obvious was good. You have to give them the confidence to make a move. The smiley face had to go, she decided; it was too childish. Her finger hesitated over the send button, her heart racing. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to push it. The private little smile crept over her face again and Bec wondered if Lizzie had any idea. She liked having this secret. It felt dangerous, like playing with fire.

For a moment the other secret leapt into her mind. The memory of it was like red-hot metal, searing and violent. She tried to push it back down; she shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Gum leaves crunched under her feet as she turned the corner onto the main road. The smell of baking eucalypt was pungent. It made her eyes water. The leaves were crisp and black around the edges, like the heat in the air had burnt them. For a second she wondered if she might vomit, if last night’s beer was going to make a reappearance after all. She stopped walking and held on to a branch to steady herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

Last night had been fun; it was worth feeling a bit sick today. The best nights out always happened by surprise. She’d been closing up. Mopping the floors and washing out the deep fryer with two fingers pinching her nose. Matty was doing the grill. His thick fingers were black from the grease. She didn’t understand why he never wore gloves. She used to be a bit scared of Matty, with his hulking frame and tattooed arms, but then she realized he was one of the sweetest men she’d ever met. More like a teddy bear than a biker.

“I’m meeting Ellen and Luke at the pub after this. Do you want to come?”

“Do you reckon we can sneak Lizzie in, too?” He’d said yes, but she would have gone even if he hadn’t.

The five of them played pool, Matty and Luke taking it in turns and buying her pots of beer. She hated beer, but didn’t want to ask for cider; she loved feeling like one of the boys. The pub was dark and smelt musky. When she’d opened the doors to the toilets, she saw her own dilated pupils in the mirror, before they responded to the bright fluorescents. She’d smeared on a bit more makeup, wishing she’d brought something to change into. But she hadn’t let that spoil the night.

Bec had tried not to stare at Luke. But she was willing him to come over, to get closer. Eventually she sat a game out and so did he.

“How are you going, mate?” She loved it when he called her that, as if they were complete equals. She hated nothing more than being treated like a little girl.

When he sat next to her, she could feel the radiating heat of his body. They made smutty jokes as they watched the others play; she lit up when she managed to make him laugh. He told her secrets. She listened. She wished he would kiss her. He didn’t. But he took her hand once and squeezed it, his eyes staring at her intensely. He didn’t have to say anything; she could guess what he was thinking. She was too young. When they were working late one night he’d told her that a friend of his had a rule. You could date someone half your age, plus seven years. Any younger than that was wrong.

“So, when do you turn seventeen?” he’d said, like it was a joke. It had been three months away then. Only one now. She would just have to be patient.

Bec’s foundation was starting to melt off. She pushed herself to walk a little faster. McDonald’s had air conditioning. Not that it helped much in the drive-through. Fingers crossed she was just at the main counter today. Then she felt it again, that prickling feeling. She turned. There was no one behind her. The street was strangely empty. Everyone was locked away in air conditioning. She quickened her pace, the back of her neck still prickling.

When she got off the bus after work the sky was black. The air was still heavy and hot. Her suburb was always silent when she came home late. When she walked around Lizzie’s street at night, it felt like it breathed—lights on, windows open, people laughing, music playing. There was the welcome smell of hot dinners wafting out of the screen doors.

In Bec’s suburb, everyone shut their curtains tight, so you could just see the blue glow of televisions around the edges.

She couldn’t wait to get home, to open her front door to a cool house. Her family sitting in front of the television, laughing along to some dumb sitcom. To feel the relief of being comfortable, included and safe. Of being home.

At least, she wished that’s what it would be like. But that was someone else’s family. Not hers.

Her limbs were starting to ache as she walked up the hill to her street. It had been a long shift. Ellen was angry with her; she’d been ten minutes late after all. When she’d seen her reflection in the stainless steel, she saw her running makeup and frizzy hair. There was nothing she could do about it either. Sitting in the drive-through window, she could feel her forearms starting to burn; she hadn’t even put sunscreen on.

That doomsday feeling started to creep up on her. That feeling when she was so tired that everything started to feel wrong. She tried not to think about Luke. If she did, she would start to pick it apart; to worry. To realize he didn’t like her at all, that she was being an idiot and everyone was laughing at her.

She approached her house slowly. It was dark. Every window pitch-black.

3

2014

A tube of white light surfaces in the thick black. I close my eyes again. It’s too bright. My throat is dry and my head throbs. Groaning, I rub my eyes. Something catches on my cheek. Blinking the blurriness away, I look at my wrist. Around it loops a plastic hospital band, with the words Winter, Rebecca in bold type. Looking around groggily, I see the officer from last night asleep in a chair at the foot of the bed.

Oh, God. This is going to be so much more difficult than I’d thought.

Standing in that dark toilet block, the cold and fear and exhaustion had seemed like the bigger of two evils. But now, waking up in this hospital bed with a sleeping detective blocking the door, I realize that maybe I’d made a mistake. I’d been so stupid to think that I could just start a brand-new life, that it would be that easy.

The room is quiet. There is only the sound of the cop’s sleeping breath and the muff led chatter from a few rooms away. There’s a window to my right. Maybe I could make it.

As quietly as I can, I push myself up to sitting. My arm is bandaged and stinks of antiseptic, but it barely hurts. Must be because of whatever is in the drip attached to my hand. Looking down, I see that I’m wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown and underwear. Someone undressed me. For a moment I could laugh—how many times have I woken up in a strange bed out of my clothes?

The detective snorts a loud snore, waking himself up.

“Bec,” he says, rubbing his eyes and smiling.

I stare at him. No way I’m getting out that door now.

“Do you remember me from last night? Vincent Andopolis.” He looks at me carefully. This is happening too fast. I have no idea how to answer him.

“Everything’s a bit fuzzy.” My voice is still thick with sleep and painkillers. Best to keep it simple while I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

I do remember him. He’s the missing persons detective who’d called my two chauffeur cops “morons.” I hadn’t been able to make out much of him last night; he looks different in the cold, sterile hospital lights. His grey eyes and wide shoulders hint at the attractive man he must have once been, but his gut pushes tightly against his shirt and his hair is more salt than pepper.

“Have you been here all night?” I ask.

“Couldn’t have you disappearing again. Your mom is ready to sue us as it is,” he says with a lopsided grin. “How is it feeling?” He motions to my arm.

“It’s fine,” I say, although it’s throbbing painfully, then notice a small pile of things on the chair next to his. He follows my gaze.

“Your parents are talking to my partner.” He clears his throat. “There are a few things we still need to do before you can be reunited.”

There is a pair of pyjama pants, a T-shirt and some underwear all neatly folded on the chair, with a hairbrush on top.

“They’ve already been in here?” Surely not.

“They couldn’t really believe it until they saw you.”

My mind reels. They’ve been in here. They watched me sleep. Yet they still believe I’m their daughter. I guess the bruise on my face worked on them, too. The biggest hurdle was already over and I wasn’t even conscious for it. I can’t help but smile. Andopolis beams back at me.

“I have to be honest, Bec. I couldn’t be happier to see you. It’s like a miracle.”

A miracle. What a dope. How could this guy be a missing persons detective? The panic I felt a few seconds ago flushes out of me. Perhaps it won’t be so hard to go through with this.

“It is a miracle,” I say, flashing him my best shit-eating grin.

He says nothing, just gazes at me. I guess he thinks we’re sharing a moment.

“When can I get out of here?” I ask.

“Probably by the end of the day. We’ve just got a few things to get through and then you’ll be all set.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I’ve got a few more urgent questions for you. Then there are some tests to run, just to make sure you’re well.”

I try not to blink. I’m screwed.

He pulls a notebook out of his pocket. “The New South Wales police informed me you stated that you were abducted.”

I nod. The less I say the better until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

“Do you know the person or people who took you? Before you were taken, I mean.” I can see the eagerness in his eyes.

I shake my head.

“Do you remember where you were held? Any details would be helpful.”

“It’s all blurry. I can’t really remember,” I say slowly. He watches me calmly, as though he expects me to say more. The silence swells between us.

At last he looks away, flicking his notebook shut and returning it to his pocket. “I’ll give you some time, and we can resume this after your tests are done.”

“Then I can go home?”

His eyes fix on mine, as though he’s waiting for something.

“Is going home what you want?” he asks finally.

“Yes, of course.”

I try to smile reassuringly, and after a few moments, his lopsided grin returns.

“The nurse will be in soon.”

The door clicks shut behind him and I jump out of the bed. My head swims but I ignore it. Letting the drip trail behind me, I go to the window first. It’s just a panel of glass, sealed on all sides, no way of opening it. I guess they’re afraid of people jumping; three floors could still do some damage. Outside, people stream around the entrance. Doctors and paramedics enter; sick people hobble out. There are cars and taxis and ambulances. Even if I were to put on the clothes Rebecca’s parents left, it would be a stretch to be able to just walk out of here.

I go over to the chair and hold out the pink T-shirt and cat-print pyjama pants that the parents left in front of me. Looks like I am about her height and weight. They’d just about fit. Lucky. I pick up the brush. Glinting copper hairs are caught between the bristles.

When the nurse comes in to take me for tests, I’m back in bed, innocent as a baby lamb. If I can get through this, I’ll have earned a new identity. The rewards of this game are just too great to give up on.

I keep my fists clenched as the doctor prods me. He’s worked his way down my body, looking for any kind of injury. Now he talks loudly to me from between my legs.

“This will be a little cold.”

“It might sting a bit.”

“Almost done now.”

I wear a humiliated expression, but really I’ve gotten used to having men poke around blindly down there.

“Thank you, Rebecca. You’ve been a good sport,” he says. “You can get up now.”

He pulls the curtain closed behind him, as though I have any modesty left to preserve. I pull on my underwear, listening as he talks to the nurse.

“Can you prepare the swab for a mitochondria? We’ll need three vials for the syringe, as well.”

I don’t think so. There’s no way I’m giving them my DNA or my blood, and not just because they’ll know I’m not Rebecca Winter. But because then they might find out who I really am. The curtain opens.

“Ready, then, Rebecca?” the doctor asks.

The nurse meets my eye as she scampers back in, then quickly looks away.

“I need to go home now.”

Putting my head down, I let my hair cover my face. I’m preparing.

“I know it’s all a little intrusive, but we’re almost done. We just need a swab of the inside of your cheek and some blood.”

“No more pain, please. I can’t.” My voice is pitch-perfect, all panicky and high.

Woven between my fingers is a clump of copper strands from her brush. I tug at my own hair, nowhere near hard enough for anything to come out.

“Will this do? I can’t deal with any more.” I raise my hand, the clump of her hair dangling downwards. I don’t look up but I hear the tiniest intake of breath from the nurse.

Then I start crying. Really bawling, like a little kid. Letting the sobs roll out on top of each other. My whole body shakes with it. It’s not hard once I start; I’ve had a lot to cry about these last few weeks. The nurse steps forward, carefully taking the hair out of my hand with her plastic gloves.

Easy.

The car climbs the steep hill of Rebecca Winter’s street, and finally, I can see them: a middle-aged couple who look totally ordinary. My new mother and father. Their backs are braced, their heads down. They are standing in rigid silence in front of their big white house. An old gum tree next to the garage throws dappled light onto the facade. Idealized middle-class suburbia just waiting for me.

The mother’s head snaps up as she hears the car. My heart hammers harder. The hospital could have been a fluke. Unconscious, with a bruised face, maybe they’d seen what they wanted to see. Now that my eyes are open, now that I’m moving and walking and talking, there is no way I’ll fool her. I can sense Andopolis’s eyes flicking up at the rear-vision mirror to look at me. She’ll realize my deception the moment she lays eyes on me. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. Surely a mother would know her only daughter.

“Usually we would have a support agent here for something like this,” he says. “Your parents didn’t want it, though.”

I nod. I’m too nervous to be appreciative, although this almost definitely will make it easier. Convincing the parents was going to be enough of a feat. It wouldn’t do me any good to have some bleeding-heart liberal with a smile slapped across their smug face trying to “help.” They’d know how victims really did act in this kind of situation.

“You will need to talk to a counselor soon, okay, Bec? But we’ll take it all one step at a time.”

I smile weakly at him. No way I’m talking to a counselor.

We pull into the driveway. For a moment I wish I could stay there; I wish I could hide in the back seat for just a little longer. Andopolis gets out and walks around to my door, opening it for me. Now that I see them, I’m not sure if I can do it. Rebecca—Bec—was a person, not a character, and I’d never even met her. Never even heard her voice.

I can’t look at the mother as I step out of the car. I keep my face turned downwards, my eyes focusing on the white geraniums flowering by the path.

“Becky?” she says, moving closer. She touches my arm tentatively as though I might not be real.

I look up; I have to look up. Her eyes stare into mine. They’re filled with such fierce love, it’s like the rest of the world has disappeared. It’s just her and me; nothing else matters. She wraps her arms around me and I can feel her heart against my ribs, her warmth mixing with mine. She smells of vanilla.

“Thank you, Vince,” I hear the dad say over her shoulder.

“You’re more than welcome,” says Andopolis. “Bring her in around three.”

“See you then, mate.”

I hear the door open as Andopolis gets in his car. Then the engine starts and he drives away. The mom releases me and the father looks me up and down. He’s the ultimate white-collar worker, with his suit and open shirt, his dark eyes and clean-shaven face. He must have dressed for work even though he knew he wasn’t going, still in shock that he was taking the day off because his long-lost daughter was coming home.

“I don’t know what to say, Becky.”

He pulls me in for a hug. It’s different from the mother, a little awkward. I can smell his aftershave and, behind that, a strange rotting smell.

The mother turns and pulls open the door. I think I see her wipe her face.

“Come inside, Bec.”

Her voice cracks and I realize I’ve passed the test. I’m in. This is my house, my life.

From now on, I am Rebecca Winter.

* * *

I’d forgotten how amazing a hot shower is. Being able to wash my hair and shave my legs feels fantastic, even though I have to do it with my injured arm sticking out of the stream. I wrap a towel around myself and happily breathe in the steam. If I’d made the other choice, I’d be cold and alone somewhere right now, wearing my dirty clothes that would probably be still damp from the rain. The thought makes me shudder.

Walking out of the bathroom, I realize I don’t know which one was Rebecca’s room. I open the door next to the bathroom. It’s a cupboard full of folded linen. I slowly open the door opposite, hoping they can’t hear me from the kitchen. This one is a bedroom, nothing on the walls and no furniture except for two single beds. Was this meant to be my room? There’s one more door, so I decide to try that one, walking softly on the carpet so they won’t hear my footsteps from below.

Posters of Destiny’s Child and Gwen Stefani glare at me. The bed is made with pink sheets. A Cabbage Patch doll perches on the bedside table. Year Ten textbooks are stacked on the desk, the first four in the Harry Potter series are aligned neatly on the shelf above, and everywhere, there are photographs. There she is, smiling and posing, her arms around various friends, mostly another girl with long blonde hair. It’s like life stood still in this room, waiting for the same sixteen-year-old to return.

I peer at the pictures of her, gripping the towel around my naked body, my wet hair dripping on the carpet. Even in photographs you can see the life and vitality of this girl. She looks confident and at ease. Looking at her face from all angles, I realize she looks a little less like me than I originally thought. Her nose is smaller, her eyes are bigger—even the shape of her face is slightly different. A decade can change a face a lot, though. I can blame any differences on time.

Time is the other problem. Adding it up in my head now, I realize Bec would be around twenty-seven. I’m only twenty-four. For once I find myself hoping I look older.

I slide the slatted closet door open. Her clothes are hung up neatly, but I can smell the stale air inside. This door hasn’t been opened in a long time. Seeing Bec’s school uniform hanging in front of me makes me feel strange, a little sick inside, so I quickly grab some jeans and a T-shirt and close the door again. Anything is better than these kitten pyjama pants that make me want to gag with their cuteness. They fit me well enough, but still, they’re childish. It feels wrong to be almost twenty-five and wearing a sixteen-year-old’s low-slung jeans and Guess top. Having the fabric so close to my skin, I can smell an unfamiliar musky human smell. It must be the scent of her body, still clinging to the cotton of the T-shirt. A shiver snakes down my spine.

The mother and father sit on the two-seater sofa in the lounge room, an untouched sandwich in front of each of them and another in front of one of the empty chairs across. I sit down, noticing the other armchair has a cat curled up in it. I’ve always wanted a pet.

“Thought we’d have lunch in here today, keep you as comfortable as possible,” says the mom.

“Great, thanks!” I say, not really knowing what she means. I wish I knew more about Rebecca, had a clearer view of what kind of person she was. Since I don’t, I decide I’m best off playing the role every parent wants: the dutiful daughter. I’ll be wholesome, appreciative and innocent. I take a bite into the sandwich, realizing again how ravenous I am.

“This is so yummy. Thanks for making it, Mom.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She smiles broadly. It’s working.

“I talked to Paul and Andrew last night,” the dad says.

“Really?” Turning things into a question is an easy way to keep a conversation going when you have no idea what the person is talking about.

“Yes. They’ll be flying in later this evening.”

I look around the room. There are framed photographs on the walls: two identical little freckled boys grinning, with Bec standing proudly between them. Growing until they reached her shoulders and then, abruptly, just the two of them, smiles not as wide, continuing to grow into teenagers’ clothes and stubble and then jawlines and suits. They must be her brothers.

“I can’t wait to see them,” I say.

“Good.” He smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Bet you’ll want to call Lizzie,” says the mom.

I nod, shoveling the rest of the sandwich into my mouth. I don’t know who Lizzie is.

“Just don’t be calling anyone who you think might get in touch with the media. That’s the last thing we need,” the father says.

“Do you really think someone would do that?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You never know, sweetheart.”

Of course they would, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be avoiding Rebecca’s old friends as much as possible. I already have enough lies to keep track of. I pick the crumbs off the plate with my finger. I want another sandwich, but don’t really want to ask. Looking up, I realize they are both staring at me. I remember what the lady cop said in the car, that I wasn’t acting like I’d been abducted.

“I’m so happy to be home, to be safe again,” I say.

The mother starts crying at that, her chest heaving with painful, guttural sobs, her hands held over her face like a shield. It is a long time before she stops.

When we get to the police station, I ask the parents if they’ll come in with me. I grip the mom’s hand tightly; I need her there with me to answer some of the questions. These people are trained at spotting a lie; no matter how good I am, it’s their job to see through me.

“If you want us to I’m sure we can ask,” says the mom, taking a step forward. The dad holds her arm, stopping her.

“I think Vince will want to talk to you alone, Bec. But we’ll wait right out here.” The mother takes a step back and looks down, her eyes still red and puffy.

The uniformed policeman at the desk ushers me through. Rebecca’s T-shirt is starting to feel a little snug.

A man wearing a brand-new suit walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

“Rebecca Winter?” he asks. I nod and he gives my hand a brisk shake.

“I’m Detective Vali Malik, Vince’s partner.”

“Bec!” Andopolis says, coming over to us, a file under his arm. “You look much better.”

He never mentioned having a partner. “Thanks,” I say.

“Come with me,” Malik says, turning on the heel of his perfectly polished shoe.

Trailing behind the two of them, I peer into a room to my left. Inside is a large board covered in notes that I can’t quite read from here. Stuck to it is a map, a large photograph of Rebecca smiling into the camera and a close-up of a cracked mobile phone in grass. There are a few men sitting at a large table and one of them looks up at me as I pass. Andopolis’s wide hand presses against my lower back, gently pushing me forward. He smiles reassuringly.

“Right in here,” he says as he holds a door on the right open for me.

I’m expecting another cold concrete box like the one in Sydney. Instead they bring me into a sunny room with couches, a miniature table and a plastic tub of toys in the corner. Like Sydney, there’s a large mirror across one of the walls. I wonder if the cops I just walked past are going to come and watch. Malik motions toward one of the couches. It squeaks as I sit down.

“Would you like anything, Rebecca? Tea, coffee?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“How does it feel to be home?” Andopolis asks, sitting on the couch across from me.

“It’s amazing.”

Malik sits on the chair to my left, opening a folder.

“That’s great to hear,” he says and smiles.

“Your tests have come back looking good,” Malik says, flicking through some papers in the folder.

Victory. Even I can’t believe I actually pulled that off. But I can’t get cocky now. I need to concentrate on this new stage of the game.

I take them in for a moment. Malik must be at least fifteen years younger than Andopolis. He is all sharp lines and impeccable grooming. Next to him Andopolis looks old and rumpled.

“You weren’t there this morning when I woke up,” I say to Malik.

“No. I was talking to your parents.” He smiles his quick, efficient smile again and continues. “I’m happy that you’re back with your family, Rebecca, but we really have to focus on the investigation. The longer we leave it, the less likely we are to get answers.”

He was right. I didn’t want them getting any answers; I had to hold them off as long as possible. Their notebooks come back out. Ding, ding. Round two. I’d knocked it out of the park at the last round at the hospital, so hopefully I could do as well now. After this, things would only get easier.

“Can you describe the location of where you were held?” Malik, diving straight in there.

“I didn’t really…” I pause for effect. “I didn’t really see the outside. It could have been anywhere. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bec. Don’t pressure yourself. How much time do you think passed between your escape and when the police picked you up? You were picked up in Sydney, so presumably you were held near there,” Andopolis asks.

I think about that last night in the cheap hostel at Kings Cross. It was only a week ago, but it feels like much longer. I’d counted my money out on the mattress, knowing I wouldn’t have enough, that I’d have to check out in the morning. I remember trying to sleep. From the window I could hear women screaming outside, bottles smashing, men swearing. I knew that the next day I’d be out there with them.

“No. Not really, sorry.”

It smells weird in here, like a hospital. I guess the toys have to be cleaned every time a kid picked them up. I look at the miniature chair and table, wondering if Andopolis ever sat down there with a child, asking them to use a dolly to play out whatever abuse they’d encountered.

“I know this is hard, but we need you to tell us everything you can remember,” Malik says.

I take a breath, getting ready to tell them what they’re gagging to hear. I’d planned it all out: torture chambers, men in masks, everything. They’d lap it up and I’d lead them on a wild-goose chase around Australia. But then, just as I’m about to begin, the photograph from the investigation room comes into my mind. Rebecca Winter, young and happy. Did I really want to make her fate so ghastly? I look between their waiting faces. I was being silly. Whatever I said had no bearing on whatever really happened to her. It was stupid to even think about that. It was my life now, not hers. I had to be smart about this. Of course, as soon as I tell them a story, they’ll start digging through it and finding holes. Less is more. The cleverest thing to do is to tell no story at all.

“That’s the problem,” I say, quietly. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?” Malik tries to cover his frustration, but I can hear it there in his voice.

“What about more recently? Do you remember who hit you? Who caused that bruise?” asks Andopolis, eyeing the side of my face. I look down, as though I’m ashamed of it. Really, the story is sort of embarrassing. I was running from a fruit vendor. I’d stolen two apples before I tripped and fell on the curb. No one hit me.

“No.”

“What about your arm?” Andopolis asks, softly. If he’s annoyed he doesn’t show it.

I shake my head.

“When I first came to see you,” Andopolis says gently, “you said that you hurt it when you escaped. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.” No. I’d forgotten.

“So you do remember escaping?” Malik asks.

I take a breath. I’m going to have to give them something.

“I remember breaking the window glass,” I say, remembering the bottle smashing in the bathroom. My body shudders at the memory, they notice.

“My arm got caught, but I kept going. I just remember knowing I didn’t have much time.”

“Why didn’t you have much time?” Malik asks, quick as a whip.

Because I knew the cop outside was going to come in and check up on me. I wonder if there was some way of asking if she lost her job without seeming vindictive. Probably best not to.

I wish I could press Pause on this situation. Go outside for a cigarette and have a real think on the best way to handle it. I was prepared for just one detective, and having the two of them on each side is intimidating. One question rolls out over the next before I’ve had a chance to think.

“How long did you look for me?” I ask. I feel safer when I am asking the questions.

Malik looks at Andopolis. He probably wasn’t even a detective back then, just a rookie in uniform.

“The investigation went on for a long time. We searched everywhere,” Andopolis says slowly.

The intensity in his eyes was starting to make more sense. He must have a lot of burning questions for me.

“Did you have a suspect?” I ask.

“We had a few people of interest.”

“Who?”

“Why don’t we start from the beginning?” interrupts Malik. “What was the last thing you do remember? Before the abduction.”

He was putting the focus back onto me. My mind flicked back to the television show.

“I was at work, at McDonald’s. It’s all blurry after that.”

Andopolis smiles at me, that proud, lopsided grin. I got that one right. He puts the file down on the table between us and opens it. Inside is a spread of what looks like staff photographs, head and shoulders of five different people, all smiling in their McDonald’s uniforms.

“Do you remember these people?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course. But…you know. It’s been a long time.” My heart is pounding and the T-shirt squeezes under my arms, making me sweat. This feels like a test.

“Do you remember her?” He points a finger at a young girl. She’s very pretty, even in the ugly uniform. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail and her eyes sparkle. I realize I do recognize her; she was in most of the pictures on Rebecca’s wall.

“She was my best friend,” I say, and then I remember the father’s words from earlier. “Lizzie.”

“And the others?” Malik asks. That must mean I got it right.

“I remember Lizzie. The rest… I know that I know them…” I try to look upset. “I hate being confused like this.”

“It’s okay, Bec. We’ll take it slow.” Andopolis’s voice is soothing. “These are the last people who saw you before you disappeared. This is Ellen Park. She was your manager.”

She looks like she’s in her midtwenties maybe, with a look of premature worry in her eyes.

“This is Lucas Masconey.” He points to a good-looking guy in his early twenties.

“And Matthew Lang. He was the cook.” This guy is big and beefy with a bunch of silver rings through his ear. “Do you remember him?”

“Kind of,” I say.

“Anything specific?” Malik presses. This Matthew guy must have been a suspect. Trust the cops to go for the most obvious person.

“No,” I say, a little too harshly.

I look down at my hands and force myself to breathe. I had to do something; I was already breaking character. I couldn’t be anything other than a victim, not even for a moment.

“So, how long until you gave up looking?” I ask.

Andopolis looks up at me, something dark passing across his face.

“It’s not that we gave up. The investigation just went cold.” He averts his eyes as he continues and I realize what he’s feeling: guilt. “Every lead was followed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I see the guilt there again, even though he tries to hide it.

“Let’s try to concentrate on that day,” says Malik. “We were talking about your last shift at McDonald’s.”

I had to get rid of Malik. I could see he was a good detective, yet he didn’t seem to have much of an ego. He just saw this case as his job and I was an important part of it. But that’s all.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. If that’s okay,” I say quietly, looking at Malik.

“Okay,” he says. “Won’t be a minute.”

As soon as the door clicks shut I lean forward.

“I don’t like him!” I say in a panicked whisper.

“Why?” Andopolis asks, surprised.

“He scares me. I don’t feel right when he’s here. Can’t it just be you?”

I can see Andopolis’s chest swell ever so slightly. Idiot. He didn’t like him either; he probably didn’t want to share his case with some new hotshot.

“I trust you,” I add. “Please?”

“Let me see what I can do.”

He pushes himself off the couch and walks out of the room. I wonder what conversation they’re having behind the mirror right now. I force myself not to look.

After a few minutes Andopolis comes back with a cup of tea and the tiniest trace of a triumphant smile on the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, Bec, it’ll just be me from now on.”

“Thank you!” I say.

“It’s fine.” He puts the tea down on the little table next to me. “If you ever feel upset or uncomfortable I want you to tell me. I’ll do everything I can to try and fix it. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, giving him my best innocent eyes. He thinks we are on the same side.

“Great. Now, when you’re ready, we really do need to talk about that night. The night you were taken. Anything you remember would be so helpful in finding who did this.”

He was treating me like a fragile child, which was exactly what I wanted.

“I do remember something,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

I stare into the middle distance for a while, counting to ten in my head, letting the heavy silence fill the room.

“I was cold and scared,” I say when I reach ten. “Everything was black.”

I talk slowly, letting the suspense build. “I remember hearing sirens. They were getting closer and closer. I thought I was saved. But then they kept going. They got quieter. I knew they weren’t for me.”

I look up at him and his face is twisted with guilt and shame. I have him.

“I’m tired now. And I’d like to see my parents.”

* * *

As the father drives us home, I want to fall asleep in the back seat. I really am tired.

“Do you mind if I have a little nap before they get in?” I ask. I’ve already forgotten the brothers’ names.

“Of course. You must be exhausted.”

Lying down between Rebecca’s sheets, I wonder for a moment whether they were changed. Or whether these are the same sheets that she had lain in, eleven years ago, on the morning that she would leave her house and never return. They must have been changed, surely.

Soon, I hear the front door opening and then two male voices. Her brothers must be here. They’ll expect me to go down and greet them, but the idea of getting up again seems impossible. My arm is throbbing. The bandage feels too tight. I’ll go in a minute, I decide. Let the mother be the one to fill them in on the details, on the memory loss and my arm.

Turning over, I realize I don’t care if they changed Rebecca’s sheets or not. They feel warm and silky soft. Having my own bed in the hospital had been good, but this was amazing. Feeling so safe and comfortable made the week that had just passed feel unbelievable, like some sort of nightmare.

When I wake it’s starting to get dark. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I pull myself out of bed, a foul taste in my mouth, brush my fingers through my hair and open my bedroom door. I have to face them sooner or later and the longer I put it off the harder it will be. Walking down the stairs, I notice the house is strangely quiet, but all the lights are on. For a moment I think maybe they’ve gone out, but surely they wouldn’t have left me here alone so soon.

I hear very faint movement on my right. I turn toward it and the kitchen opens up in front of me. There they are. The mother, the father and the two brothers sitting around a circular kitchen table. Dirty plates are in front of each of them. They must have just had dinner. No one is speaking or even looking at one another.

I hesitate for a second in the doorway, waiting for them to move, to notice my presence, but they don’t. They sit together in silence with straight backs but empty eyes and lowered heads. I guess it’s been a tough day for them, too. Still, something feels strange, slightly off, about this sparkling image of family. But I have bigger problems right now, so I ignore it and walk in to join them.

4

Bec, 11 January 2003

It was almost one in the morning when Bec finally closed her bedroom door, slipped between her bedsheets and switched off the light. She’d been too tired to move quickly. Standing in the shower for almost twenty minutes, she scrubbed the grease off her arms and tried to get the smell of burnt meat out of her nostrils. She groaned with relief at finally being horizontal. The cotton sheets felt clean and soft against her skin. She considered telling Ellen she didn’t want to do closes anymore. One hour of extra pay wasn’t worth this aching, overtired feeling.

Her mind was moving too slowly to think about it now. Tomorrow was her day off anyway; she’d decide then. A whole day to do whatever she wanted. It would be great. Lying down in her own quiet room felt too exquisite to ruin it by worrying. The hot weight of the cat, Hector, pressed against her leg as he stretched, his bell jingling softly.

Something shifted. That’s what woke her. The creaking sound of shifting weight. There was someone in her room.

Bec was too afraid to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see what was there. It was enough just to feel its presence, that heaviness of the air that meant another person was breathing it. Underneath the warmth of her sheets, her skin prickled cold. It couldn’t be happening again.

She listened. Seconds flicked by. Not a sound. Maybe it was a nightmare.

Bec knew she should open her eyes. Just to check. Just to be sure. A sound rose from beneath the silence, so soft it was barely audible. The gravelly hum of the cat’s purr. Very slowly, she opened her eyes.

The first thing she noticed was that Hector wasn’t on her bed anymore. She could see the small pear shape of his furry back. He was sitting in the corner, looking at something, purring. Bec knew she should laugh at herself; it was just the cat. But her limbs were still frozen. Something wasn’t right.

As her eyes adjusted she had to hold in a gasp. There was a shadow in the corner that shouldn’t be there. She could only just see it, onyx against charcoal, a splodge that didn’t belong. Her heart slammed against her ribs as it began to move.

Very slowly, it twisted. Limbs stretching. Growing bigger in a way that wasn’t human. She clamped her eyes shut, a scream trapped in her throat. Bec didn’t want to see what it looked like when it stepped out of the corner. She didn’t want to see its face.

Ice-cold fear soaked through her as she waited for the shadow to touch her. To feel that cold hand on her cheek again. She held her breath, just waiting.

The door squeaked.

Had it gone? Bec wanted to let out her breath, but she felt like fear had paralyzed her. Then something heavy slammed against her knees. She scrambled out away from it, the sheet wrapping around her ankle so that she fell onto the carpet with a thud. Pain spread down from her shoulder but she tried to ignore it, reaching up to turn on her bedside light.

For a moment the light blinded her. And then she saw him. The cat, Hector. Sitting in the middle of her mattress, blinking at her. She picked him up, swearing, and he howled at her. The noise seemed piercing in the silence. She held him against her, the feeling of his tiny heartbeat against her chest calming her enough that she could get up and close her bedroom door again. She wedged her chair under the handle.

Something had been in here; it wasn’t just the cat. She was sure of it. Her hands were still sweating and shaking and adrenaline raced through her veins.

Bec picked up her phone; she needed to talk to someone. To tell someone what had just happened so she didn’t feel like she was mad. The last time was probably just a nightmare, but this time was real. It was past three in the morning, though. Lizzie would be pissed off if she woke her up.

She looked at herself from the outside for a moment. Lizzie would probably laugh at her, like she was a little kid afraid of ghosts. How lame. She wrote a text instead: There was something in my room. I think my house is haunted. She put the phone back on her bedside table.

Just before she turned the light off she noticed the little silver bell was gone from Hector’s collar. A ghost couldn’t do that.

Perhaps he hadn’t been wearing it before, she told herself, and wrapped herself in a ball under the blanket.

It had taken her a long time to get back to sleep. When she had, her dreams were feverish and violent. She woke up with a start, slick with sweat. Checking her phone, she saw it was quarter past eleven. There were three missed calls from Lizzie and two messages. The first: Ha-ha scary. Then after the missed calls: You okay? Bec texted back: Yep. Still on for the city? I’ll tell you all about it.

Her room looked different in the morning light. Peaceful and entirely her own. Johnny Depp’s and Gwen Stefani’s faces, photographs of her and her friends, Destiny’s Child posing together perfectly. The slats of her closet doors, the shelf of books above her bed; everything was so warmly familiar. Last night’s nightmare seemed exactly that: a nightmare. Not something that could have really happened in her own bedroom. But when she closed her eyes, Bec could see the dark shape again, bending in that unnatural way in the corner. That was a real memory, as clear as mopping the floors at work and walking home from the bus stop.

Her phone buzzed, Lizzie: One hour, Silver Cushion. She pushed herself out of bed and had a look at her shoulder in the mirror. There was a pale grey bruise from where she’d fallen out of bed last night. That bloody cat.

She’d thought the house might look different, somehow. As though some kind of trace would be left behind by the extra presence that had been there last night. But no, everything felt exactly the same as she opened her bedroom door. The cream carpet had the same velvety feel between her toes as she padded down the hallway.

Peering into Paul and Andy’s room, she wanted to laugh. That was definitely the same: clothes and Legos strewn all over the floor, sheets on the two single beds twisted into heaps. She remembered how much of a scene they’d made when her mom suggested it was time one of them move into the spare room. She pulled their door shut. The sweaty old socks were starting to reek. You could smell puberty approaching.

The white wooden banister felt as smooth and warm under her palm as it always did. Her bare feet made squeaking sounds as she walked across the polished floorboards of the bottom level. The sound of giggling came from the kitchen; the boys must be home. She checked her parents’ room; their precisely made double bed alone in the middle of the spotlessly empty space. The spare room next door was filled with plastic tubs of winter clothes. Her mother’s writing desk propped in the corner, still unused. She looked into the laundry. Behind the washing baskets was a door that continued on to their garage. It was slightly open. The garage was the creepiest part of Bec’s house and none of them went in there if they could avoid it. Dark and dank smelling, crammed with piled-up cardboard boxes and a dirty concrete floor. They didn’t even park their car in there anymore. She was sure the place was infested with spiders. The blackness of the room seemed to spill out from the crack in the doorway, the dark of nighttime trying to recapture her and pull her back into the nightmare. She pulled the door shut.

Nothing had changed in the lounge room either. Couches remained an awkward distance apart and the wooden doors closed over the television so her parents could pretend they didn’t have one. Satisfied, she went into the kitchen. Whatever it had been, it was definitely gone now.

Paul and Andrew sat next to each other on the round kitchen table, a box of Coco Pops between them and their bowls filled with brown milk. They were laughing like mad, still in their shorty pyjamas with their dark red hair sticking up at weird angles. Bec felt a sudden stab of love for them. She longed to ruff le up their hair, but she knew they would find it patronizing.

“Ready?” Paul asked.

“Yep,” said Andrew.

They picked up the bowls of chocolate milk.

“One…two…three!”

They both began chugging down the milk from their bowls; throats working, brown drops falling onto the table.

“Done!” screamed Andrew, dropping his bowl down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh, shit!” Paul yelled, the word sounding forced from his mouth. They looked at Bec for a moment to see if she’d get him in trouble for using it, then couldn’t hold in their laughter.

“You guys are disgusting!” she said, but she was smiling, too. The horror of last night was starting to wear off.

“You look like Hitler!” she said to Paul, who still had a brown milk moustache on his top lip.

“Goot a morgan!” he said, making Andrew burst into giggles again. She shook her head and poured out her own sugar-free Muesli.

“What are you doing today, Becky?” asked Andrew.

“I’m going to go meet Lizzie in the city.”

“Can we come?” asked Paul straightaway. Two sets of identical pale blue eyes fixed on her. She knew they must be really bored. They’d been on summer holidays for two months now and they weren’t allowed to go any farther than the local shops by themselves. Her mom was so overprotective, she thought, as though their suburb was the only safe place in the world. It was Canberra, for God’s sake. She didn’t know why they just didn’t go out anyway. She wouldn’t tell on them, that was for sure, but she didn’t want to suggest it. Somehow that felt wrong.

“Please?” Paul said.

She felt bad, but she really needed to talk to Lizzie about what had happened last night, and she couldn’t do that with her little brothers running around everywhere. Plus, there was another thing she had to do with Lizzie that would be impossible with them around.

“Sorry, guys,” she said. “Next time.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Well, I’m at work tomorrow but how about Sunday?”

“Okay,” said Andrew. But she could tell they were both upset; the smiles were gone. Bec hated upsetting her brothers. It did something to her heart that nothing else could.

“We can go to the pool if you want?”

“And you won’t tell us off if we bomb?”

“Nope. Cross my heart,” she said, miming a cross over her chest. They looked at each other and then turned to her, beaming.

“Awesome,” said Paul. She patted them both on the head, which made them groan but she couldn’t help it, and went upstairs to get dressed.

Lizzie was waiting for her on a bench in Garema Place, a few feet away from the Silver Cushion. Canberra was filled with weird sculptures, but this one was Bec’s favourite for some reason. It looked like a giant half-full wine bag propped on some black steps. In summer the sun ref lected off its metallic silver surface so it hurt to look at it and definitely hurt to touch it. Bec plopped down on the bench next to Liz.

“Why are you all the way over here?” she asked.

“Emos,” she said, and Bec looked over. Four teenagers with striped black-and-red socks, bad eyeliner and floppy hair sat around the Silver Cushion.

“I worry it’s contagious,” Lizzie said, shuddering. Bec could tell she meant it, too; there was nothing Lizzie hated more than bad clothes. That’s why they worked so well as best friends; they were like each other’s perfect accessory. Today they both had on summer dresses and brown sandals; they didn’t need to call each other. They were just effortlessly coordinated. Not just in clothes, but everything. It was as if they were made of the same stuff, as if they had the same heart.

If she hadn’t already sent the message, she wouldn’t have told Lizzie about last night. The image of them sitting there was perfect: two carefree, pretty teenagers ready for anything the endless summer threw at them. The shadow in her room didn’t fit with that.

“So what happened?” asked Lizzie, and the perfect image flickered and died.

“Talk and walk?”

“Could it have been your brothers just trying to freak you out?” asked Lizzie, after Bec had briefly explained what had happened.

“No, no way. They would have been wetting themselves laughing if they managed to scare me that much. Plus, it didn’t feel, you know, human.”

“So you think it’s, what, like a poltergeist?”

“I think, like a specter. Not a ghost or spirit, but something evil and solid that’s not meant to be there.”

“Wow,” said Lizzie, not quite looking at her, “how horrible.”

She was worried Lizzie might laugh and call her crazy, but she seemed just as genuinely shocked as Bec.

“It was horrible.”

“Do you think it will happen again? Maybe you should stay at mine tonight, dude?”

“Maybe. Ugh, I don’t even want to think about it anymore.”

“I know something that would take your mind off it.” Bec recognized the glint in Lizzie’s eye.

“I thought you’d never ask!”

They were mucking around as they ran up the last few steps of the escalator. The white facade of the department store shone in front of them. They stopped laughing abruptly as they walked into the store.

The most important thing when shoplifting is to be as quietly confident as possible. Bec had learned that in the early days. The moment you start looking shifty or laughing too loudly, a security guard is shadowing you and that’s your chance blown for the day.

The second most important thing is to pick something with a lining. Bec had a look through the racks in the teenager section. Trying to find a label her mother would know was worth a lot of money. Scanlan & Theodore, perfect. She was getting so good at this it was almost unconscious. She looped the straps from the dress behind onto the hanger in front. It now looked as though there was one dress on the hanger, where in fact there were two. The maximum for a change room was six. So she quickly picked five other bulky dresses. The thin silky fabric was barely visible amongst the thick knits and ruff les of the other dresses. The harassed-looking girl at the changing rooms counted her hangers without really looking, gave her a red piece of plastic with the number six on it and ushered her through.

Bec pulled the silky fabric over her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She would have taken it either way, but it was nice when it actually suited her. This one was a teal colour, which looked pretty against her pale skin, and the soft folds hung nicely from her figure. She’d have to find some excuse to wear it in front of Luke. She slipped it off again and took the little pair of scissors out of her handbag, cutting the lining neatly around the plastic antitheft tag attached. When it came off cleanly, she slipped it into the pocket of one of the other skirts and rolled up the dress and put it in her handbag. She’d come in with six hangers and she came out with the same.

“Sorry, they just didn’t look right,” she said to the shop assistant, who obviously couldn’t care less.

“Did you find anything?” she asked Lizzie, who was waiting for her.

“Nah. Let’s go.”

* * *

The air outside felt even hotter after the air conditioning inside the department store. It was windy, too, rubbish and dead leaves slapping against their bare ankles as they walked. The adrenaline abruptly left Bec’s body and exhaustion took its place.

“What did you get?” she asked Lizzie.

“Two Marc’s dresses. I’ll show you later. I was just going to get one, but I knew that girl wouldn’t even notice if I came out with nothing but hangers. What about you?”

“Scanlan & Theodore. Just one, but it was meant to be like three hundred.”

“Nice!”

Bec was beginning to sweat. She could taste the salt collecting on her top lip. She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck; it was slick with oily perspiration, disgusting.

“Should we go to Gus’s?” asked Lizzie.

Gus’s was always cool and dark inside, with an all-day breakfast menu.

“Sounds good.”

Even if she had to spend a bit of money on food, it was worth it not to have to go home.

She stopped walking. The money. How could she not have thought of it before? She’d been sure that whatever it was that had been in her room wasn’t human. But what if it had been? What if it was the most obvious explanation: a burglar?

“I think I might just go home, actually. I feel really tired suddenly.”

Lizzie stopped and looked at her with genuine worry.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bec said, although she didn’t really feel it.

Lizzie pulled her into a quick, tight hug. It was too hot for anything longer.

“Call me if you change your mind about stayin’ at mine, okay?”

“All right, thanks,” she said.

Bec sat on the bus, her panic growing. It was taking forever, stopping every few blocks to let someone on. They might as well not have bothered with air conditioning; every time the doors swung open the hot wind blew in. Riding the wind was the faint but sharp smell of something burning; the bushfires. Bec wrinkled her nose. She’d been worried when she first saw an article about it in The Canberra Times. A black-and-white photograph of a raging fire on page four. She usually didn’t read the paper, but she’d read this article. No one seemed to think it was a big deal, or maybe they were just distracted by everything else that was going on. Right next to the article was a full-page advertisement: “If You See Something, Say Something,” run in large bold letters. She knew all about that. If she’d called the number underneath she’d have a one-in-ten chance of talking to her mom. It was the new anti-terrorist campaign that seemed to be everywhere right now. Not just in the paper but on billboards and on television. To make it worse, her mom would come home from work with endless dumb long-winded stories of people spying on their neighbours. Bec had no idea about politics and stuff like that. Still, it seemed strange to her that people were more worried about their neighbour’s new car than a fire so close you could actually smell it.

Bec didn’t even thank the driver as she got off the bus. She charged up the street to her house. When she was halfway she started to run, not caring about ruining her hair and sweating through her makeup. The scorching-hot air blew hard against her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn’t care. Nothing was more important than knowing if the money was still there. She kept running until she was on her doorstep, pulling out her keys, slamming the door behind her.

“It was just a joke!” she heard Andrew whine from the kitchen.

“It’s not funny.” She hesitated on the foot of the stairs. Her dad sounded really angry.

“Don’t be too hard on them.” Her mother’s voice was quiet. “They’re just kids. They don’t understand.”

“You’re so weak,” he said quietly.

She didn’t want to hear this; she ran up the stairs two at a time.

“Bec?” she heard her mom call from downstairs. She ignored her, flinging open the door to her room and grabbing her talking Cabbage Patch doll from on top of the chest of drawers. Hiking up the dress, she pulled open the Velcro patch at the back, where the battery pack was meant to fit inside. Instead there was the yellow and orange of twenty- and fifty-dollar notes. Thank God. It was her pay for the whole of last year. Almost six thousand dollars pressed tightly inside the belly of her toy. She heard the slow, steady steps of her mom on the stairs. She carefully put the doll back into place and pulled the dress out of her handbag, holding it up in front of herself and looking in the mirror.

“Are you all right? Why are you running around for?” her mom asked, eyeing the dress.

“I wanted to try it on again,” she said, smiling. “What’s going on, anyway?”

Her mother looked at her hands.

“Paul and Andrew have been sneaking into the neighbours’ house, apparently. Max said that he caught them under his bed whispering.”

“Whispering?”

“They were pretending to be the voices in his head.” Her mother sighed. “They’re just too young to understand. They think it’s a joke. They say it’s okay because he’s crazy.”

“Well, Max is crazy, isn’t he?” Bec asked, still looking at the reflected dress. She wanted to point out that if her mom let the boys out a bit more, then they probably wouldn’t have done it.

“No, he’s sick. He’s schizophrenic.”

Bec was pretty sure that schizophrenic meant crazy but she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Her mom’s eyes focused on the dress.

“Oh, Bec, that looks really expensive.”

“It’s Scanlan & Theodore and you don’t want to know how much it cost,” Bec said, raising her eyebrows.

Her mother folded her arms.

“You work so much and then blow your paychecks as soon as they come in. You could save up for something really nice.”

“This is really nice!” Bec said, feigning offense, but inside she felt smug. This was getting too easy.

“Well, I guess it’s your money. But don’t go running around the place. You’ll get heatstroke,” her mom said, walking out of the room and closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Bec felt guilty for a second as she looked at herself in the mirror, the stolen dress hanging down in front of her, her hair frizzy and her face shiny. But then she caught sight of the reflection of the Cabbage Patch doll and all she could feel was triumph.

5

2014

For a moment I think I’m back home. I cross my fingers under the blanket and hope my stepmom is at her early prenatal Pilates class, so I can have breakfast with Dad without having to listen to her yap and whine like a pampered poodle. I open my eyes and the room seems to physically tilt around me. The outdated teenage posters, the photographs on the wall, the Cabbage Patch doll looming from the bedside table. The last week comes flooding back, running from Perth, Sydney, the hospital yesterday. I try to swallow a lump of anxiety. Becoming a whole different person is going to be hard.

I take a mental tally. I had the parents fooled completely but I’d have to tread very carefully with Andopolis. He didn’t seem to be as much of a dope as I originally thought, but I could still have him wrapped around my little finger if he felt as guilty as it seemed about failing Rebecca. It was the twins who had me worried. They were warm, wrapping me in a bear hug when I’d interrupted their dinner, but I sensed some hesitation in both of them. I’ve never played the part of big sister before, and I don’t really know how it goes. They were both attractive and successful: one is a lawyer and the other in med school. I also had real trouble telling them apart. If I was a twin I’d do whatever I could to look as different as I could. That doesn’t seem to be the case with Paul and Andrew. They’re both clean-shaven, with closely cropped ginger hair and perfectly fitting T-shirts. It would be best if they left soon.

I push myself out of bed and open Rebecca’s closet. The musky smell isn’t so strong anymore, or perhaps I’m just getting used to it. I flick through her clothes slowly, sizing up each item. Surprisingly she actually has a few good brands in here. Parting the clothes, I notice a pink quilt and a few stuffed toys stuffed in the back. I almost laugh. She hadn’t wanted to seem like a kid anymore, but she hadn’t wanted to throw them out either. For an instant, I can imagine her as a real person rather than a picture on a missing persons sign.

I decide against the designer brands and pull out a light cotton dress. Something about the drop waist and pale fabric screams innocence. I’m seeing Andopolis today and I want to reinforce the image he has of me as much as possible. The bruise on my face was fading to a gross yellow colour. I couldn’t rely on it for much longer; I needed to dress the part, too.

Slipping the dress over my head, I feel something hard in the pocket. It’s a folded-up piece of paper, Exorcism Spell at the top in bold letters. Magic for the Modern Witch is written in the banner in Gothic lettering. I can’t imagine Bec had been into pagan stuff. Her room looked so preppy. Then again, teenagers like to keep secrets. I fold it back up and toss it into the closet with other things she was hiding. If she’d managed to conceal it all this time I wasn’t going to expose her.

When I was sixteen, I hid joints in the seams of my curtains. I’d been in my hippie stage then. I’d met a group of older kids, with dreadlocks and tie-dyed T-shirts, busking near the railway station. For a full month I had them convinced I lived in a commune near Fremantle where no one was allowed to wear clothes. That was before I realized the art of subtle lies. Somehow one of them found out who my dad was. They called him an “oil tycoon” and didn’t appreciate it when I laughed. Hippies always talk about love and kindness, but I don’t know if I’ve ever met a group of people so snarky. I squeeze the seams of Bec’s blinds. Nothing.

As I walk out of the room, I can hear the mumble of the brothers’ voices. I stand there for a moment, hoping to catch something, but the talking stops abruptly. They must have heard my footsteps. For a moment I consider knocking, but I don’t know what I would say to them.

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