Only Daughter: A gripping thriller of deadly deceit

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.