Only Daughter. Anna Snoekstra

      

      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