Only Daughter: A gripping thriller of deadly deceit. Anna Snoekstra

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