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

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