If You Only Knew Page 20

  Ellen’s hint of aggression takes me aback, but I pause without showing it, thinking about the right way to answer. It feels so hypocritical to want them to tell Maya about her paternity when I have kept such secrets from her since I’ve known her. But for some strange reason I want her to have some of her questions answered, unwilling to connect this with how much more danger it could put me in.

  “I don’t know. It’s a difficult decision obviously.” Then, to deflect the tension, give myself some time, I offer to make tea. We are both silent while I put the kettle on then take mugs out of one cupboard, teabags from another, and teaspoons from the drawer, lining them up like surgical tools, allowing myself the chance to think.

  “I wonder whether they will be able to unseal Maya’s birth certificate even if you deny them permission,” I muse.

  “How can they do that?” Ellen’s voice rises sharply.

  The kettle whistles and I busy myself making tea, using the interruption to gauge Ellen’s reaction, and think ahead of how to guide the McBrides to a decision that still protects me from being exposed. “They might take the matter to court and petition a judge to overrule your wishes,” I say as I hand her a mug.

  “They wouldn’t dare!” Ellen puts her mug down with such uncharacteristic force that she spills tea over the white countertop. Leaning over, she grabs a handful of paper towels and wipes it off.

  “Ellen,” I say gently, seeing a plan more clearly now. “I think you should collaborate with the detectives. Or at least give them reason to think you’re going to be helpful. It’s the only way you can keep informed of what they’re doing, where the investigation is going, whether they’ve found out anything.”

  She doesn’t say anything. “That’s what I would do,” I add.

  “Anyway, even if they were forced to stall the investigation, Maya will be eighteen in less than two years and they will go directly to her then without consulting you.”

  Or me, I think. The thought that detectives could continue looking for Maya’s mother, for me, without me knowing what stage the investigation is at, whether they’re getting closer to finding me, looms inside me. I need to know what’s happening, whether I’m in danger. Will Terry come forward this time? Or perhaps the police will find him or her. This person knows my name, where I live. It will not take long for that trail to lead to me.

  On the other hand, who knows what will happen by the time Maya turns eighteen. Perhaps the detectives will no longer be interested in reopening the investigation. Terry might not be found. He, or whoever she is, might remain underground, especially if any revelations about Maya and the John Larkin case go public.

  Both options have risks and I don’t know which one is best. But for some reason I feel this enormous need inside me to know what’s happening, for the case to be resolved quickly. I’m terrified I might crack under the constant pressure of not knowing my fate for two whole years. Somehow I need to convince the McBrides to allow the detectives to unseal Maya’s records. The quicker they finalise the investigation, the quicker I’ll know where I stand.

  “Let’s focus on the meeting with the detectives. Try to get as much information as possible out of them. Hopefully I can help you with that. Seeing that you have legal help might push them to collaborate more. Then you can decide what to do based on the information they give you and how you feel after the meeting.”

  Ellen nods, looking down at her mug, staring into the depths of the liquid as if it held the answer to all her questions.

  Chapter 27

  “Don’t twirl your hair,” I tell Chloe, trying to keep my voice even. “Try to avoid fidgeting,”

  She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Don’t cross your arms either; it makes you look antagonistic.”

  “What do you want me to do with them?”

  I sigh, my patience starting to wear thin. It’s the same argument every single time. “Relax your arms and place your hands on your lap,” I say in my calmest voice. “We’ve gone over this already,” I add in exasperation.

  A hand presses on my shoulder. Luigi is right behind me. “Let’s take a ten minute break,” he says.

  “Five minutes.” I turn towards Chloe. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  She walks out of my office and I hear her mumble something under her breath. Exhaling deeply, I shake my head, half wanting to go after her. “Calm down for a second.” Luigi’s voice is soothing. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  “Ugh, she can be so frustrating,” I say, rubbing my temples. “She seems intent on doing exactly the opposite of what I tell her. Doesn’t seem to realise that I’m trying to help.”

  “She’s a kid and she’s acting like one. You need to remain calm and continue coaching her,” he says. “Losing your temper is not going to do anyone any good.”

  “I know.”

  Changing the subject, I broach the topic of the McBrides. “My neighbours need some help. It has to do with their daughter’s adoption.”

  “Yeah? Which neighbours? Have I met them?”

  “Yes, actually. Tom and Ellen. They were at Leah’s first birthday party.”

  “The accountant?”

  “Yes,” I nod as Chloe walks back in. Her face is flushed, her cheeks rosy and she averts her eyes when I look at her. It looks like she’s been crying. “Let’s continue. We’ll start from the beginning, from when you’re called to the stand. Everyone will be looking at you, examining every detail, the way you walk, how you sit down, where you look. It’s important that you look as natural as possible.”

  “Ok.” She takes a seat next to me in the makeshift courtroom we’ve created in an unused office.

  “The defence calls Chloe Wilson to the stand,” I say. Chloe stands up and walks over to the witness stand. Her head is not held as high as usual and her face seems relaxed, softer. She sits down and rests her hands in her lap, glancing over at the seats where the jurors would be sitting, before turning her head and looking straight ahead. “Good,” I mouth, pleased that she’s followed all my suggestions.

  For the next two hours we rehearse a mock trial, Luigi acting as the prosecutor and asking Chloe the difficult questions. “Am I boring you?” Luigi asks.

  “No, no,” she responds.

  “So why are you yawning?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just tired,” she says, looking down.

  “I think we’ve done enough for today,” I interject. “You’ve done really well. Let’s continue tomorrow.”

  When Luigi leaves, I ask Chloe to sit down. “What are you going to wear to court?”

  She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, looking down at her lap. “I… I’m not sure,” she finally says.

  “It’s imperative that you choose the right outfit. It’s all part of the image we’re trying to portray. It needs to be neat but demure. And you’re starting to show. Let’s see your bump, but not too much flesh.”

  Chloe doesn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes dart around the room, as if she’s trying to find a way to escape. Of course, I think. She cannot afford to buy new clothes. All her outfits look worn, some of them with small holes, most totally out of shape, and those jeans definitely won’t last the pregnancy.

  “I’d like to get you an outfit for court.”

  Her head shoots up and she looks directly at me. Then, when the realisation of what I’m saying hits, her face flushes deep red. “It’s ok, I’ll figure something out.”

  “I insist. Let’s go.”

  As we get into a taxi, I think of the times I would have gone shopping with Maya if the situation was different. How I would have picked up things for her during my lunch break. Or ordered cute outfits online. There’s a tightening in my chest as I realise how much I’ve missed out on and how much worse there could be to come.

  *

  By the time I get home I’m feeling totally washed out. Returning to the office after taking Chloe shopping, I’d buried myself in work. The mental exhaustion, brought on by the hours spent t
rying to prepare Chloe for the trial, is matched by sheer physical tiredness. Pulling into the garage, I don’t get out of the car immediately. Turning my head from side to side, I pull my chin to my chest and crunch my shoulders back. I take deep breaths, in from my nose, out from my mouth, and repeat.

  After a few minutes I take one last deep breath in and exhale slowly before opening the door and swinging my legs out of the car. Taking my handbag and briefcase from the passenger seat, I head into the house, stopping on the other side of the door and propping myself against the wall as I remove my high heels.

  The house is silent and dark. It’s hours past the children’s bedtime and I wonder whether Miles has gone for an early night. He has been working long hours, performing more surgeries to cover for a colleague who needed time off while his wife undergoes chemotherapy. My heart sinks at the thought of not spending any time with him, but I know he needs the rest.

  Heading towards the kitchen, I navigate my way around furniture with only memory and the dim light coming in from the windows to guide me. Putting my briefcase down, I reach for the light switch and turn it on.

  And then, as I turn around, my right hand flies to my mouth and I suppress a squeal. There, on the kitchen island, is something I never wanted to see. A sight that instils fear inside me. I’ve long dreaded this moment, hoped that it would never happen. And yet I did nothing to prevent it.

  Chapter 28

  “What the hell is this?”

  Miles’ hair is dishevelled as if he’s been pulling at it for several hours, like he always does when he’s worried. There is a pallor in his face, his cheeks look drained. He is staring squarely at the entryway where I am standing, sitting bolt upright on the stool, his arms propped against the island.

  He purses his lips and flares his nostrils, staring at me with eyes that are full of anger. But there is something else in his gaze. Fear. And incredulity. As if he still cannot believe what he’s just found out. As if he still cannot fully comprehend what his discovery means.

  The gold-coloured cardboard box is open, the lid upside down a few inches away. The crisp white tissue paper is crumpled next to the box. My wedding shoes are sitting on the kitchen island. I cringe as I think of the dirt from the soles on the usually pristine surface. Looking at them, I notice the scuffs in the white satin, the dent in the heel where it had been caught between the tiles as I danced the night away. One of the diamanté embellishments has fallen off, leaving a blob of glue in its place.

  Tearing my gaze from the once-worn shoes, I look into Miles’ blazing eyes. He stares at me, and I see a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth. Cowering under his glare, I look away from him and at the evidence of our past, and the secrets I have kept from him.

  John Larkin’s eyes look right back at me, his face distorted by the creases in the newspaper page that I have kept for all these years, hidden underneath my wedding shoes, the box tucked in the back of the closet. There are other newspaper cuttings strewn across the island, the headlines screaming back at me, reminding me of the fear I felt as I read the unfolding details of the investigation into John Larkin’s death. I’d kept them all, never wanting to forget what the police had revealed, scared that I might one day divulge a detail that would expose me.

  Miles moves his hand and picks something up. He stands up slowly and walks towards me. I cower back, wanting to run away, to turn the clock back so I can undo the damage. But I know I cannot escape what’s coming. The consequences are reeling me in, dragging me down in the terrible aftermath of what I’ve done.

  “What are these?” he asks in a voice unlike his usual tone. There’s a harshness that is never present. His right bicep ripples under his sleeve as he waves a small pile of envelopes in my direction, their torn edges jutting out messily. Our home address is written in block capitals on the envelope on top, and I know it’s the last letter I received, not too long ago.

  “Elizabeth, why is someone threatening you?” His voice has risen a decibel and sounds sharper, as if he’s about to lose control.

  I swallow hard, trying to clear the lump in my throat, but am unable to talk. Miles takes a sheet of paper from one of the envelopes and unfolds it. “Your time will come soon. You’ll pay for what you did,” he reads.

  Miles lets the sheet flutter onto the island and picks up the second one. “I know what you did and I’m watching you.” He looks right at me. “Who is this? Why is he threatening you?”

  Tears sting my eyes as the familiar dread takes hold of me, and worse, as I sense the fear that is palpable in Miles right now.

  “Stop reading those,” I tell him, reaching out and snatching the rest of the envelopes from his hand.

  Anger flashes in his eyes as he glares at me. He picks something else up and the plastic glistens as it catches the light. “Can you explain what this is?” he asks. “Why do you have Ellen’s driver’s licence?”

  I desperately rack my brain to try and come up with a story, spin a tale to avoid telling the truth. Some seemingly innocent explanation that he will want to believe. But I know it’s too late, especially when he brings his other hand in front of me. His knuckles are white with the force he’s using to clench the small strip. The writing on the hospital band is faded but still legible.

  “What is this?” Miles spits at me. “And who the hell is Laura Black?”

  “I… I can explain.” I look around, searching for something to do to buy time. To think of an excuse. Some way to get out of having to tell Miles the truth.

  He grabs my arm with such force that I’m taken by surprise. “You’d better start.” His voice has a sharp edge to it. “And you’d better tell the truth. I’m fed up of your lies.”

  Biting my lip to stop my quivering chin, I look straight into Miles’ eyes, reach out and take the hospital band from him. I remember the moment it was secured around my wrist when I was admitted, how I clawed at it when the plastic edges started rubbing against my skin, trying to stretch it. As soon as I was discharged I’d asked the nurse for a pair of scissors to cut it off. I should have thrown it away, left it in the hospital. But instead I’d put it in my pocket.

  “It was a long time ago. I was in hospital.” Perhaps he will stop asking questions. He always has. Almost as if he is scared of what he will find out if he delves too deeply into my past.

  But not today.

  “Elizabeth, one lie and I’m taking this box to the police. Then you can spin your tales to them, see if they believe you.”

  “Please Miles, leave the past in the past, where it belongs,” I implore.

  He continues to stare at me, his eyes narrowing into slits. His face is red, the veins on his temples throbbing. There’s a glisten of sweat on his brow. I’ve seen Miles angry before, but not like this. At least not at me. We’ve had fights, long arguments, gone to bed without speaking. But this is different. It seems like there’s no longer any love in his eyes. Just anger and fear.

  “It’s no longer in the past. Surely you cannot be so deluded not to realise that. You’ve dragged us all into it, so you’d better start explaining.”

  Where do I even start? The rape? Maya? The letters? Miles seems to sense my confusion. Reaching behind him, he picks up the newspaper page and lifts it in front of me. “What happened with this guy? You were involved?”

  “He… I was riding my bike back to campus and he hit me. And then… I was an idiot… I got into his car. And he drugged me, took me to this room.” The tears that I’d been trying to hold back start flowing down my cheeks. Fear is intermixed with the relief of finally telling my story to someone.

  “Was it that night? The night I saw you?”

  “Ye…” The incomplete word comes out in a rasp as a lump closes my throat.

  “Did he attack you? Was it you? Did you…” He trails off, as if he cannot utter the words, talk about my unspeakable actions.

  Again, I nod. Swallowing hard, I try to clear my throat. “He attacked me, was about to rape me again.
I found a piece of glass and hit at him. I didn’t mean it, didn’t want to. I just had to stop him, get him off me, give myself the time to run away…” My voice breaks down and I find myself sobbing.

  “Oh, my God.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, inhaling deeply. “Why didn’t you go to the police? Tell them what he did to you?”

  I shake my head. “I was afraid. Afraid that they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Even when they found the other girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were raped. And you were pregnant.”

  I nod.

  “Oh God. Is Maya your daughter?”

  “Miles, please,” I plead, burying my face in my hands.

  “Is she your daughter?” he asks again. Then, in a voice that sounds sharper: “Look at me, Elizabeth.”

  Prying my hands away, I force myself to meet his eyes. And I know at that moment that he will not give in, that he will continue quizzing me until he is satisfied I’m telling him the truth, until all his questions are answered.

  “Yes,” I say in a small voice.

  “Oh my God, Liz, how could you keep this from me? I knew you’d had a child before. I’m a doctor for fuck’s sake. But Maya? What the hell?” He turns away and clasps his head. “This explains so much.”

  There are no words. No explanation. For years I’ve feared this would happen, the moment that my secret stops being a secret, when someone else finds out. I should have got rid of those letters, the cuttings, Ellen’s driver’s licence, the hospital bracelet. They were a trap set in wait for me to be caught.

  “How did you find this?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “What does it matter?” Miles snaps back. He pauses and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Is that why you went to the US? So that nobody would know you? So you could keep this a secret?”

  “I guess. It was a convenient opportunity.”

  “So, this is why you were so adamant to live in this house,” he says after a while. “How long have you been stalking the McBrides?”