The sound of the news coverage came from the TV in the lounge, abuzz and ablaze with commentary on Madison’s latest video and the discovery of Bree Wilkins’ body.
Monica would be the one watching it, for any news of Tom, but she wouldn’t have let her daughter watch it with her. So Eliza slowly walked up the stairs, to Wren’s room.
It was the perfect little girl’s room: princess wallpaper and a four-poster bed. Wren lay on glittery pink carpet in a little red dress, playing on her iPad.
Her face brightened when she saw Eliza. ‘Aunt Leesy!’ She threw herself into Eliza’s arms.
Eliza’s resolve wavered. She tightened her grip on the permission slip. I can do whatever it takes.
She began to cry: real tears, not fake ones, for the first time in a long time.
‘Aunt Leesy? It’s okay.’ Wren put her hand on Eliza’s cheek.
Eliza shoved the permission slip into her pocket and took hold of Wren’s little forearm with both hands.
Eliza felt sick. She was shaking.
But she had to do this.
Eliza smiled through her tears and snapped Wren’s little forearm – both radius and ulna.
Instant agony. Wren screamed, and screamed and screamed.
Pounding footsteps up the stairs and Monica appeared at the door, cheeks puffy, terror in her red face. ‘Wren!’ she shrieked.
Sarge raced up behind her, the big dog adding his booming barks to the mix.
‘I’m sorry, I snuck in to see her, and she wanted to show me a trick on her bed – she’s broken her arm!’ shouted Eliza.
‘Wren!’
‘Quick, Monica – take my car, get to the hospital, call an ambulance to meet you on the way. Now! Hurry!’
Eliza knew how to respond to children feeling strong emotion – short instructions, direct tone of voice – and Monica, already exhausted from Tom’s arrest, was in shock, fearing for her child, in pain. She did exactly as Eliza said without question.
Eliza helped Monica carry Wren, intentionally jostling the little girl’s arm. She fainted, overwhelmed by the pain.
She helped Monica strap Wren’s limp body into the back seat, then Monica was driving away and Eliza was alone, save for Sarge barking at her.
She dragged the dog through the house by the collar and locked him outside. His booming barks and whimpers could be heard all through the house.
Shaking, remembering the feeling of Wren’s little arm snapping in her hands – I’m so sorry, Wren – she used the kitchen scissors to cut her hair in the bathroom mirror to roughly the same length as Monica’s, sweeping up the hair and dumping it in the bin. She took the cheese grater and raked some lines down her cheek and forehead. She winced at the sharp pain, the hot blood trickling down her face, but she’d successfully disguised the forehead wound she’d sustained up in the mountain.
Now she slipped her glasses off and put them in the pocket of her dress.
She looked more like Monica than herself, now. Or at least, enough to fool anyone who came to the house. The sight of blood would go a long way to keeping them from thinking rationally, and they’d hopefully jump to the conclusion Eliza wanted them to.
She took a tea towel and tied it around her mouth, then used a zip tie from under the sink to bind her wrists together, using her teeth to pull it tight with some difficulty around the loose gag.
She walked to the front door, her vision blurry without her glasses. She pushed over the entrance stand, including the glass vase of purple tulips on top, and laid herself down in the puddle of water and petals.
Before long she heard a car pull up outside.
CHAPTER 48
CON
Con searched the little crooked cottage, but Eliza was nowhere. Her car wasn’t outside either.
Murphy appeared next to him, the side of his head bleeding down into his beard. ‘She’s gone.’
‘We need to talk to Monica,’ said Con, leading the way to his car. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who would know what’s going on with Eliza.’
‘Why did you come here?’ said Murphy, as Con started the car and pulled out.
‘Bree’s dad thought he saw Eliza at the Hanging Tree days ago – on the morning we now believe Bree died.’
‘You think Eliza’s involved?’
‘She handcuffed Butch to a bed and hit you with a cricket bat,’ said Con. ‘Obviously she’s involved.’
They drove through the centre of Limestone Creek to Monica’s house. There were people everywhere: walking their dogs, chatting over low fences, actual lemonade stands set up by kids capitalising on the carnival of people who had flocked to the town these past few days. Spring had drawn out the red waratahs, riots of yellow daffodils and multicoloured tulips in the garden beds. TV crews from all over the world were interviewing people on street corners. It was like a sick festival.
Con felt he was the only one who could put a stop to it. He had to find Eliza. He had to solve this puzzle.
Finally they reached Monica’s house, and before Con could even pull the handbrake Murphy stepped out of the BMW and headed towards the front door.
‘Wait, Murphy,’ said Con, running to catch up. He could hear Sarge’s great, booming barks.
Murphy didn’t knock, he just pushed the door open. ‘Monica? Are you in here?’ he roared.
‘You can’t just walk into someone’s house,’ said Con. Then he froze.
A glass vase lay shattered on the tiles, tulips in a puddle of water, and Monica on the floor in the middle of it all. Her hands were bound in front of her with a cable tie and her mouth gagged with a tea towel. Her face was bleeding and her amber eyes were wide and wild.
‘Monica!’ shouted Con, falling to his knees beside her and unknotting the gag. Her bound wrists were already bruising and her arms scraped against the shards of the vase.
‘She’s taken Wren!’ she screamed the moment he had the gag out.
‘Easy,’ said Con. ‘Murphy, grab a knife from the kitchen.’
‘Eliza came here and attacked me,’ said Monica. ‘She took Wren. She said they have a boat waiting for them in Launceston!’
Murphy returned with the knife and broke the cable ties.
Monica was lapsing into hysterics: it was hard to make out her words. ‘Eliza . . . Tom and Eliza . . . Eliza can’t have kids, so wanted Wren and now she’s . . . gone.’ She rose shakily to her feet, grasping at the hooks on the wall where the keys hung, searching for balance. She held her stomach and vomited onto the tiles.
‘Murphy, give me your phone,’ said Con. He typed in a number and a moment later the commander answered. As quickly as he could, he explained everything that had transpired since he had called Marcus Wilkins. ‘We believe Eliza may be headed towards Launceston with Wren.’
‘I’ll make the calls,’ said Agatha. ‘You stay there. I’ll call you right back on this number. Don’t think this gets you off the hook for disobeying my direct order.’
She ended the call and Con relayed the information to both Murphy and Monica. ‘Do you need us to take you to hospital?’ said Con.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Monica shakily. She touched her face, grimacing at the pain. ‘I . . . I think I should just stay here. I have a friend who’s a doctor. I’ll call her around.’