EIGHTEEN
Comfort
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I stare at the four cardboard boxes I stole from the table after I heard Marcus’s door latch.
Heartbroken and breathless, I remove the lid from the box labelled ONE. There are three binders in it. The first binder is white and has a sticker across the front that says “Police Transcripts”. Tentatively opening the book, I turn the pages and read reports from that night. Tears flow steadily when I come across the transcript from the triple zero call her father made.
Caller: Please help me. (He’s crying hysterically.) My daughter, she’s gone, there’s blood, and she’s eight. Oh my God, please God, please help us.” (He screams. It’s high-pitched. Audio is impossible to comprehend.)
Operator: Sir, where is the blood?
Caller: It’s on the back door. I found it open. My little princess, someone has taken her. Hurry. (He sobs.)
Operator: Sir, we are trying to help you. Your name, please?
Caller: Garth Tumbling. (He continues to sob.)
Operator: Mr Tumbling, what is your address? (A woman’s voice can be heard screaming. It’s loud and no other sounds or words can be heard. Five seconds after screaming commences, audio can clearly make out a woman’s voice screaming Stephanie over and over.)
Bang, bang, bang.
I jump.
“Abigail, can I come in?”
“Marcus, you frightened me.”
“Sorry. Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Go away.”
The doorknob turns and, soon, Marcus stands in the doorway wearing only long cotton pyjama bottoms. He stares at the boxes. “Abigail, why?”
“I need to know.”
“You can learn more tomorrow. You won’t sleep if you read this stuff.”
“What did she look like?”
Slowly, he shuffles over to the bed, removing each box, one by one, and placing them onto the floor. The binder still sits open in front of me. I keep my eyes glued to him as he stands before me. A quiet huff expels from his lips. There’s silence, and I can see him thinking, or is he reliving the memories? I’m not sure, but his demeanour is unsettled, to say the least.
“She was beautiful.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Many.”
“Can I see one?”
He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Tell me then.”
He takes the binder and closes it before lowering it to the floor. “Get under the covers.”
I don’t know why, but I do as I’m told.
He climbs in beside me, lying and looking up at the ceiling.
I turn my body to face him. “Tell me.”
He takes one, two, three deep inhales. This is painfully hard; the sheer hurt is etched on his face. “Well, she had strawberry blonde hair. It was long, to the arch of her back. Pale blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Front teeth too big for her little mouth, her adult teeth having just come completely through. She was petite and fragile, yet she fought like a champion much bigger and heavier than her. She was brave, Abigail.” He turns to look at me. A single tear runs down my cheek. Marcus wipes it away with his thumb before pulling me into his arms. “Sleep. She’s at peace, and we need to finish her fight for her.”
I nod before closing my eyes. Justice for Stephanie.
NINETEEN
The Rain
The smell of cooking bacon awakens me. The face of a little girl with scattered freckles over her nose and pale blue eyes haunted me throughout the night. Every time I’d felt as if I was drowning in her sorrow, Marcus’s arms would embrace me tighter. For the first time in a long time, I’ve slept beside a man, and I’m frightened by the thought.
As my eyes focus, I realise I’m alone. The blankets beside me are crumpled yet empty. Quietly, I walk downstairs in search of the kitchen.
“Hello,” I call out before entering.
“I’m in here,” Marcus’s voice calls back.
Stepping into the open doorway, I’m greeted by his bare back, his pyjama bottoms resting on his hips.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning around.
“Yes. Very.”
“Good. Sit.”
A plate loaded with bacon, eggs, and a piece of buttered toast is positioned in front of me. We sit opposite each other. It’s so quiet you could hear the sound of a pin dropping. As each bite of food fills my stomach, I’m surprised he can cook so well.
“So you cook?”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s really good,” I say with my mouth half filled.
He doesn’t look at me. Each bite is taken in uncomfortable silence, and he appears ignorant of my existence.
“Are you finished?” he says finally, placing his cutlery across the plate as the last bite of toast enters my mouth.
“Yes,” I murmur, still chewing.
A small smile gently invades his blank expression before he stands and clears the table. As soon as he finishes, he’s gone.
I hear feet on the staircase and then the banging of a door on the upper level. Why is he so closed off this morning? Stephanie.
The room begins to close in around me. Abruptly, I stand and throw back the heavy curtains that still remain closed behind the table, allowing some sunlight to enter.
“Wow,” I exclaim, shocked as a long jetty, and then water, comes into view. Sunrays glisten across a tranquil river, bringing me instant peace. “Beautiful.”
I’m drawn to the sight like a moth to light. I don’t take my gaze from the view as I slide the glass doors to the balcony open with ease. I’m met by the soft breeze and the crisp smell only fresh morning air can deliver. I don’t know why, but I instinctively step across the concrete veranda and then onto the lush green grass. I’m in awe of the view.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
Strong hands are gently placed on each of my hip bones. I startle but don’t need to look back—the smell of mint and the multitude of sensations dancing across my skin tell me it’s him.
“How I’d like to do that,” he whispers into my ear.
Without my consent, my voice emits a soft moan.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Abigail?”
I swallow hard as butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. I want him. I just can’t have him.
“I can’t … I mean, I don’t.” My voice is so low, barely audible. My heart pounds frantically, in an arrhythmic way as my body is turned in a spin.
“I know you do.” He lets me go and steps backwards. “You need to get ready. Your clothes have been returned.”
“My suitcase?” I say, breathless.
“No, your dry-cleaning.”
“Oh.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He says nothing more, then turns his back to me. Marcus in a black suit, tailored perfectly, is my last sight before he leaves. What’s with this man? One minute he’s quiet and withdrawn, the next minute he’s making advances—he’s so hard to read.
Back inside, I hurry to the upper level and prepare for my first day at Sims, General, and Klein Sydney office.