Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  Tim helped me to understand that I hadn’t lost anything at all. Not really.

  I’d gained a spectacular rose garden.

  Chapter 17

  KAT

  I’d always believed that if Imogen so much as suspected the truth, I’d know about it right away. I thought there would be a confrontation. Or at least a sign.

  My shoulders go slack and I hang my head as I realise how stupid I’ve been. Of course there were signs; I just misread them. Imogen’s violence, her refusal to let us in, her anger towards us; towards me. Suddenly, in the light of the document on my screen, they now seem, so clearly, to be the emotional outpouring of a girl who is no longer certain of her identity.

  ‘Mum? What’s wrong?’

  My head whips around. Jemima’s standing in the doorway holding two plates, a frown plastered on her face.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ I say, desperate to reassure her. ‘I just want Immy to come home.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says, not meeting my eye. ‘I want things to go back to normal.’

  I rush over to her and gently grab the plates from her hands. She’s made two chicken sandwiches, one for each of us. She looks at me, her eyes clear but full of emotion, and my heart melts for her.

  ‘Imogen is going to be fine,’ I tell her, putting the plates down. I think the words might be to convince myself as much as Jemima. She nods slowly. I wish I could believe it, but with this new information, I’m not so sure. I can only imagine Imogen’s state of mind right now, the anger she feels towards Dylan and I, the sense of betrayal. No wonder she ran. But how far? And to whom?

  ‘Is it OK if I watch TV for a bit, Mum?’

  Jemima looks guilty, as though she should be sitting in sombre silence until Imogen returns.

  ‘Of course, baby. I have to go make some calls, I’ll just be in my room, OK? Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘I made you a sandwich,’ she says, and I give her one more squeeze.

  ‘Thank you.’ I force myself to smile, taking the plate from the coffee table, along with my laptop. I leave her curled up on the sofa, hugging a cushion and munching her sandwich as some vapid teenage drama blares from the speakers.

  As I walk down the hallway, glancing back to make sure Jemima is really OK, I’m hit with another thought. Imogen knows that she’s not our daughter. But how much more does she know? What has she discovered? Terror crawls up my throat. How did she find out? Who told her?

  Adrenaline shoots through me like electricity, and I rush to close the door of our bedroom, spurred on by the knowledge that our daughter could be in much greater danger than any of us had suspected. I unlock my phone and call Dylan.

  He doesn’t bother with pleasantries when he answers. ‘Any news?’

  ‘She knows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She knows, Dylan. She had a DNA test done. She knows. Where are you?’

  There’s a moment of stunned silence over the line, and then my husband’s voice is in my ear again, strained and distant, his mind probably going to the same dark destination that mine has parked itself in, where all of the awful things that this could mean for our daughter dwell.

  ‘I’m just in Unley, but I’m turning around now. Be there as soon as I can.’

  While I’m waiting for him to arrive, I make four frantic, tense phone calls, while frantically clicking through the SureDNA website, trying to understand how our daughter arranged a DNA test without us providing samples for her. I always thought you had to use one of those cotton buds they show on cop shows on TV, swiping the inside of your mouth with it. But, as I learn from the FAQ section of the slick, reassuring website, a DNA test can be done using hairs, or even toenail clippings.

  The front door opens and I leap up. As I run down the hallway, Dylan’s standing at the entrance to the living room with a finger pressed to his lips. Jemima is asleep, her mouth hanging slightly open, the drama unfolding on the TV screen lost on her. I motion for Dylan to follow me to our room, and when the door is firmly closed, I hand him my laptop, my jaw clenched.

  He sinks onto the bed as his eyes flick over the report, his eyebrows moving closer and closer together.

  ‘But how did she even know to look into this?’ he whispers. ‘How would she know to check?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But we need to tell the police.’

  Dylan stares at me for a long moment, weighing up my words.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘This is important. It could be the piece of the puzzle that could help them find Imogen and to get her home safely.’

  ‘Or it could be her downfall,’ he says sharply. ‘We’ve kept this secret for a good reason. If it gets out, if the press get hold of it …’

  ‘But if she already knows—’

  ‘How could she possibly know?’ he interrupts. ‘OK, so maybe she knows that we’re not her parents, but she can’t know the rest. There’s no way. Barely anyone in the world knows the truth …’ His eyes widen. ‘You don’t think …?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I called everyone. Your mum, my parents, Sarah, Byron. They all swear they’ve never said anything to anyone. And they haven’t heard from her.’

  ‘OK,’ Dylan says. ‘So Immy doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know, and she doesn’t need to know. What if this is totally unrelated to her disappearance? What if all of this gets out, and we put her in danger, or we put Jemima in danger, for nothing?’

  I weigh up his words. He’s right; it is a risk. But I need Imogen home more than this secret needs to remain locked away, and I don’t see how this could be unrelated to her disappearance. Besides, she’s almost an adult now, and if she’s already worked out that she’s not ours, she’ll eventually piece the rest together. I need the chance to explain to her why we’ve been lying to her for so many years. I want her to find out the truth from me. She deserves that much.

  ‘I want Imogen back,’ I say slowly, ‘I want her back safely. And maybe this is unrelated to that test, but I seriously doubt it. It would explain a lot. We need to give the police all of the information we have in case it’s related, and we’ll just tell them how important it is that no one finds out. They’ll understand. We need to protect her. From … from them. Because what if she’s trying to find them? Or worse – what if they’ve been trying to find her? Oh my God, what if they’ve succeeded?’ My hands fly to my face, as the horror of all of the possibilities hit me.

  My husband jumps up and grabs my wrists, peeling my palms from my face.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘You’re right. We’ve got to risk it. We’ve got to tell them. I’ll give them a call.’

  We stare at each other, terrified by the thought of having to dig back into the past, nervous of what this means, of what it could bring up. But I can see it in his eyes. He knows it’s time. He knows it’s right.

  So why does it feel like our life is about to go up in flames?

  Chapter 18

  KAT

  ‘Cops are here!’

  Dylan’s been keeping watch since he called them, anxiously pacing up and down the rug in the living room, not letting his eyes wander from the front window. After just a few minutes, his restlessness became too much for me to cope with. Besides, I was twitchy myself. I needed to stay busy, to feel like I was playing my part in the effort to find Imogen.

  ‘I’m going to get the paperwork,’ I’d announced, more to myself than to Dylan, who barely glanced my way before resuming his back and forth sentry duty. As I’d left, I’d scooped Jemima up from the sofa and carried her to her room, where I’d left her to sleep with the door closed. She didn’t need to hear the revelations we were about to make.

  Since then, I’ve been on my hands and knees in the study, shuffling through papers, the contents of which we’ve tried desperately to remove from our memories over the years. It’s easier to keep a secret when you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t exist. Only, I never did manage to forget. How could I?

  I open
ed the safe without hesitation. Even after all these years without opening it, without even needing to think about it, the lock’s combination is still etched into my memory: the date Imogen came into our lives. The day when everything changed.

  Inside was a stack of paperwork, concealed behind an inch of reinforced steel and a locked cupboard door, the key to which has been hidden in a small, locked jewellery box in the top drawer of my bedside table. The key to that is on a chain around my neck, hidden among a cluster of mismatched keys in varying colours and sizes. Getting to this paperwork is like a treasure hunt, only the prize is a dossier of nightmares.

  But for me, the keeper of the keys, it was easy to access this stash of secrets. Physically, anyway. I’ve spent fifteen years burying the information we keep here, trying to erase the past, wishing it didn’t exist, wishing that our family was exactly the way we’ve always said it was. I was stupid to believe it ever could be.

  As I skim-read each document, each record of the past, fear loomed larger and larger, impossible to ignore, too enormous to shut out. The past was chasing us down, the way we always feared it would.

  Now I sigh and grab the pile of papers from the carpet, tapping it against the floor a couple of times to try to neaten the edges. I make a silent wish that the information in my hands won’t have anything to do with Imogen’s disappearance, that the police won’t let anyone else get hold of it, and then I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin and walk out into the hallway.

  Dylan’s standing at the front door, welcoming the same two policemen who were here yesterday. They move inside and close the door behind them, commenting on the heat, on how nice it is to be in air conditioning.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, reaching the front door. ‘Come in. I’m Kat. I know we met yesterday, but I was in a bit of a state and I’m afraid I can’t remember your names.’

  ‘Troy,’ says the older one, whose face is open and kind. He has laughter lines at the edges of his eyes, and as he smiles at me now, they scrunch together. I feel safe with this man. Confident that he wants the best for Imogen, too. I shake his hand, then turn my body to face the other one, the surfer.

  ‘And I’m Ruben,’ he says, offering his hand and taking mine firmly, shaking it once, like we’ve just made an important deal.

  ‘Hi. Thank you for coming. Please, come through,’ I say, waving them towards the living room.

  Dylan walks in from the kitchen as we’re sitting down, holding a tray of glasses as well as a jug of water straight out of the fridge. The ice in the glasses cracks as he pours us each a glass, and when we’re settled back in our seats, Ruben clears his throat.

  ‘Mr Braidwood, you said on the phone you have some important information regarding your daughter’s disappearance?’

  His glass is already empty, so I move to refill it, my stomach bubbling with nerves.

  ‘Yes,’ Dylan begins. ‘Well, yes, we have information. But we don’t know for sure if it’s relevant to Imogen’s disappearance. We just don’t want to take any risks by not telling you, in case it’s important.’

  ‘Well,’ says Troy quietly, ‘why don’t you let us know what it is, and we’ll be sure to follow up on it, so we don’t miss anything. We’re committed to finding Imogen, Mr and Mrs Braidwood.’

  ‘Please, call us Kat and Dylan,’ I insist with a nervous laugh. My voice is shrill and unnatural. I’m trying to put off saying the words that need to be said, but it’s time.

  I glance at Dylan and he nods at me, reassuringly. I clear my throat.

  ‘Have you heard of Satan’s Ranch?’ I ask Troy. I deliberately direct my question at him. He’s old enough to have been around back then. Maybe he was even on the force when it happened.

  His eyes widen. ‘Do you mean that case from Victoria back in the day? Must have been, what, twenty years ago?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ I correct him.

  ‘Yeah, course I remember,’ he breathes. ‘Bloody awful affair, that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, do you also remember that there were some children who survived?’

  He nods, his face paling. I don’t know if he’s already there, if he’s pieced the information together, or if he just knows that whatever is coming – whatever I’m about to say that’s connected to Satan’s Ranch – it can’t possibly be good. Either way, his eyes are locked on mine. He’s waiting for the bombshell.

  I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. I’m certain my chest will explode.

  ‘Those kids were rescued and fostered, put into homes, given new identities, adopted. There was a boy and a girl. And the girl … well, the girl is Imogen.’

  Chapter 19

  SALLY

  They say that my kids were ‘rescued’ from our home. But I know the truth: they were torn from safety and security and love, and thrown into the unknown, into the scary, messy world I worked so hard to shield them from.

  I’m not sure which one broke my heart more: Kimmy or Amy. Kimberley was my fifth child, the eldest of my living babies. She’d always been a happy one, with big golden eyes, the most perfect nose and pretty rosebud lips. I’d been transfixed when she was born, soaking up every detail of those newborn days, the old feelings of elation and pure love returning again. Tash had been six when Kimberley was born, and Ashley eight.

  Ashley had been a bad egg, rebellious from the start, determined to pave the way to his own destruction. He ran away from home once, a short-lived adventure he’d taken when he was five. I’d been furious, perhaps the angriest I’ve ever been. My children couldn’t be exposed to the world, to the evil that lived beyond the safety of our sanctuary. The only way to cool the red-hot rage bubbling within me was to show Ashley how irresponsible he’d been, how unacceptable his behaviour was.

  He’d been with us for another three years, but I’d known on the night of his failed escape that he wasn’t meant for this world for long. Some children make better rose bushes, that’s all there is to it. So Kimmy never really knew her older brother, except as the burst of white Little Pet blooms, which was just as well, as he probably would have tainted her, found a way to turn her against me. She was my perfect little girl, so docile and compliant, always understanding of my rules, of my moods.

  She comforted me when I had a miscarriage, and then another. I knew that they were punishment for what I’d done. The rose bushes in the back garden were finding a way to haunt me, after all. But, once again, Tim helped me to see that I was wrong. He reminded me that I had nothing to feel guilty about, that I’d done nothing but protect my babies, keep them from people like my father. He explained that the babies I lost were rotten, like Ashley had been. He said they had bad blood, that they would have brought me more pain than joy.

  I’d understood, in the end. And all the way through those hard days, Kimmy had told me she loved me, had put her fat little arms around my neck and pressed her soft, perfect cheek against mine, and my heart had melted.

  It had taken some time after the miscarriages, but we’d had two more, a few years later. First came Brad, and then Amy. Brad’s greatest downfall was that he was a boy. Girls, I’d discovered, were so much easier to raise. For a time, at least. Boys were wild and unmanageable from much earlier on, and I was forced to be much more harsh with them to make sure they didn’t do anything dangerous. Of course, by that time I was an expert in disciplining my children. I knew exactly how to make them behave. But, as I got older, it took less and less for them to push my buttons.

  The only one who never did was my Kimmy. Oh, she wasn’t perfect. No one is. But she was a joy to raise, and as we celebrated birthday after birthday, we began putting more candles into her birthday cake than we ever had before. By then, Tash was fertilising a lovely bright orange Fearless rose, the perfect variety to suit her stubborn personality. For Kimberley, I’d have selected a blush and gold Bright Spirit. But I never needed to visit the garden centre for her. She remained pure and innocent, long after the rest of them had.

  Too bad then t
hat she stabbed me in the back and broke my heart at my trial. Turns out she’s no Bright Spirit. She is The Dark Lady. I thought I’d raised someone who couldn’t be spoiled, but I should have known, should have learned, that after a while, all kids lose that. They all become rotten. They’re all bad apples.

  My Amy was still just an innocent, perfect baby when she was torn from my arms. They literally pulled her from my embrace one Tuesday afternoon as she was gulping greedily at my breast. She was so small, so helpless. Brad was young, too, but he’d already started showing signs of insurgency. I loved him – of course I did – but he was developing a mind of his own, and that was a dangerous thing.

  I’d screamed as they carried Amy out of the front door, out into the evils of the world, the very thing I’d fought so hard to protect all of my children from. I couldn’t keep her safe out there. I couldn’t stop terrible people from doing terrible things to her.

  She was on her own.

  And my heart had splintered into fragments.

  Chapter 20

  KAT

  ‘Wait,’ says Ruben, one palm held out towards me, his body shifting to face his partner. ‘What are you guys talking about?’

  I raise my eyebrows at Troy, indicating that he can take this one.

  ‘It’s a case from, well, fifteen years ago,’ he says. ‘Horrible stuff. A woman moved into a new place, out in country Victoria. Closest neighbours weren’t for over a kilometre. But this woman was a runner, training for triathlons or something, so she went past this house every day, this ranch where a family lived. Only she kept noticing strange things happening. Screams, and kids staring out of the windows at weird hours, looking dirty and malnourished. She reckons she just had a gut feeling, one of those instinct things I guess, so she reported it. Cops paid the family a visit and discovered that none of the little ones had ever set foot outside. Those poor kids—’