Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  ‘I think we should get tested,’ I say to the ceiling, my heart pounding as the words leave my lips, because what if he doesn’t want to? Or worse: what if he does, and we get the results and they tell us something we don’t want to hear?

  ‘OK,’ Dylan says immediately, surprising me. I expected at least some resistance, some hesitation at the idea of his virility being called into question. But he sounds sincere.

  I turn to face him, my vision blurred with fresh tears.

  He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.

  ‘I want a family, too,’ he says. ‘I want this. Whatever it takes, all right? Let’s go get tested. We’ll work it out, I promise.’

  For the second time that day, I let hope soar.

  And for the second time that day, I should know better.

  Chapter 23

  KAT

  ‘Kat. Dylan.’

  Troy, the same cop who sat here yesterday and the day before nods at us from the exact same position on the opposite sofa. He’s joined by Ruben again. They called earlier, wanting to tell us something, and I’ve been on the edge of a panic attack ever since, the corners of my vision closing in around me.

  ‘Have you found her?’ I ask breathlessly.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that, I’m afraid,’ Troy says, ‘but in light of what you told us yesterday, we believe Imogen is at greater risk than we originally suspected. She’s clearly emotionally unstable and likely to be very angry. We got in touch with the DNA company, and they confirmed that the results were first sent to Imogen on Saturday evening, which explains the timing of her disappearance. But it doesn’t tell us anything about where she’s gone, so we’d like to hold a press conference tomorrow to appeal to the public for more information about her whereabouts. And we’d like you to make a statement.’

  ‘A press conference?’ Dylan asks. ‘What does that mean? I mean, I know what a press conference is, but why?’

  ‘We still believe she ran away,’ Ruben says gently. ‘But none of her friends or teachers have heard from her, which is concerning, as she’s not reaching out to her regular network. And this is clearly out of character for her. But even if she has run away, we believe that this could be the best way to appeal to her to come home …’ He pauses. ‘Or at least tell us where she is, and let us know that she’s safe.’

  It’s a sharp slap, the shock of the police officer’s words. So home is no longer the end goal. They’re judging us, thinking that we’re bad parents for letting her find out the truth the way she did. I try to ignore it, but the shame rises up, flooding my cheeks. Of course she shouldn’t have found out like this. Of course she’ll feel angry and betrayed and alone. But that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t come home. We’re her family. Whether she knows it or not, this is where she belongs. This is where she’s loved.

  ‘We said from the start that her leaving was out of character,’ I say bitingly, trying to keep the conversation on getting Imogen back, and not on where she’ll go when she’s found. ‘Why have you been wasting all of this time? You have no idea where she is, and she’s been gone since Saturday night. She could be in serious danger!’

  I want to blame someone for what’s happening, for the lack of progress in Imogen’s case. I need to blame someone, because if I don’t, there will be no one to point the finger at but myself.

  ‘We understand how concerned you are,’ Troy says. ‘And I know you can’t see what’s happening behind the scenes, so it might not look like we’re doing a lot, but I can assure you we’re doing all we can to make contact with Imogen.’

  I nod, gritting my teeth. I don’t know what to say, what to do. I’m completely helpless. And, above all else, I’m terrified for Imogen. We have no clue where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with, or if she’s even OK. I’ve seen the stories on the news, the crime dramas. I know that after seventy-two hours, the chances of finding Imogen grow rapidly slimmer. We reported her missing on Sunday morning, over forty-eight hours ago. But she might have been missing for way longer than that, if she left right after we got home from the beach on Saturday evening. Which means that seventy-two hours is closing in on us aggressively.

  ‘So what do you want us to say at the press conference?’

  Dylan, ever practical, just wants to know what he can do, how he can get involved. This is where he excels, and I’m grateful to have him here, asking the right questions, absorbing all of the information for both of us. I’m too dazed to take any of this in.

  ‘We need you to appeal to Imogen, to ask her to come home. You mentioned you’d had an argument a few days before she disappeared, so maybe you could tell her that you’re not angry, and that you love her no matter what—’

  ‘Of course we love her no matter what,’ I snap.

  ‘We’re not suggesting you don’t. All we’re saying is that Imogen might need to hear that from you, especially given what she discovered when she got the results of that test.’

  ‘How do we know she’s even going to be watching?’ Dylan asks.

  ‘We don’t,’ Troy says. ‘But this is a public appeal for information, too. It might jog someone’s memory, if they’ve seen her, or something that could be relevant. That’s why we want to do this now, while people’s memories are still reliable.’

  I listen numbly as the police officers explain how the press conference will work, who we need to speak to when we arrive at the police headquarters in the city the next morning. We’ll be provided with a media specialist who’s experienced in meeting with families of missing persons, who can help us to refine and practise our statement.

  ‘It’s their job to make you feel comfortable in front of the cameras,’ Ruben explains.

  I resist screaming at the men in front of me: I don’t want to be more comfortable. I want my daughter back, safe and sound.

  When the officers stand to leave, I shake both their hands and thank them for their time, even though I’d rather they were out looking for Imogen than checking in on us. I watch their car as it backs out of our driveway, and I remain where I am, staring blankly out of the window long after they’ve disappeared. I try to imagine what I would say to my daughter if she were standing in front of me now, how I’d convince her that I love her, how I’d regain her trust, how I’d explain the truth of how she ended up with us.

  But she’s not in front of me. She’s nowhere near me. She’s somewhere I can’t reach, somewhere beyond my understanding. Beyond my control.

  Dylan’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

  ‘Do you know what you’re going to wear tomorrow?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t care what I wear.’

  ‘I know, I’m not … but listen. Troy said that this public appeal could help find Immy. I know that your appearance isn’t your priority, that Imogen is the only thing that matters, but if we come across well, it could help. Troy said—’

  ‘I know what Troy said,’ I shout. ‘I was right here, too. I’ll go find a bloody dress, OK? Happy?’

  ‘Kat,’ Dylan starts, but I ignore him and storm down the hallway to our bedroom, where I start pulling dresses and tops from the wardrobe as though I’m late for a flight and haven’t packed.

  In truth, I don’t know what to wear to the press conference tomorrow. Which outfit says everything I need to say to Imogen? What style of dress can possibly convince her to come home, to face the people who she knows have lied to her for her whole life?

  The police have agreed to keep Imogen’s real identity, and her past, hidden. For now. They’ll show her photo, and ask for anyone who’s seen her to come forward with information. I’m praying that her resemblance to her infamous family will go unnoticed, but I know that’s unlikely. She’s the spitting image of her biological mother. I’m only surprised that no one’s noticed it before now, but I suppose no one’s ever thinking about Sally Sanders when they meet Imogen Braidwood. Maybe they’ve just never made the connection.

  I snatch a dress from its hanger so violently that the
plastic snaps and I’m pulled off balance, falling onto the bed, where I dissolve into sobs. Within seconds, Dylan’s sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking my back, telling me it’ll be OK.

  ‘We don’t know that. We don’t know anything at all.’

  ‘I know. I know. And I’m scared too, of course I am, but Imogen needs us to be strong. She needs us to do all that we can. And we need to show her how much we want her back, we need to prove that we trust her, and that the only place she needs to be is right here with us, OK?’

  I nod, sniffing, wiping my eyes.

  ‘I just …’ I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. ‘What if she doesn’t see? What if it doesn’t help?’

  ‘You heard the officers. Even if Immy isn’t watching, someone who could help might be. We have to try, don’t we? We have to give it everything we can. Imogen deserves that.’

  He’s right. I feel like there’s nothing I can do, but maybe that’s not true. Maybe what I say in tomorrow’s press conference will get through to Imogen. Maybe it could actually make a difference.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just over-tired.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Dylan says. ‘How about you take something to help you sleep tonight?’

  He holds up his hand when I start to protest.

  ‘Just so you’re fresh for tomorrow. It’s a big day, OK? We need all the energy we can get. And it’s an early start.’

  I agree miserably. I want to stay awake, to keep watch for Imogen’s return, to make sure I don’t miss anything. But I need some rest. I can’t keep running on fear alone. I take the pill Dylan offers me, pull my clothes off and crawl into bed. For a second, I worry about what will fill my mind when sleep does take me, but then I shake off the thought.

  I’m already in a nightmare. It can’t possibly get any worse.

  Chapter 24

  IMOGEN

  The cracking of her spine sounded like a volley of gunshots to Imogen’s sensitive ears, and the pain was almost blinding. She stared triumphantly at the wall, doing cartwheels in her imagination. She had done it – she had rolled over onto her side without the movement making her sick.

  It had taken most of the day for her to work herself up to such a huge achievement. And it had been a good day, Imogen thought – what little of it she’d been conscious for. She didn’t think she wanted to die any more. And that was something.

  The stranger with the voice she could have sworn she’d heard before had woken her by stroking her hair, consciousness arriving slowly, luxuriously. She’d felt better, she realised when her eyes had fully opened. Not good. Not well. Definitely not herself. But better. She’d moved her head ever so slightly to try to catch a glimpse of the man who was nursing her back to life, but his hat was pulled down low over his face, and when she tried to speak, to ask him who he was and what she was doing there – wherever there was – he would stroke her head and murmur, ‘Ssshhh, little one. I’ll take care of you. Everything is going to be OK.’

  She thought maybe she believed him. She wanted to ask questions, to make sense of what was going on, but she found she couldn’t speak, couldn’t articulate the half-sentences that whirled in her mind and then vanished. And so she’d silently accepted his assurances and let him feed her another mug full of the hearty, sodium-rich liquid, lifting it to her lips teaspoon by teaspoon. She’d slurped hungrily, the heat travelling down her chest and hitting her empty stomach, fuelling her, igniting the embers of her being.

  When he’d gone, his absence left an ache of emptiness. But as the soup thrummed through her, nourishing her bones and filling her blood with life, she’d felt her energy returning, flooding the hollowness inside her. It was slow, nothing like the intensity the old Imogen had carried, but it was enough.

  Enough to focus for a few seconds at a time before her vision had liquefied again. Enough to breathe steadily, to hold her eyes open, even when they tried to drag themselves closed. Enough to hold a few words in her mind before they dissolved again, impossible to grasp, scattered to the wind.

  And so she’d tried to wiggle her fingers. They’d become stiff from lying dormant by her side for so long, like the rest of her body, but slowly, painfully, she moved her fingertips, tapping them against the sheets, convinced that she’d shatter if she wasn’t careful. But she didn’t shatter. She was OK, just like he said she would be. Emboldened, she bent her knuckles, which took all of the strength she had left. Satisfied, but drained from the exertion, she’d let her eyes fall closed and passed out again.

  When she’d woken, the daylight was bright, garish. She struggled against it, but eventually she won, her eyes straining to stay open; alert.

  ‘Hi, little one,’ the man on the bed had said. She’d moved her head further around, trying to take in more of him. His face was still hidden, but she could see his arms, muscular and tanned. His hands were calloused and rough, the nails short and neat. They were safe hands, Imogen decided, although she couldn’t think why. He was wearing a tattered grey T-shirt and faded blue jeans, as well as the hat, black and unbranded, pulled down so that the peak concealed his face.

  ‘Hi,’ she’d croaked, the sound scratching her throat and making her recoil.

  ‘Relax,’ he said gently, stroking her head. ‘There’s no hurry. Just heal, and don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.’

  She’d sipped another mug of soup, this one with tiny chunks of vegetables floating on the top, and immediately slept.

  It must have been hours before she came to, but when she did, her energy had swelled again, filling her chest with hope. She had wanted to move, to talk. To find out who the stranger was, and why she was here, and where her family was.

  Her family.

  The words were like a slap in her face. She had been so completely disconnected from reality that she hadn’t even, for one moment, thought about her family. Where were they? Why wasn’t she with them?

  Fear and adrenaline and confusion and determination rose up in her, and she’d heaved her body over, an effort so monumental that she thought she might pass out right then. The crunching noise reverberated down her spine, and the scream of her muscles reached all the way to her toes. She panted into the wall she knew was in front of her face, knowing that she was coming back to life again.

  She wasn’t dead. She was OK.

  And she needed answers.

  Chapter 25

  KAT

  ‘You need to look right into the camera,’ the media specialist reminds me as a microphone is clipped onto the neckline of my dress.

  I nod at her, trying to remember everything I have to say, trying to keep calm amidst this madness.

  On my right is Jemima, nervously holding my hand. I give hers a squeeze and look down to offer her a tight smile. It’s meant to be reassuring, but I can tell that she’s scared and uncertain. My heart tugs as I think about her bravery in agreeing to do this with us.

  ‘It’ll be more impactful if all of you are together as a team. As a family,’ Troy had said before he left yesterday. I’d barely needed to ask before Jemima said she’d do it. Although now, surrounded by strangers and cameras, she’s less sure of herself.

  To my left, Dylan’s microphone is being attached by Troy, who’s standing by his side, ready to start the press conference. He clears his throat and the murmurs of polite chit-chat die away instantly. A few people sit down, others hold cameras or microphones our way.

  ‘Thank you for attending today,’ Troy begins, but I can’t focus on the rest of his words. I’m too busy wondering whether this could possibly work, whether Imogen will be watching, whether she’ll want to hear what I have to say. The index card in my hand is damp from the sweat that’s building on my palms. I wipe my hand on my dress, the black one that Imogen always says makes me look like I’m going for a job interview. Linda came over this morning to help us get ready. She curled my hair, although it’s already dropped in the heat and just looks dishevelled.

  Jemima tugs my hand. I look down at he
r, my vision blurred with tears.

  ‘Mum,’ she urges me. ‘You’re up.’

  I look at Dylan and he nods. I didn’t even hear him speaking. I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. I don’t need the prompts in my hand, I know what I need to say.

  ‘Imogen, darling. If you’re watching this, we want you to know that we miss you, and we want you to come home to us. To your family. We just want to know that you’re safe, so please, if you’re able to get in touch, please, darling, just let us know that you’re OK. We all miss you so much and our family’s not the same without you.’

  My voice cracks, and I swallow hard to keep my emotions from swelling and erupting out of me.

  ‘And if anyone has any information about Imogen’s disappearance, anything at all, please get in touch with the police. No detail is too small, or too insignificant. Please, just help us get our daughter home safely.’

  Cameras flash, and Troy reminds viewers of the phone number they can call if they have information, then thanks the small cluster of journalists for attending. Then Dylan’s hand is on my back and we’re being led out of the room and into another, smaller space, where someone hands me a bottle of ice-cold water. I sip it nervously.

  ‘Do you think it helped?’ I whisper to Troy.

  ‘We won’t know for a while,’ he says kindly, ‘but we do know from past experience that appeals like this can be really effective.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I know it’s difficult, but the best thing you can do is go home, get some rest, look after young Jemima and wait to hear from us. And, of course, let us know if you think of anything new.’

  I stare at him. ‘There has to be something we can do. I can’t just sit around waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but the best way for you to help us is to let us get on with what we do best. You have to trust us; we’re doing everything we can to get Imogen back.’