by Elle Croft
That poor girl. The only mistake she’d made was being in Jemima’s path at the wrong time. Imogen had made the same timing error, rounding the corner from the art building towards the maths block just as Jemima had launched herself at Emerald. She’d spotted the look of utter fear on the girl’s face – a look she recognised, that she felt deep inside – as Jemima had attacked, knocking her to the ground before kneeing her in the stomach, the chest, the face, continuing her assault, even when it had become clear that her victim wasn’t fighting back. Imogen had run over, pulled her sister off the older, much larger girl, and had been faced with a dishevelled but eerily calm Jemima.
‘Why did you stop me? I wasn’t done.’
‘She’s badly hurt, Jems! You have to stop. You can’t explain this one away.’
‘You’re right,’ Jemima had said, and Imogen’s stomach had lurched with hope. Maybe, just maybe, now would be the moment when Kat and Dylan would see Jemima for who she truly was – for what she was capable of. All those other times she’d covered for her, they weren’t this bad. Maybe now they’d stop her, find a way to put an end to the violence and scheming and relentless psychological torture.
But Jemima had smiled, that innocent, terrifying smile, and Imogen had known that there wouldn’t be an end.
‘But you can,’ she had said.
‘I’m not taking the blame for this,’ Imogen had cried, knowing even as she protested that she didn’t have a choice.
‘Sure you are. Say she was bullying someone, or that she looked at you funny, or don’t say anything at all. I don’t care. It’s either that or I’ll get you kicked off the volleyball team.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
But she knew that Jemima would. She didn’t know how, or when. But she’d find a way. She always found a way to make good on her threats.
‘I’m going to be late for English,’ Jemima had said brightly. ‘And I need to clean up first. Good luck.’
When Jemima was out of sight, Imogen had only hesitated for a second, her heart plummeting, before speaking to Emerald calmly and clearly. With resignation.
‘If you say that I did this, and if you swear that you won’t breathe a word about what really happened here – and I mean to no one – I’ll make sure she never bothers you again. OK?’ It was a promise she couldn’t keep, but she couldn’t think of another way.
Emerald had stared at Imogen, her brow creased into a frown of confusion, blood smeared across her face.
‘Look, we don’t have much time. Do we have an understanding or not?’
Emerald had nodded, then burst into tears. Imogen had felt awful for her, but she’d had to get some blood onto her hands, so she swiped her palm across the girl’s tender face, wincing as she groaned in pain, then rubbed it over her knuckles. She’d messed up her hair, pulled the top button of her shirt loose, and then a teacher had rounded the corner, taken one look and had drawn the conclusion that Imogen knew she would.
And, of course, with Kat believing, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, that Imogen’s blood was tainted with the Sanders legacy of violence, she’d drawn her own conclusions, too.
If only Kat knew about her biological daughter’s tendencies. What was hidden behind that sweet smile and those big brown eyes, so similar to her own. Kat was terrified that her youngest daughter was damaged, traumatised by what she’d had to do to save Imogen, to save them all. But Imogen knew the truth. Jemima hadn’t liked it when Imogen was missing, when all of the attention was focused on getting her home. And she’d realised that, without Imogen around, no one would be there to take the fall when she needed an out.
Self-defence sounded plausible enough, but Imogen knew that Brad’s murder was nothing to do with Jemima protecting her family, and everything to do with her wanting to get her own way. Imogen had seen the look of pure satisfaction on Jemima’s face after she’d buried the knife in her brother’s back.
She couldn’t tell the police the truth about what happened in Brad’s shed – Jemima had made that perfectly clear, whispering her blood-curdling threats in the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance. She was at the twelve-year-old’s mercy. For now.
Jemima thought she had her older sister right where she wanted her, and Imogen let her believe it. She had to; it was the only way she’d survive until she could escape again. The lawyer had emailed that afternoon, a coded message to an email address no one else knew about. The emancipation application was under way. And if, by some miracle, that was granted, she could safely access the money that Brad had left her, hidden in secret accounts, his savings from years at the mine and from selling his apartment. If all went to plan, Jemima wouldn’t be able to get her hands on it. She wouldn’t be able to touch Imogen. It wouldn’t be easy. But she had to try. She had to get away from her brother’s killer.
She just needed to make sure that Jemima didn’t find out first. The fear kept her awake most nights, a constant panic that this, her only chance to break free and create her own life, would be taken from her, too. Because if Jemima discovered her secret, knew that she was going to be left exposed, without anyone to take the fall, Imogen didn’t know what she would do. Didn’t know what she was capable of. She feared for Kat and Dylan, too, but not enough to tell them the truth. They wouldn’t believe her, anyway.
In the end, Kat hadn’t been wrong to question her daughter’s nature, to wonder whether life had handed her a bad apple.
All this time, she’d just been looking in the wrong direction.
Chapter 67
SALLY
All’s well that ends well, I suppose. OK, so it didn’t exactly end well, as such, but there are some silver linings to this particular storm cloud, dark and heavy as it is.
At least he tried; my boy. He followed my instructions. He played his part in trying to protect my baby, to get her away from the world and all that could harm her. To balance the scales of justice. He did his best, as far as I can tell.
His only mistake was not preparing for the fact that Amy had been brainwashed by her adoptive family. It was always going to be a risk, although we couldn’t plan for that, not really. We just had to hope. If all had gone as we’d have liked it to, Kat would be out of the way, we’d know for certain whose side Amy was on, and Brad would have his sister back.
We do know whose side Amy is on, so I suppose one out of three ain’t bad. And my boy didn’t get arrested. Death is an upgrade on prison, believe me.
I wish I had a garden here. I accept that I won’t be able to lay my boy in the ground myself, like I did the others. But I’d at least plant him a rose if I could. The Prince, rich and crimson, a fitting tribute for the one who spilled his blood to try what I couldn’t. My son is a hero, and I couldn’t be more proud.
I’m sad that he died. Of course I’m sad. But we all die, one way or another. Besides, he suffered while he lived. He was ripped from his family, placed in home after home, abandoned and rejected, made to feel like he was damaged. He didn’t live a good life. But he died a good death, and for that I am grateful. And despite my plan not going smoothly, at least he got the one thing he really wanted: he got to be with his sister.
It’s a shame that the world won’t know what he did, who he was. He’ll die anonymous – his identity hidden to protect Amy, not him – a stranger despised by the world, misunderstood and judged for something no one will ever try to comprehend.
I understand, though. I know he wasn’t just a ‘mentally ill drifter’ who ‘took Imogen’. I know he was a caring brother who tried to save his sister from a life she was never supposed to live.
It’s too bad she doesn’t realise that.
The drugs should have made her more pliable. I put Brad in touch with an ex-cellmate of mine, a woman who made a good few years in here just fly by. She’s an expert at what she does, so I have no doubt that she’d have cooked up the perfect recipe and supplied him with the right dosage. Amy should have been more compliant. Kathryn should be dead. I guess I did
n’t account for that bullheadedness that so many Sanders children exhibited over the years. I should have. I only had to look at Kimmy to know that it could come out at any moment. After she betrayed me, Kimberley disappeared. Vanished. We never managed to track her down, Brad and I. I wonder if Amy will achieve what we couldn’t.
She’s back with the Braidwoods, now. I suppose fifteen years of brainwashing can make a teenage girl conflicted. She was taken from me so young that she doesn’t know any better. I’m trying not to hold that against her. She is my daughter, after all, whether she followed the plan or not.
I got a letter from her, right after it all happened. She was so apologetic. So sorry that Brad had been killed the way he had been. She was heartbroken by the death of her brother. I was glad she was upset; after all, she was partly to blame. Brad and I didn’t spend the better part of a year researching, planning, writing carefully coded messages and putting everything in place for her just to get him killed.
But, I have to remind myself, he was happy when he died. He’d tried to protest when I first told him my plan. He’d said that he didn’t want anyone to die, he just wanted to reunite with his sister. It had taken a while, but thankfully he had terrible self-esteem and extreme abandonment issues – wouldn’t anyone, after being separated from a mother who doted on them? – so it was easy enough to make him believe that my love for him was based on his ability to do my bidding. Sure, I know that’s not great mothering. But, honestly, I’ve done so much worse. And besides, if he didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.
I needed it to get done.
When I first heard the news of what happened that night, when I knew Brad hadn’t succeeded, when I knew Amy had picked the side of safety and social convention, I’d been disappointed. But then I set my sights elsewhere. I turned my attention to the one person who might genuinely be able to follow through with my plan, who might take real delight in punishing the woman who stole my baby and rejected my boy.
There’s no way to prove my theory, of course. Only time will tell if I’m right, but I like to think I have an eye for these things. The party line is that Amy stabbed Brad in self-defence, but I’m not convinced. She’s a Sanders. She finally found her brother. Why would she kill him? She wasn’t willing to kill the woman who had lied to her for her whole life – so why would she kill the man who had taken care of her when she was, as she believed, sick? And, more to the point, what was a twelve-year-old girl running into danger like that for? No one would think to suspect a little kid, which is exactly why it’s so perfect.
I’d like to meet her, the adoptive sister. Seems like she’s got guts. We might have more in common than anyone would expect.
And that’s the thing that gives me hope. You see, Amy was taken from me. She was ripped from her brother, severed from her family, and placed in a white-bread, cookie-cutter, middle-class home with a coward for a mother and God only knows about her father. She didn’t stand a chance of carrying on the Sanders name.
Except she has a sister.
A pseudo-sister, born to the most normal parents in the world, destined to become another Lululemon-clad yummy mummy with a mortgage and three kids and Friday night dinner parties. But there’s something in her blood. Something different. A seed of darkness that’s just looking for the right soil to take root in, to flourish.
I haven’t quite worked out how I’m going to take her under my wing, train her up. I do know, though, that the only way to her is through Amy. She might not realise it, might not understand the part she’ll have to play, but I will make sure that, despite being scattered, the Sanders name will continue to thrive.
Amy has it in her genes. But that young lady has it running through her veins. My own blood is pulsing more quickly as I think about the possibilities. As I think about the potential that my baby girl still has in her.
If I had a rose for Amy, there’s only one variety I’d choose, now that I know who she really is, and what might be achieved through her. Blush pink, innocent-looking, a climber. Destined for bigger things, always reaching.
Amy is High Hopes.
Epilogue
JEMIMA
I like to think I’m smarter than most people – ah, what am I being modest for? I am smarter than most people – but honestly, even I couldn’t have predicted this outcome.
It’s perfect. Well … almost. But even though things are not quite as they should be, soon everything will be in its rightful place. I’m working on some details, and I have full confidence in my ability to make things go my way. After all, they always have done.
If I could, I’d go back a few months and remind myself of that fact. I’d tell myself to just chill out.
Because – and despite what assumptions you’ve made about me, I’m not too proud to admit this – in the very beginning, when Amy first went missing, I freaked out a little bit. I didn’t panic or anything; I’m not pathetic.
I was, however, furious with her for doing something so completely selfish, so totally idiotic, and which so clearly went against my instructions to always be there for me. She knew that I needed her, that I couldn’t get by without her. And I thought that she was too scared to ever try anything so … reckless. So I was surprised – no, that’s too mild; I was floored – when she had the guts to leave.
At that point, I had a bit of an identity crisis. You might think that twelve is too young for such a thing, but I’m no average twelve-year-old, and ultimately, my identity is more worthy of a crisis than yours.
Besides, if you’d spent your whole life carefully constructing a home in which your older sister was too scared to disobey you, and then she just ran away without even consulting you, wouldn’t you start questioning if you were who you had always believed yourself to be? Don’t answer that; it was obviously rhetorical.
So there I was, trying to work out where I had gone wrong, and totally uncertain of my next steps. Amy was the one who always covered for me. She was the one who would take the blame when my rage got the better of me, whether that meant laughing after I’d lashed out at her so that Mum thought we were just play-fighting, or getting suspended when I’d smashed that stupid superior smirk off Emerald’s face.
Maybe, in hindsight, that was the moment when I took things slightly too far. Perhaps threatening to get her kicked off the volleyball team – which, by the way, I could have, and would have, done – tipped her over the edge, got her to a place where she was beyond fear. I mean, of all the things that would do that to her, of course it was volleyball. Of course she’s that boring.
So anyway, my patsy ran away. At first, I was hoping to find a suitable replacement. Kailah could have done, at a pinch, but she’s really too weak and pathetic, even for me. Amy was just too convenient a scapegoat. I also knew that Mum and Dad would never let her go, and as much as I enjoyed the freedom of their inattention, I didn’t want to be forgotten forever, overshadowed by my inferior sibling. That would have been unbearable.
But mixed in with the anger and uncertainty, there was a glimmer of something else, too: desire.
Because when I stopped worrying about the things that were out of my control – and no, I won’t ever be OK with things being out of my control, but there are moments when I can accept the fact that they are – I realised something important. The sister of a missing girl, grieving, confused, scared and alone … she could get away with murder, surely?
Turns out the answer is yes. Yes, she could.
I’d like to take the credit for creating the circumstances that allowed it, but even I wouldn’t believe me. It was a stroke of luck, a gift from the universe, if you were the sort of person to believe in total nonsense like that, that led me to that shed.
There were two significant moments that made it possible.
The first was when I’d overheard Mum and Dad talking to the policemen about Satan’s Ranch. I’d never heard of it before, but when those words hit my ears it was like someone had plugged my fingers into an electrical socket. My ha
irs stood upright, my skin prickled, my blood fizzed. I knew it was important. I’d listened hard, trying to hear past the pounding of my pulse in my ears, and I’d learned that Imogen was adopted. That Imogen was Amy.
It made a lot of sense, really. We’re nothing alike, us sisters. She looks completely different to the rest of us, although she is as dull as the others, which I guess is why I’d never suspected it before that day. It was no skin off my nose; didn’t actually change a lot. If anything, it just gave me more to hold over her, if she ever came back.
What I had learned about Satan’s Ranch, though … that had changed everything.
The thing I kept coming back to was how extremely unfair it all was. Why did Amy get such a cool, twisted, incredible mother, and I had to settle for Kathryn Braidwood? I’m pretty sure the most exciting genetic gift she passed down to me is the ability to curl my tongue. Thanks, Kat. Incredibly useful, that is.
I’d become obsessed with Sally Sanders. I’d read everything I could find, trying to work her out, desperate to know her secrets. I don’t think she’s a psychopath, like I am. She shows too much emotion, seems to really feel love. So I’m not sure what she is, but I do know that I want to sit down with her, pick her brain, drain her of every piece of wisdom she’s gathered over the years. I reckon I’d be able to, if she were my mum. But in a twist of fate so unfair that it still makes my blood boil, rule-following, emotion-driven Amy got her.
Typical.
So anyway, that was the first thing. I’d found out everything there was to know about the Sanders family by the time the second thing had happened.
I’d been sound asleep when Mum had dragged me out of bed and into the car, and I knew then that there were only two reasons she’d have done something so uncharacteristically irresponsible: either she was cheating on Dad, or it was an emergency of some description. I’m not sure which I’d have preferred at the time. Obviously now I’m happy with the outcome, but holding an affair over Mum’s head – and finding out that she isn’t quite as mundane as I’ve always known she is – would have been a pretty good consolation prize, too.