I shook the hand he offered me. “Elizabeth Phillips,” I replied in a small voice. And he walked away, leaving me in the middle of the corridor wondering whether my shaking legs were strong enough to take me to class.
*
The next morning I left my room early and made it to the cafeteria an hour before my first class. My knees felt weak and my legs almost gave way when I picked up the newspaper and saw his blazing green eyes staring back at me. My hand flew to my mouth as my stomach turned and I looked around for a bin, terrified of throwing up right in the middle of the cafeteria. I forced myself to take deep breaths, try to compose myself. Fear, anxiety, anger and shame bubbled inside me in a cacophony of emotions and I couldn’t stop my body from shaking as I looked at the large photo of him, smiling back at me. It was the smile I remembered when he had stopped after hitting my bike. The man I’d killed had a name – John Larkin, a thirty-five year old from a nearby town. Looking at him now, at his good-looking face, I remembered how I had trusted him to want to help me after damaging my bike. I had been so naive and for the thousandth time berated myself for my ignorance.
For the rest of the day I couldn’t stop seeing his face. That smile and those beautiful eyes. Somehow that photo seemed to replace my memories of his contorted face as he attacked me, or how he stared at me blankly after I’d stabbed him. I went through the day in a daze, making time to talk to a few other students, trying to find out what else they knew. It wasn’t much, but the sentiment about the case seemed to change from one of curiosity to pity for the victim of a gruesome murder. Girls commented how good looking he was and I found myself having to agree if only to make sure I didn’t stick out.
The first opportunity I had I rushed back to the cafeteria, picked up the newspaper and locked my eyes on his face, as if his features could dissolve the fear in my heart. I kept staring at the picture, almost unable to put it down, going back to the cafeteria repeatedly during the day. I was the last one to leave that evening when the salad bar was already being cleared and the chairs stacked on top of each other. I gathered the books that were strewn on the table in front of me. As I was walking out, I looked at the newspaper one last time. It was crumpled from handling, and there was a grease stain on John Larkin’s cheek. I picked it up and looked at the face that haunted my dreams. And then I looked around the cafeteria. One lone worker was mopping the floor, his back towards me. I could see the headphones covering his ears. Without thinking I tore out that first page, folded it and stashed it in my book, holding it securely against my chest as I rushed back to my room.
New information was disclosed the following day. Police revealed their suspicion that this was a sexually motivated crime. John Larkin was found with his belt open and trousers unbuttoned. This detail sent tongues wagging with theories that the killer had lured him to the shack for sex and once they got what they wanted, killed him. By lunchtime, the story had made its way around the campus and everyone seemed to be pointing their fingers at some awful predator.
I felt like screaming. The killer was not an awful predator, I wanted to say. The killer was the victim. I remembered how much I’d ached after the attack, how my cheeks smarted from his slaps, how long it took for my bruises to lighten. There was still a small mark on my right palm where the glass had cut through my skin. And those were only the physical marks. There were emotional scars that would never heal. The way he had forced himself on me, taking from me what I was not ready to give, was demonic. No, I told myself. I would not allow myself to feel pity for him, even if I had to pretend otherwise.
The media was making a feast out of the discovery. It was the top story on the evening news. One of the reporters had interviewed John Larkin’s mother who, in between sobs, sang his praises. “My son was such a good man, always looking out for others, finding ways to help those in need,” she said, wiping the tears that had started rolling down her cheeks. “He would never hurt a fly, and someone just killed him…” Her voice trailed into a sob.
But even while watching her on television, I felt completely detached from what she was saying, reminding myself that her son was not the person she was describing, the person she knew and wanted to remember. No, he was a monster and if I hadn’t protected myself in that moment, I wouldn’t be alive.
Then, for a moment, the news almost had me swayed and I started wondering whether I’d been wrong, whether I’d imagined what he’d done to me, and whether I had killed an innocent person. But I knew that this wasn’t the case and that I was a victim. I was the victim who had walked away alive.
I didn’t need to fake my pity for too long. By the weekend the investigation took another turn when police found the bodies of three teenage girls buried in shallow graves near the shack. Despite Mrs Larkin’s cries of outrage that her son had nothing to do with the macabre discovery, everyone started looking at him as a serial killer who was probably about to strike again.
For me the thought was sobering. Now I knew that I was not wrong to think that killing him was the only way I could ever walk away from that place alive. I was certain that I’d have ended up just like those girls, my body abused and discarded, buried in the middle of nowhere.
When autopsies on the girls revealed that they’d been tortured for what looked like days, and repeatedly raped, I knew that it would not have been an easy death. There would have been so much suffering, agony that was physical as much as mental. I wondered how long it took each of them to realise that he was never going to let them go, that they would be kept prisoner, continually abused, die in that place. I cried for them, for the life that they’d never know, for the suffering that they’d endured and which, I knew, I was the only person who could come close to imagining. I rubbed the scar on my hand and was grateful for the shard of glass that had saved my life.
A week after the body was discovered, the Police Commissioner gave a televised press conference, rehashing the details that had trickled out in the past days and outlining the investigators’ belief that the killer was Larkin’s latest victim, one who had managed to get away. “We urge her to come forward, to speak to us and help us better understand what happened,” he said.
That evening I thought about speaking to a lawyer about what I should do. They could help me strike a deal with the police, help them understand that I had acted in pure self defence, that I didn’t have any other choice if I wanted to live. They would help me explain why I had gone to such pains to remove all the evidence of my presence in the shack.
And I would be able to let them know that someone else was involved. Avoid the accomplice from going after more girls. It was my responsibility to speak up, stop him from hurting others.
But then I realised that even if I got away, even if I wasn’t charged, I would still always be seen as a killer. Someone who had been stupid enough to end up in a windowless cabin with an unknown man. My parents would be horrified by this news. They’d be the talk of their small town when people found out what their only daughter had done. And then I thought about myself. Even if people hailed me a hero, I would still be a pariah. What I’d done was inconceivable, no matter that it was to save myself. Killing wasn’t normal. It wasn’t something you confessed to and got away with. Not only that, if I spoke up, my plans to go to law school and become a barrister would be over.
And there was one other thing that kept me from going to the police. Something that I had found out just days before the body was discovered. I was pregnant.
Chapter 7
2014
The soft ticks from the clock on my desk are the only sound in the room. For a moment I’m unable to move, say anything, the familiar horror of Chloe’s revelation sending shivers down my spine.
With effort, I swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I force my voice to remain calm. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“We were playing video games in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. He said he had to use the bathroom, so I continued playing on my own
. The speakers were blasting the sounds of the game, guns firing, zombies screeching. I didn’t hear him come back in until he tapped me on the shoulder.”
She pauses for breath but I say nothing, afraid to interrupt her momentum.
“I didn’t look at him, didn’t want to take my eyes off the screen. But he turned my head around. He was completely naked and… you know…” she trails off.
“Aroused? Is that what you mean?” Her embarrassment saddens and surprises me at the same time.
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I stood up and tried to get to the door, but he was in the way and wouldn’t let me through. I told him we should go back, that we’d be missed, but he just laughed and said that my foster carers wouldn’t notice me missing,” she says. “I’m sure he’s right,” she adds in a small voice, her head bowed, looking forlorn and alone.
“What happened next?”
“He grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the bed and pushed up my skirt. And then… he… you know… did it.”
I’m frozen. Memories come flooding back of the moment he had forced himself on me. How violated I had felt, how alone, how desperate I was to get away. But I push the thoughts of the past out of my head and instead focus on the riddle in front of me.
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
As the words leave my mouth, the hypocrisy of them echoes round my brain. Why hadn’t I gone to the police? Why hadn’t I come clean? I rub at my right hand, where the small cut from that night has faded to a thin, barely visible line.
Chloe shrugs and almost seems concerned. For that passing instant she looks her age. A teenager, completely overwhelmed by the events that have shaken her life. Then her flash of regret is gone. She lifts her chin up, squares her jaw, and stares right at me. “I don’t know. I thought they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Is that when you tried to run away?”
Chloe nods. “He rolled off me and I ran out of the room and down the stairs. I was running out of the house when I saw his car keys on the table in the hallway and grabbed them. I got out and into his car. I just wanted to get away.”
The details roll off her tongue, but the way she tells the story is still devoid of emotion, as if she is relating an incident that happened to someone else.
“Had you ever driven before?”
“No. But I thought it couldn’t be so hard. I’d seen others drive a manual car, knew how it worked. I just didn’t realise I’d put the car into reverse instead of first gear. And when I saw him coming out after me, I panicked and pressed the pedal as hard as I could. That’s when it happened.”
“The car moved back and hit him,” I finish for her.
“Yes. He flew into the air and fell down.”
“Why did you run away instead of going to help him?” I ask her.
She looks at me, her eyes wide. “I was scared of him. I wanted to get away as fast as I could.”
“But he couldn’t hurt you if he was injured,” I press. “You could have stopped to check on him, call for help.”
Chloe shrugs, shaking her head slightly, her eyes properly leaving my face.
“Did you think he’d be able to get up again and come after you?”
Her eyes bore into mine again before flitting away. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “But at that moment I was terrified of him and wanted to get away. Be as far from him as I could.”
*
The roads are glistening from the afternoon’s rainfall, the lights from cars’ headlamps bouncing off the puddles. Slowing down, I manoeuvre the car around the sharp turn, careful not to hit the red letterbox, and into our street, waving at my neighbour, Ellen. Her silhouette shifts in the bay window at the front of her house as she raises her arm to wave back.
Despite it being pitch dark already, it’s early still and I’ve got away in time to put the children to bed. Maya has already fed them dinner and is giving them a bath when I walk in.
“I’ll be downstairs,” she tells me. It’s like she senses how much I long to spend time with the children and leaves me alone.
We snuggle together in Leah’s bedroom while I read them a book, enjoying the feeling of their soft warm bodies against mine. When they both drift off, I tuck them into their beds and head to the master bedroom. Changing into a comfortable pair of trousers and a soft jersey, I hang my suit in the walk-in closet. The gold-coloured box where my wedding shoes are stored catches my eye and I push it further back on the shelf, hiding it from sight, before going back downstairs.
“I didn’t realise you were still here,” I tell Maya when I spot her in the living room, putting away the children’s toys and books, stacking everything neatly, just the way I would do it myself.
Her lips curl into a smile, lighting up her whole face. She runs her fingers through her long hair, her eyes sparkling in the dim light coming from the kitchen, as she puts the last book on the shelf. “I wanted to make sure you don’t need anything else.”
“Thank you.” I clasp her arm and squeeze it, then quickly let go, almost as if her skin burns. “You’re an angel to clean up.”
“Of course. I’ll be off then.” She remains rooted to the spot.
“Would you like a glass of homemade lemonade?” I ask. These past months, I’ve been noticing her reluctance to hurry home. At first I thought I might be imagining it, but she always hangs back, clearing up even when I don’t ask her to. Perhaps Ellen is being too strict. She means well, but sometimes can come across as somewhat controlling and Maya is too young to understand that her mother acts this way because she loves her immensely. Anyway, I could do with the company.
“Did you make it?” She follows me into the kitchen.
“Of course not! One of my clients did.” Opening the cupboard, I take out two of the neatly lined tumblers, placing each in the dead centre of a coaster.
For a few moments we don’t speak, surrounded by silence broken only by the crackling from the baby monitors and the clinking of glass on glass, as we lift and place our drinks on my hand-made, colourful coasters.
“Have you decided whether you’re going to take that girl’s case? The one who ran over someone?” Maya finally asks.
“Not yet.” I pour more of the cloudy liquid into each glass, its pure sweetness moreish. “I did meet her today but I’m still undecided.”
“Why doesn’t she have parents?” She leans towards me across the kitchen island, resting her chin on her hand, nibbling at her already stubby nails. “Did they die?”
Her curiosity intrigues me. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “Guess I feel sorry for her. She seems in big trouble. But it’s all right if you can’t tell me about it.”
“It’s no big secret,” I respond, taking my time, wanting to keep her around for as long as I can.
“It must be hard not having anyone to turn to.” She looks at me. Her lips are slightly open, her eyes glistening with all the neediness and compassion of a young teenager discovering life is much harder and more complex than first appears. Her words hit me in the stomach, and I feel her innocent anticipation weigh on me. Chloe is alone and I might be her one hope for a fair trial. But I force my thoughts into rational order, and focus on wording my answer to Maya. “She’s a ward of the state and has been living in foster homes since she was a baby,” I finally say, hoping that will satisfy her.
“But does anyone know who her parents are?” Maya perseveres.
“No. Well, yes, technically. But she was taken into care as an infant so we don’t know her parents’ identity.”
Maya’s face is completely still. “And she wasn’t adopted?” she asks.
“No, unfortunately. There was an attempt but it didn’t work out in the end. Not sure why.”
Maya continues looking right at me. I stare back at her, mirroring her expression.
“But aren’t there ways to track down her parents?” she asks, leaning further acro
ss the island until I can almost feel her breath on my arm.
Putting my glass down, I move the coaster until it’s perfectly aligned across from Maya’s. Seconds tick by as I take time to complete the simple task, allowing me to find the right answer. Maya’s questions are out of character. She’s not usually one to probe into my work, even though I have at times discussed elements of a case with her, especially when it involves someone her age. “Yes, there should be ways to find out,” I start, twisting the glass from one side to the next. “She can unseal her birth certificate. And if that doesn’t get her the answers she wants, do a DNA test and see if there’s a match to someone in the system.”
Maya doesn’t say anything. She chews on her bottom lip, seemingly mulling over this information.
A crackling sound comes from the other end of the island. A light flashes on one of the monitors and the sound of a soft whimper comes through. “It’s Leah,” Maya says. “Want me to go check?”
I stare at the image on the screen and see my daughter roll over, pulling her toy elephant close to her chest.
“No, it’s ok. She’s gone quiet.”
Maya downs her lemonade. “Better go before Mum throws a fit.” She turns around, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated way while walking away.
My phone beeps the arrival of a text message. It’s Ellen asking whether Maya is still here. “She just left. Was helping me clear up,” I respond. Another message flashes. “She just walked in.” Then, a few seconds later: “Let’s do lunch soon.”
For some time I don’t move, sitting in the silent house long after Maya leaves. Finally I stand up and head upstairs. Opening Leah’s door, I look at her small shape sprawled across the bed. She’s uncovered, the blanket shoved to a corner of the bed. Approaching her cot, I pull the blanket over her. Leah stirs and pushes it away. Her face is flushed, as pink as the bright pyjamas that she’s wearing. I kiss her softly on the forehead and tiptoe out of the room, closing the door behind me, and walk down the corridor to the next bedroom. Blue light is coming from the nightlight. Just like his sister, Julian is fast asleep, clutching his teddy close to his chin. I look at him for long minutes, my heart filling with love for my son. He barely stirs when I swipe a blond lock of hair away from his face. Part of me wanted him to wake up, allowing me to spend some more time with him. But I know that’s selfish.
If You Only Knew Page 6