Her brow knots, and another tear drips onto her upper lip. “Aren’t you scared? Doesn’t every single man in this world scare you? What they can do . . . what they can take from you. Don’t you carry that fear with you everywhere you go?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.” And it’s true. It’s not something I’ve ever articulated, but it’s true.
“We’re so much smaller than them, so much weaker. Once they decide to do something, most of us don’t have a hope in hell of stopping it from happening. The whole world is our dark alley at midnight,” she murmurs, entranced by a speck of dirt on the floor. “So how do you separate it from the men you love? Isn’t every girl just a little bit frightened of her uncles, her lovers, her brother’s friends?” A pause, so loaded the air between us is dense with her unease. “A handsome stranger at a music festival? Her boyfriend? Her father?”
We’re silent a few moments, the bleep of hospital equipment and the faint sound of sneakers squeaking through hallways in the background. The weight of it all is starting to press down on my shoulders.
“Kasun’s been taken into custody,” Erin says after taking a deep breath and recomposing herself. “Though he claims he had no idea what Andrijo and Borko were doing in order to relinquish his money. The money my dad owed him.”
Something slots into place. Erin’s grandmother died not long after Simon was sentenced. Initially we speculated that it was the shame that killed her in the end, but what if it was more than that? What if the only thing keeping her alive, the only thing giving her hope, was the drugs Bastixair were developing? The medication Simon illegally imported just eased the symptoms, yes, but once her access to them was taken away, maybe she knew she’d never live to see a cure. So she gave up.
“There’s something else,” she adds, as though unsure whether to continue. Unsure whether I’m strong enough to hear it. “The police found something in your pocket . . . the object they believe Andrijo was willing to kill you to protect.”
Of course.
The USB stick. In the emotion of our reunion, I’d almost forgotten.
“I’ll leave Ilić to explain the details, but . . . this all goes so much deeper than one grieving son from the North East of England, and his missing daughter. It’s . . . it’s huge, Carina. And you uncovered it.”
I face her full-on now. “It’s like you’ve just shown me a trailer for an epic movie, but are making me wait an eternity to see the real thing.”
“The clinics. Feminaid. They’re corrupt.”
“Okay . . .” I frown. “But how does that—”
“How does that fit in?” Erin asks. I nod. “It took me a while to make sense of it, too. But basically, Kasun owns the clinics. Most people knew he was an advocate—he’s pro-choice, fights for women’s rights, protects the mental health of sexual assault victims—but through a lead they found in Andrijo’s apartment, the police managed to trace Feminaid to a parent company, registered to a fake name. Funds from this parent company had been transferred to and from an offshore bank account, owned by none other than . . . Marija Kasun. His wife.”
“Right. What does that mean?” Maybe I’m still foggy from the anesthesia, but it’s still not making sense.
“Nothing, until you found that USB. For over a decade, the Kasuns have been embezzling money from the clinics, below the radar, and donating it to Bastixair . . . to fund Aubin’s research.”
I stare at her. “The USB proved that?”
“No, it was password-protected,” Erin explains. “But not very sophisticatedly. Once the police managed to hack it, they uncovered a spreadsheet of more passwords—for online banking, cloud accounts, the Feminaid records . . . everything.”
The words feel significant, but I’m really struggling to process them. “I still don’t get it. How did they find evidence of the embezzlement?”
Erin wavers. “That’s where it’s a little complicated. They did it by cross-referencing the clinic records, the bank statements and Bastixair’s donations, Ilić told me. In the beginning, Kasun tested the waters with tiny amounts, but over the last couple of years it’s been pretty substantial. Ten-million-dinar-a-day kind of substantial.”
I gape at her. “How the hell did they get away with that for so long? Weren’t they audited?”
She shrugs. “Sure, but on the surface their financial records were pristine. That’s what the USB gave the police access to—databases stored on the cloud, detailing the real transactions. So someone went in for an abortion, right? Paid their fee, and that was declared in all the official ways. To the tax man, to the auditors, to the shareholders. Enough to turn a profit, but not a suspiciously high one. But these databases showed the truth. The girls were also charged for nonoptional extras—aftercare, painkillers, longer stays in the inpatient facilities if they needed them. None of those transactions were processed officially.”
Holy shit.
How did an anxiety-ridden girl from northern England stumble on a conspiracy so massive? All I wanted to do was save my friend, and now I’ve helped the Serbian police bring down one of the biggest scandals of the decade—just by grabbing a USB from a desk? Sure, the aspiring journalist in me sunk my teeth into the case more than your average best friend might’ve, but still.
Holy shit.
A flaw in the reasoning is bugging me. “Why did these girls pay so exorbitantly for abortions? Why go to a private clinic at all? Doesn’t the Serbian health service offer them?”
Erin’s voice is still wobbly when she answers. “Of course. The legal limit is ten weeks, but in cases of rape, incest and psychological trauma, they’re available until the twentieth week.” She looks at me meaningfully.
I remember how unquestioningly the clinician I saw accepted my sexual assault claims. “So Feminaid are much more liberal with their late abortions? Meaning . . . girls who exceed the legal gestation period use these private clinics as plan B.”
“Yep.”
This is huge.
We chat for a while longer. Part of me is terrified to stop talking to Erin, for fear of waking up and realizing this was all a dream and she’s still missing. But sleep is begging me to succumb, and my eyelids droop. It’s not until Dr. Petrović appears in the doorway that she finally says her goodbyes.
Erin climbs gingerly from her wheelchair, bends over my bed and gives me a gentle hug. She’s fragile, but clean and warm and safe, and even though she may struggle mentally to overcome this horrific experience, physically she’s on the mend.
I’m about to slip away into slumber once again when my eyes drift to the bedside table.
My silver bangle.
If you are saved from the lion, do not be greedy and hunt it.
This whole time, I thought the lion was a man. Simon, Andrijo, Kasun. Now I think the real lion is Aubin’s, a disease so ruthless it drives people over the edge of their own morality. Not the sufferers. For them it’s hideous, sure. But for those around them—friends, family, loved ones—it’s a living hell, seeing those they care about descend into the shadows, lose themselves to the vicious clutches of their condition. It’s enough to make them forget themselves. They see only pain, and they’ll do anything to make it stop.
Seeing a loved one suffer is enough to turn even the timidest sheep into a cruel lion capable of anything.
Simon’s mother had Aubin’s, and he became a version of himself not even he could recognize. Violent to the women around him, his wife and his daughters, and to himself—with alcohol. Falling into acres of debt for the drugs his mother so badly needed, illegal in the United Kingdom, and leaving his family to pay the ultimate price.
Andrijo’s father has Aubin’s, and he allowed himself to be dragged into a dark circle of drug trafficking and abduction and blackmail so his income—the one keeping his family alive—wouldn’t be compromised. His love for his parents, his desire
to save them, drove him to unspeakable things, to pointing a gun at two innocent women and pulling the trigger.
Kasun’s son has Aubin’s, and he exploited thousands of vulnerable women in sexual assault clinics in order to fund research into a cure. He embezzled their money—their hard-earned pennies scraped together from double shifts and dodgy loans—and funneled it into his own agenda. His love for his son turned him into a monster.
It’s not that I’m making excuses for the horrific acts of these men. There are no excuses for abuse. Not grief, not intoxication, not stress. Not fear, or hope, or love. It’s just that I’m slowly realizing they aren’t at the top of the food chain.
Aubin’s is.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
May 6, England
THE FUCK-YOU LEATHER jacket is back.
Earlier this week, Erin was promoted from fashion assistant to fashion editor, and now she has an intern of her own to bring her Starbucks every morning.
Since we moved into a small quayside flat together, our relationship has gone from friendship to almost-sisterhood. We share victories and losses, pizza and movies, laughter and tears, sarcasm and gossip. We share it all.
I can’t help but think she’s becoming a mini-Lowe, and strangely that isn’t the insult I once imagined it to be. Lowe is a force, yes, and a terrifying one at that. But she’s also fiercely independent, passionate about her career, loving and maternal when the occasion calls for it, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Erin could find worse role models.
I don’t tell Erin that, of course. I simply say, “Check you out, you superstar. You’re going to be the next Anna Wintour.”
She laughs her sailor laugh, lips once again painted siren red, and replies, “I don’t want to be the next Anna Wintour. I want to be the original Erin Baxter.”
God help anyone who stands in her way.
Tonight, we’re meeting for celebratory Friday night cocktails, and the iconic leather jacket is making a comeback. She broke up with Smith as soon as we got back to England, and I can’t say I was too devastated. He’s a selfish stalker, a closet misogynist, and he didn’t deserve her for a second. Like I say, I can’t say I was too devastated. Nor was she.
Her dad got out of jail a few weeks after we got home. Moved into a council flat across the River Tyne. Karen, Erin and Annabel will never forget what he did to them, never forgive the damage he caused, but they’re supportive of his rehabilitation. Karen filed for divorce, but she’s helping him find work, making sure he has the care he needs for his Aubin’s. Not out of obligation, but because she’s allowing her daughters to make their own decisions on whether or not they want him in their lives. And if they decide on the former, she wants him to be more than an empty shell. For them.
She’ll always love the man he once was, but she’ll never be able to forgive the man he became.
Kasun’s trial is now under way with more charges listed than I can even remember. And last week, it was leaked that he accidentally implicated Tim Halsey in the murder of Brodie Breckenridge, a young reporter who figured out exactly where Bastixair’s funds were coming from. Kasun paid him to quiet her forever. I shudder when I think of the gelato we shared in Danube Park, back when I was convinced Erin was the victim of a Liam Neeson movie plot, not the man sitting next to me on the bench.
Erin has come a long way in six months. Her emotional recovery has been tumultuous, and she’s been seeking treatment for PTSD—and, with typical Erin panache, completely bossing it. She’s not hiding from the psychological aftereffects of three weeks in hell. She’s staring them in the face and saying, “I see you, and I respect you, but I will not let you define me.”
The way she’s dealing with her mental health—ferociously, openly, without fear of discussing it—is a constant source of inspiration for me. I’m still taking my meds, albeit a lower dose, and I still have my moments. But they’re few and far between, compared to how regularly I used to succumb to the savage panic attacks and long stretches of depression. What helps more than anything is having someone to talk to about it—not a medical professional, but someone who really cares, who’ll always be there. Someone who’ll listen to me talk about my dad without filing the gaps with empty condolences and pointless platitudes. She just . . . listens. She’s just there.
It’s sad that I don’t have that in my mum, but she’s fighting her own battles.
I did eventually write my piece on Serbia, although it took a slightly different angle than my original draft back in that Serbian hotel room. Less history, less travel and quite a lot more focus on the way an innocent press trip to a celebrated music festival escalated into the holiday from hell—and ended in a warehouse shoot-out and the ultimate exposure of a national scandal that’s gone unnoticed for decades.
My first-person account of the entire experience sold to a national newspaper. Enough to land me a second-chance interview at the Daily Standard.
This time, I nailed it. I’ve been a junior crime reporter for six months, and I’m loving every minute.
Every single day, I think of what Erin said to me in that hospital room in Serbia, both of us hurting, both of us unsure whether we were going to survive the next few minutes:
“Aren’t you scared? Doesn’t every single man in this world scare you? What they can do . . . what they can take from you. Don’t you carry that fear with you everywhere you go? We’re so much smaller than them, so much weaker. Once they decide to do something, most of us don’t have a hope in hell of stopping it from happening.”
The whole world is our dark alley at midnight.
We are all hunted by something, or by someone. We are all prey. But that doesn’t mean we can’t fight back.
Acknowledgments
PERFECT PREY WOULD not be a book without the amazing team of publishing professionals supporting me. The whole New Leaf team (Suzie, Sara, Joanna et al) plus the inimitable Jess Dallow have been in my corner since day one, and I couldn’t be more grateful. At HarperCollins, my editor, Emily Krump; cover designer, Gail Winston; and copyeditor, Christine Langone (you’re the unsung hero of the publishing process, and I apologize sincerely for my semi-colon-based issues) are the champs who brought this story to life. Thank you all for not realizing I am an imposter.
Countless eyes have been cast over this story at various stages of the drafting process. Huge shout-out to James Bateman, the real-life detective who provided infinite notes on this kind of investigation and how it would realistically unfold, and to Carly Ahmed and Al Ehm, who made sure my first-person portrayal of a POC was dealt with sensitively and accurately. I also drew on interviews with several anxiety sufferers when working on Carina’s mental health journey, so thank you to Sadishika, Becca, Danaella, and Maren for your candid answers to some pretty deep questions. When I started out with this manuscript, I wanted to make the plot and characters as authentic as possible, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this wouldn’t have been possible without these wonderful individuals. And a big writerly group hug to the NAC (the most incredible support system when publishing feels like an uphill battle), to Scarlett Cole, and to Rebecca McLaughlin, who started as my PitchWars mentee and soon became a valued critique partner (and awesome friend who sends me delicious American candy from across the pond). Thank you all for helping me feel like less of an imposter.
Then there’s the array of nutters who support me on a day-to-day basis, and do not shun me when I do things like accidentally throw the keys to my entire life in a street dumpster—my champagne-addled family (the Milnes, the Allens, the Paxtons, and, of course, the Stevens) and my extremely entertaining friends, including but not limited to Toria, Millie, Heather, and Lucy (a.k.a. the Coven), Nic, Hannah, Lauren, Amy, John (who I met on a real-life press trip to Serbia in 2014), Steve, Spike, and my ultimate favorite human, Louis. Thank you all for accepting the fact that I am an
imposter and being (reasonably) nice to me anyway.
About the Author
LAURA SALTERS is a twenty-something magazine journalist from the northernmost town in England. Run Away was her first novel.
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www.laurasalters.com
Also by Laura Salters
Run Away
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PERFECT PREY. Copyright © 2016 by Laura Steven. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062457554
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062457561
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About the Publisher
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