by Sandy Vaile
“I know.” He sighed. “At least Daylight Savings starts tomorrow. See you in a couple of days.”
“Good night,” the girls chorused.
“Flynn’s a good bloke,” Jilly declared. “Speaking of which, you oughta find yourself one.”
Mya clenched her teeth. “Not this again. I told you, I don’t need a man in my life.”
“It’s not a matter of need. It’s nice to have someone take care of you.”
“I take care of myself.”
“There are plenty of other reasons: someone to come home to at night, to take out the garbage, sex on tap. Take your pick. Don’t you get sick of one-night stands?”
Mya took a deliberately long drink of juice. Jilly knew her stance: her house, her life, no sharing.
Jilly shrugged. “Anyway, you should come shopping with me tomorrow. Dave and I are going to a friend’s wedding in a couple of weeks, so I need to get a new dress, maybe shoes.”
“As fun as that sounds”—she grimaced—“I don’t need anything.”
“You don’t actually have to buy anything. It’s a girl’s day out. Besides, I bet you don’t even own a dress.” Mya shook her head and Jilly grunted in disgust. “All you do is cook and work out in that grimy gym.” She drained her brandy and went back inside.
Mya wasn’t about to tell her friend it was the gym that had given her power over her own life for the first time, or that she owed Ned the world. Without him she didn’t like to think where she’d have ended up. She stacked the crates by the wall and retrieved the knife from the back of the store room.
“See ya,” she called to the dish pig as he waved a mop back and forth over the tiles.
She walked home along the bike track, shoulders tense and eyes scanning for trouble. It might have been a good idea to take Flynn up on that lift. Then again, she never was one to back down from anything that scared her. It was the only way she’d survived a childhood with Jack.
Most of the streetlights had been stoned, leaving long, sinister shadows across the track. She clenched the knife tighter when she saw the dark stain of drying blood under the flickering light. A trail of spatter went in the opposite direction, but there was no sign of hood-man.
Railway Terrace followed the train track, and century-old terraced houses lined one side. Mya had bought number twenty-one cheap, because apparently the fumes and noise from the trains put a lot of people off. It wasn’t one of Adelaide’s sought-after suburbs, but it held a certain appeal for her. When she was a kid she had spent plenty of time riding trains. The click-clack sound and rocking motion was soothing, and it kept her out of the house for hours at a time. Besides, she had more important things to spend her money on than herself.
The houses shared common walls and picket fences. Most of them had paved paths to heritage-green front doors, rust-red bricks, and fruit trees sheltering rows of petunias. Someone with more money than sense had built a second story on the house at the end, and it now loftily surveyed the street from frosted windows. A real-estate sign in the front yard had a red SOLD sticker slapped on it at an angle.
Mya sidled through her front gate as it drooped on broken hinges. Hers was the only yard with wild alyssum rambling through knee-high grass. She smiled at the thought of old Bert next door complaining it was high enough to hide snakes. He invariably waited until she went out before trimming it.
A fistful of envelopes were jammed into the letterbox. She held her breath and turned each one over, scanning for a backward slanting script, and then puffed it out when she realized they were all regular mail.
The front door stuck in the warm weather, so she pushed with her shoulder. Once inside, she flicked on lights and pushed two slide bolts into place. She tossed the knife into a bowl half full of confiscated weapons. If the police raided the place, they’d think they’d hit the jackpot and hooked themselves a serial killer.
Reclining in her favourite red-leather chair, she re-read the threatening note. It didn’t make sense for Rhonda to have tracked her down after all these years, but who else could it be?
After Cockroach—that was what she called Jack Roach—died, Mya had applied to Deed Poll to change both her and her mum’s names. She needed a fresh start—something she couldn’t do traversing the streets of her childhood or being recognised as a drunk’s daughter. Until tonight, she was sure moving to the opposite side of Adelaide had been far enough to leave her previous life as Lara Roach behind.
Lara. The name sounded alien now. There was only one thing she missed about Lara the victim, and that was having her mum whole.
But the likelihood of a regular person tracking a name change was too slim to consider. So that meant the author must be someone from her present life. After all, they had used her new name.
The real question was, what did this person want? Whoever was gunning for her obviously wanted to toy with her, make her sweat. Which left only one motivation.
Revenge.
Chapter 3
Mya buried her face deeper in the pillow and ignored the alarm. The threat from the note had leaked into the recesses of her mind, like oil into the cracks of wet cement. She’d tossed all night, but no amount of calming breaths could stop her worrying about her mum. She needed to see and touch her. Know she was safe.
After a quick shower and toast, Mya pushed her Triumph Speed Triple motorcycle out of the backyard shed and into the access alley—Railway Lane, some bright spark had named it. The bike was her one luxury with its red tank, silver pipe, and hulking black 1050cc engine. She swung a leg over and turned the key in the ignition. Hopefully none of the neighbours were trying to sleep in this morning. The three cylinders growled as she twisted the throttle and then gurgled and spluttered as she coasted away from her house.
A moving van almost blocked the end of the lane, behind number twenty-five—the two-story monstrosity—but there was just enough space to squeeze the bike between it and the fence without taking off a mirror. She nearly lost her balance when a tall bloke with shoulder-length blond hair appeared in front of her.
His smile pulled the left side of his mouth up crookedly around a thin scar on his top lip, but it didn’t detract from his rugged good looks. In fact, it added character and maybe made him look older—she guessed he was a few years older than her, which would make him about thirty. A white tank top clung to his chest and his tracksuit pants hung low on his hips.
“Sorry. Do you want me to move the van?” he asked.
She dragged her gaze up to meet his powder-blue one. “Nah, you’re ’right.” She knocked the bike’s gear pedal into neutral and flipped up her visor.
“I’m Luca, by the way. Just bought this place.” He held out a hand.
She pressed her palm against it and watched long fingers wrap around her leather glove, mesmerised by the way his tanned bicep contracted as he shook her hand.
Won’t mind having him for a neighbour at all. “Mya from number twenty-one. Are you moving in with your family?” She cringed internally, not really interested in hearing about Mrs. Luca.
“Nah, just me.” He flashed another crooked smile and disappeared inside the van. With a box in hand he said, “Come by for a housewarming drink later if you’re free.”
“Sure.”
She nodded a farewell and coasted the bike down the alley. What a shame she had no intention of having that drink with him. No sense getting chummy with a bloke who knew where she lived.
Sunday morning traffic was light as she wound back and forth through the side streets, dodging morning joggers and a couple of drunks sprawled half on the road. Even the throaty reverberation of the engine and warm summer air couldn’t diminish her desperate need to lay eyes on her mum. With a brief glance around to make sure no cops were nearby, she took the sweeping right-hand intersection on Port Road at 120 kilometres an hour.
Richmond Hill was on the other side of Adelaide city, where the houses all had an attic or second story, manicured gardens with topiary pittosporum and pas
tel roses in neat lines. Huge jacarandas sprinkled wide streets with purple petals. A mother wearing a designer pantsuit, full makeup, and immaculate hairstyle pushed a Rolls Royce pram. A pot-bellied man buffed a silver BMW on a paved driveway. A gang of children on shiny bikes waved, tassels streaming from their handlebars.
Hard to believe she was only a few kilometres from Croydon, where the soup kitchen regularly turned people away.
The Speed Triple pulled up the incline at the back of the suburb to Rich Haven—Mya loved the play on words—Aged Care Facility, for the rich. There were annoyingly spaced speed humps along the kilometre of driveway, so she stood on the foot pegs to ease over them. Lawns sprawled on either side, dotted with park benches and rose gardens, shaded by vast gums, ash, and beech. The groundsman made deliberate arcs on a ride-on mower, throwing up the crisp scent of cut grass.
The grand Victorian building looked a lot like a castle with three stories of weathered stone and arched verandas with filigree rails and spires. On either side of the central building were large wings. With a see-saw motion, she walked the motorbike back into a parking space and left her helmet on the ground. No need to lock anything at Rich Haven. The mental image of a primped old lady taking off on the Triumph like a Hells Angel cracked her up.
She was still giggling as she climbed the wide slate staircase and passed through half-metre-thick walls into the reception.
“Hi, Mya.” Beverly Aldridge had been the bubbly receptionist for all of the nine years Mya’s mum had been there.
“G’day, Bev.”
Beverly pushed the guest register across the counter for her to sign. She tested the pen, secured to a silver chain, and signed Mya Jensen, visiting Rosalie Jensen.
Neither of them had used Jack’s surname after that day. The day their lives changed for the better and worse.
It had been SWOT Vac week at school, so Mya had been studying at home when Jack Roach—now Cockroach to her—returned from the pub. He swaggered through the front door and clipped her across the head by way of a greeting. She ignored him, like she always did when he was tanked.
Her mum was in the kitchen, rushing to heat a plate of food, but she wasn’t fast enough and there was a slap, followed by crockery clattering to the floor. Her mum didn’t cry right away, but as each blow landed, Mya’s intestines knotted tighter and tighter. She closed her books with a wallop and shoved them into a backpack. It was time to ride the trains.
That was more than a decade ago. She shook her head to clear the acidic thoughts on her way down the cream-coloured hallway. At door number thirty-two, she knocked gently and let herself in. A petite brunette nurse was writing on a clipboard.
“Hi, Anne.”
Anne flashed a brilliant-white smile. “Good morning, Mya. It’s a beautiful day today.”
“Yeah, I think we’ll go for a walk.”
“Give me a minute and I’ll help you move her into the wheelchair.”
“How is she?” Mya held her breath, the way she did every time she asked. Her mum was the only person left in the world that she cared about, and the thought of losing her was unimaginable.
“No change. I’ll let you know if the doctor finds anything at her weekly check-up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
Anne pulled a flat-folded wheelchair from a nook beside the wardrobe. “What are you reading at the moment?”
“Oh, I just finished a wicked suspense by Helene Young, but I’m into The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo now and can’t put it down. You’ll have to borrow it afterward.”
“I’d like that. A couple of friends said it’s a good story.”
Rosalie Jensen looked small in her floral-print recliner. She didn’t turn to the sound of Mya’s voice, but stared peacefully through multi-paned French doors to the garden. The natural light made her soft skin glow. Mya had paid an exorbitant amount of money to get a room on the ground floor in the high-dependency wing, and it was worth every penny. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to afford Rich Haven if it weren’t for Cockroach. Irony was a bitch.
“Hi, Mum.”
Rosalie moved her head slightly and her brown eyes flickered sideways, but her face remained blank, gaze vacant. Deep down Mya believed her mum was still in there, somewhere. Believed she recognised her only daughter.
Anne unfolded a wheelchair beside Rosalie and Mya bent to lock the wheels in place and swing the footrests out of the way. They slid her mum to the edge of her armchair, and she put her arms around Mya’s neck.
“Hold tight, Mum.”
Rosalie was cooperative, but still a dead weight as Mya lifted from under her armpits and Anne supported her thighs. They stepped sideways and lowered her into the wheelchair. Rosalie’s left arm spasmed and her hand automatically tucked under her chin. Mya straightened it.
There wasn’t a lot she could do for her mum these days, but she took pleasure in the little things. She’d failed to protect Rosalie all those years ago, but she wouldn’t fail her again. Tender care was the best she could do now. This was all she had left.
“Thanks, Anne.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy the walk.” She flicked dark hair over her shoulder and picked up a tray of tiny plastic cups holding multi-coloured pills.
Mya flung open the French doors and wheeled her mum onto the patio. Rosalie’s head tilted toward the sky and she closed her eyes. Maybe it was because of the dazzling light, but Mya preferred to believe her mum enjoyed the warmth on her face.
Footpaths criss-crossed the fourteen-hectare property, and today there were lots of people pushing wheelchairs or sitting on benches and watching grandchildren scamper across lawns. Mya made a loop around the lake and paused on a PermaPine boardwalk. She liked to keep her mum up to date with her life, even if it was a monologue.
“Can you believe the corner store got an ATM? I guess it was too far for people to walk another 200 metres to the supermarket.”
She reached into a plastic bread bag and tossed crumbs in an arc across the water. A raft of speckled-brown native ducks glided from the bank to squabble over the tidbits.
A raised voice—male, of course—disturbed the tranquility. Mya grabbed the handles of the wheelchair in an automatic flight reflex, and her limbs tingled with a surge of adrenaline.
I’m safe. Mum is safe.
“Sorry, Mum. Now where was I? Oh, yes, we were flat-chat at the hotel last night, which is why I slept in a bit today. Met my new neighbour this morning, too. Mighty fine,” she added under her breath.
Rosalie stared across the lake, not even flinching when an overzealous duck took flight and flicked water onto her face. Mya used her sleeve to wipe it off, and her mum held eye contact for a few seconds longer than usual—a fleeting glimpse of lucidity.
“I know you’re in there, Mum,” Mya whispered. She pressed her lips to Rosalie’s velvet-soft cheek. “You’re too young to be in this place.” Her mum was only forty-nine and surrounded by the elderly, but there wasn’t any other option. “Nothing but the best for you.”
Shoes clip-clopped along the path and she heard the angry male voice again, followed by the hushed disagreement of a female. A man and woman rounded a violet honey-myrtle bush and glanced in her direction. The woman wore the Rich Haven uniform: navy skirt and pale blue pin-striped shirt. Mya didn’t recognise her, so she wasn’t from the high-dependency wing, but there was something familiar about her walk, the way she dragged the toes of her left foot with each step. She couldn’t place it.
A tall blond man in an orderly’s outfit had thick fingers wrapped tightly around the woman’s bicep and was propelling her forward. His gaze flicked in Mya’s direction, and he released the arm. Mya’s instincts told her the woman needed help, but the couple kept their eyes on the footpath and disappeared around the next bend. What people needed and wanted weren’t always the same.
Mya wheeled Rosalie back to her room, settled her in the recliner chair, and left the doors open to let the breeze in. She tossed a tartan blanket ove
r her mum’s knees and retrieved a glossy, black jewelry box from the bedside drawer. It had been a birthday present for her mum, bought in a secondhand shop when Mya was in primary school. The menagerie of African animals painted on the lid had attracted her. Rosalie had often talked about taking Mya to Africa one day, to stand so close to a lion that the hairs on the back of their necks would stand up, or look at a strange giraffe with its long lips, doe eyes, and not-quite horns.
There was an assortment of trinkets inside the box, but only two were valuable to Mya. The first was a wedding ring with a small diamond caught inside a golden web, handed down from her grandma to her mum. Pity Mya would never use it, because she had no intention of ever letting a man control her.
Nestled beside the ring was a long silver chain with a tiny cylinder pendant and a crystal bauble on the lid. She lifted it out, surprised that it didn’t feel as cool or heavy as usual, but that was probably because of the warm weather.
It might just be her memory playing tricks, but she could swear the jewelry still smelt like her Grandma’s floral perfume, intermingled with the mothballs from her clothes.
She sat on the arm of her mum’s chair and dangled the necklace high, so the crystal caught the light and sent a rainbow of refracted light across the room.
“Do you remember the story Grandma used to tell us? She said Grandpa scrimped and saved for weeks to get enough silver to make the necklace. Then he drew the metal over a stake to form the cylinder and embossed the pattern on the outside. When he made the secret chamber, even the master silversmith was impressed.
“Grandpa was so nervous when he proposed that his voice shook, but Grandma already knew he was a special man and said yes right away.” She sighed deeply at the memory. “I wonder if he was the last decent man on the planet.”
Rosalie’s eyes swayed back and forth in time with the pendulum motion of the suspended necklace. Mya twisted the crystal bauble between thumb and forefinger, to pop the hidden chamber. It was stiff, so she tried again. The necklace was old, but it usually turned easily, so she wiped her hands down the front of her jeans and tried again. It would not twist.