Finding Mia

by Dianne J Wilson

  Mia deserved more. More than a life of looking over her shoulder.

  Resolve settled in the pit of Isobel’s belly as she turned back to face the warden. “All I need is his address.”

  If patience were paper, the warden’s would be see-through, worn so thin. “Ma’am, I understand how you feel, but I must strongly advise you to stay away.” The man was grinding his teeth in an effort to stay patient. “The fact that some overworked judge decided he wasn’t a threat or a flight risk doesn’t necessarily make him safe.”

  Isobel could see she was getting nowhere. There has to be a way.

  Show me, Jesus.

  The warden ushered her out of his office without another word. The door slammed shut behind her. A thin sliver of common sense kept her from kicking it.

  The sun scooped low in the sky, trailing long shadows through the reception window.

  A female officer shuffled papers at the front desk.

  Bel halted, studying her for a moment before going close. Her hands moved efficiently, left hand ring finger showing a faint white circle—a trace of where a wedding ring used to be. It was nearly enough to make Bel smile.

  “I wonder if you can help me?”

  The officer paused, papers suspended between punch and file.

  “The man who has just been released on bail, Greg Smethers. I need to know where to find him.”

  The papers landed in the file. “I can’t help you.”

  “I need answers. Only he can help.” The moisture in her eyes was not part of the act. “I thought I loved him, but all he wanted was to kill me and steal my baby. I just want to hear some things from his mouth.”

  Papers shuffled. Silence.

  Bel held her ground. A quick dab at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “I’m not allowed to give you that information.” She met Bel’s eyes for the first time since the start of the conversation. Hands shuffled through folders on her desk, and she pulled a slim one out and lay it open on the counter top. “Excuse me for a moment.” Index finger tapped on the yellow page. “I’ll be right back.”

  Bel took her cue, scanning for the address. There!

  She jotted it down on the back of her hand, closed the folder, and left with a heart heavy, as if someone had draped it in liquid lead.

  32

  Sitting in her car outside Roric’s house, Isobel felt the lava inside turn icy, cooling as the sun set in the distance. Bel wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this: a pristine white double story with a stone path running from gate to front door in a perfect straight line. The window sills were stark white.

  Unease sat uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. All the windows she could see were shut up tight.

  Isobel couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking at a graveyard. Sick of all the dead in her head and in front of her eyes, Bel breathed deep, trying to rekindle the fury from earlier.

  Procrastination.

  She checked her phone. Six missed calls. All Liam. He’d left a voicemail, too. She hid her phone in the cubby hole. She had no intention of listening to it, not now. It wouldn’t take much to persuade her that this was a bad idea.

  The surprise baby shower had driven her here. What were they thinking? Mia was not hers, might never be hers. Only Roric knew where Mia had come from, if the little girl might have family somewhere looking for her. Isobel shivered. And only he knew what had happened to the other missing children. And yet here he was, living in his nice house, as if her world wasn’t tearing apart.

  Roric must have kept some kind of records—some evidence that could be used to find the missing children and Mia’s family, if she had any. As much as it would hurt Bel to give her up, maybe there was a grandmother out there, frantic with worry.

  Forty-eight minutes later she decided to get moving. She checked her phone and pocketed it. There’d been no sign of life from inside, and she could feel her fear growing with each passing minute. Waiting here in the shade was doing nothing but eroding her resolve.

  Bel crept into the yard through a wrought iron pedestrian gate. Lush green lawn ended in curves around beds of rose bushes, branches hanging low, thick with flowers. She sank down next to a hedge of climbing jasmine. The heady scent tickled her nose. She squeezed the bridge between thumb and forefinger, chasing the threatening sneeze. Crossing the yard, she couldn’t help feeling conspicuous, as if the whole neighbourhood were watching, whispering foolishness behind their hands. Before her courage failed, she found an open window and peered inside.

  For a moment her brain split in two: one half detached, completely calm, and the other a quivering mess spouting gibberish on its knees. She steeled herself and peeped out from the safety of the curtain. A study of sorts. Nothing moved; nothing breathed. Her gaze swept the room for clues. A chrome and glass desk stood off to one side, a laptop cord trailed across it. No laptop. She scanned the books on the shelves: Freud, Karl Marx…

  Jesus, please show me.

  She longed to run her fingers across the knobbly wood of the bookshelf, pressing anything that seemed out of the ordinary. A secret passage? Grief, Isobel, this is not a spy movie. Get a grip!

  She crouched down and moved past a sliding door to the next window. She tented her eyes and found herself looking into a bedroom. There was a weirdness laced through this house that Bel couldn’t fathom. It was like walking into the pages of a magazine. Perfect. Beautiful. No heart or personality.

  Lamplight cast warm shadows across a loosely woven throw, the colour of desert sand, draped over the end of a king-size bed. The duvet cover was a single shade of ochre, pillows breaking the sparse monotony with splashes of jewel colours. She had to admire his taste. Textured paint decked the walls in a fine sheen. The room was elegant, classy. Nothing out of place. Weird.

  The cupboard door was ajar, and she could make out the clothes inside. She spotted the shirt she remembered being impressed with on their first date. She’d been such a fool.

  Her gaze travelled higher—a row of Bibles lined up along the top shelf. He seemed to be collecting one of each translation. She couldn’t imagine him reading a Bible, even less spending money to build a collection. Weird, but not criminal.

  She heard a key in the door. Roric was home.

  The door swung open down the hall. Footsteps down the passage.

  Coming her way.

  33

  Liam held Mia on his hip and kissed the top of her head.

  She ignored him, licking sticky cake crumbs from her fingers.

  Around them, the craft club ladies swirled like eddies in a stream, leaving order in their wake. Sadness hung over the room, the kind that carries a twinge of ‘we did something wrong.’

  Mischa came over with handfuls of colourful present bags. “What should I do with these?”

  Liam didn’t know how to answer.

  Maggie seemed the least affected by the sombre mood. “I have a feeling that she will need them soon.” Her smile washed warm over Liam. “Is there space in a closet somewhere? Maybe this one here in the hall?”

  Liam shrugged. “Be my guest. If you can find a space, use it.”

  Mia bobbed up and down in his arms and stuck her hand out. “Pucake? Peez?”

  “You want another cupcake?”

  Kez came over and held a plate for her to choose. “Here you go, princess.” She ran a hand down the back of Mia’s silky head. Her eyes caught Liam’s. “Where do you think she’s gone?”

  Liam had been falling over the same question all afternoon. “I don’t know.”

  After two bites, Mia decided she’d had enough pucake. She dropped the remainder on the carpet, icing landing in an explosion of lilac. She tucked her hands under her chin and fell asleep on Liam’s chest.

  “Wow! She nods off fast.” Kez chuckled.

  “It’s a real skill, I tell you.” His phone rang in his back pocket. Liam held her awkwardly, trying to reach it.

  Kez stepped in to take her. “I’l
l see to her. You answer your call.”

  He shot her a grateful look and pulled out his phone.

  Isobel! Pressing to answer, he held the phone to his face.

  “Hey, girl. Are you OK?”

  No answer. All he could hear was muffled noise.

  “Where are you?”

  The line dropped. A breathless minute later a text came through. An address.

  “Isobel, are you OK?”

  Another text. Please come. Roric’s house.

  Blood drained from his face, pins and needles blazed through his scalp. “She’s at Roric’s house.”

  The ladies spun around from their cleaning, shock on their faces.

  Jules dropped a glass. It hit the floor and shattered. “Go to her, Liam. We’ll look after Mia.

  ****

  Isobel peered through the blinds, hardly daring to breathe.

  Roric left the room.

  She could hear clattering in another part of the house. She dialled Liam.

  Come on. Pick up.

  Liam answered. Footsteps. She hung up.

  Roric was back. He sipped amber liquid from a glass and set it down in the pool of lamplight on his bedside table, next to a knife just as ugly as the one he’d held against her.

  All she could do was pray that Liam didn’t phone her back. She muffled the phone between her hands just in case, switched to text and typed as quietly as she could.

  Roric had his back to her, studying something in his hand. He reached over, flicked a switch and bright light flooded the room.

  Her hairs stood on end as he turned towards the cupboard and reached for the handle. He took down one of the Bibles, blew a thin layer of dust off, and opened it. He reached into his pocket and took out something. Bel craned her neck to see. The object in his hand was silver, no bigger than his palm. He slipped it into the Bible, shut it, and put it back on the shelf.

  Goosebumps broke out all over Bel. She had to see inside those Bibles. Roric picked up his glass, took a sip. He turned to walk out as Bel slipped and bumped the siding below the window. She cringed and pulled her head behind the curtain, hoping it was thick enough that he wouldn’t be able to make out her silhouette behind it.

  Please, Jesus.

  “You!”

  Isobel shot up.

  Roric moved fast. He must have slipped out the house through the sliding door Isobel had passed, and he now stood towering over her.

  Before she could run, he grabbed her. Twisting her arm behind her back, he pushed her toward the door.

  Pain exploded in her shoulder. She kicked against the wall trying to push him off balance, but he was too strong.

  His other arm clamped around her ribcage. He doubled her over and brought a knee up into her ribs, knocking her wind out. “Go ahead, scream. Nobody will hear you.”

  Isobel gasped, fighting for breath. Even if it would help, screaming was not an option. Sucking enough air into her lungs was a struggle.

  “You just can’t get enough of me, can you.” There was no humour in his voice, just pure cruelty. He pushed her through the sliding door and forced her, face down, to the carpet. He stretched up for the tie-back, letting the curtain fall closed.

  Trapped under his body weight, Isobel fought rising panic. She kicked, squirming to get out from under him, but he was too heavy. A faint trace of ammonia lingered in the soft fibres of the carpet. It made Bel want to throw up. Who cleans their carpets with ammonia?

  Her phone fell out her pocket. Roric kicked it away, out of her reach. He bound her hands behind her back, dragged her to her knees. It felt like being in one of those dreams she had of being chased; her insides writhed but her body went lame. Unresponsive.

  He strapped her bound hands to the bedpost. The stiff fabric and wood cut into her wrists.

  He picked up his drink and swallowed it all. “You know what? I don’t want to deal with you right now. Why don’t you just relax and think about what a terrible mistake you made coming here today.” Roric sneered at her, shaking his head, then he locked the sliding door and pocketed the key. He pointedly picked up the knife from his bedside and bent down to retrieve her phone. Every movement precise and deliberate, driving home that he was in control. He put off the light and drew the bedroom door behind him as he left. The click of the lock made Isobel wince.

  Can’t let him win.

  Isobel pushed her back against the bed. Breathing was easier now, but her legs shook as she tried to get her feet in under her. It took longer than it should have to slide herself up to a stand. The bedpost was square and wide at the bottom, but tapered to a narrow, smooth circular pole toward the top. If she could only hoist herself higher, the tie might be loose enough for her to slip her hands out.

  Working her wrists around the corners of the post took off layers of skin, but she ignored the sting and kept moving. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead by the time she was far enough around to get up onto the bed.

  Bel tucked her feet in underneath her on the bed, shimmied her back up the bedpost and pushed. She squirmed herself upright and felt the tension ease in her bonds enough for her to slip one hand out. The other slipped out easily. She’d left muddy footprints on the bedding. The bed creaked as she jumped off and she froze.

  She was in the dark, in deep trouble.

  The sounds of a laughter track suddenly filled the house, some sit-com on TV. Silence. And then, classical music from Phantom of the Opera. Roric liked opera?

  Silence. Apparently not.

  Heavy grunting and gunfire. This time he didn’t change channels.

  The noise of the TV was working in her favour. There was no sign that Roric had heard.

  Straining her ears for any movement outside the bedroom, she eased the cupboard open and reached up for the Bible. Opening the cover, she gasped. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see a rectangle had been cut out in the middle of the pages. Inside the hole nestled a flash-stick, labelled in tiny printed letters. She held it toward the faint moonlight coming through a gap in the curtains.

  Corinne/Dean. It meant nothing to her. She replaced it, stowed the Bible, and pulled down another. Same thing—hollowed out inside, carrying a flash stick. This one made her blood run cold. Saskia/Mia. The name Isobel had been had been pencilled in beneath the two printed ones. Shock zapped through her body. She nearly dropped the Bible. Her hands trembled as she tried to replace the memory stick and put the Bible away

  The room door was locked with the key still in the other side. She waited for what sounded like a bomb blast on the TV to use Liam’s trick. With a wire hanger from the cupboard and a thin magazine, Bel got the key and unlocked the door. She counted to three, stepped into the dark passage, locked the door behind her, and slipped the key into her pocket.

  All she had to do was sneak past Roric and get out. Simple.

  Yet the darkness paralyzed her.

  Bel sank to the carpet, sliding her back down the wall. She leaned her head on a bookshelf. She was a fool to think she’d ever leave here alive.

  A faint glow down the passage caught her eye. It was coming from a lamp in the corner of the lounge. The light burned through the blackness like a beacon. One lit-up filament, shone through glass, through fabric. The light it gave off cut straight through the blackness of the passage and reached all the way to where she sat in the dark, shaking. It seemed to land in her heart with a splash of hope.

  The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

  Her mind flipped to the image she’d drawn in art class, her face shattered beyond hope—yet now not pencil on paper, but flesh. Her flesh. From inside her hollow eyes pulsed a dim throb of brilliance, growing in intensity with each pounding heartbeat. Her drawing in Rachelle’s art class foreshadowed what she saw alive in her head now: searing brightness arced through the cracks along her cheeks, her forehead. Dazzling radiance blazed from inside her brokenness.

  Don’t look to Me as some distant God, aloof from your pain and
desperation. Driving you from behind, cracking a whip of fear. I am not hidden as some riddle to be unpicked like a ball of tangled twine. A puzzle to be solved before I can reach down and save.

  I AM.

  I AM alive inside you. I AM hope that keeps your heart beating from one aching contraction to the next, pumping through pain and agony, not quitting until sweet healing comes.

  Do not back down. Do not run. Open up and let Me shine out. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I AM.

  Giddy joy coursed through her veins, bubbling out of her in silent belly-shaking-chuckles. All this time she’d been looking outside, waiting for the clouds to roll back so she could see the sun. Yet, here He was. The Son. Alive inside her. What a fool she’d been.

  She got to her feet, using the bookshelf to help herself up. Her hand brushed a familiar object on the top shelf—Roric’s knife. She pushed it backwards, till it fell behind the bookshelf. He wouldn’t find it in a hurry now. Her fingers felt further along the wooden surface—her phone! Roric could have smashed it, but he didn’t. Mouthing a silent thank You, she switched her mobile to silent and typed a quick message to Liam.

  34

  Liam pulled up outside the address Bel had sent. He’d driven straight here without stopping to think, no time to formulate a careful plan. All he could imagine was Bel in the hands of that monster. Roric would not touch her, much less hurt her. Not while there was still breath in his lungs.

  A familiar beep from his phone.

  Isobel.

  Stay out. Trust me! Bel.

  What on earth?

  ****

  She pressed record, slipped the phone into her pocket and got to her feet. Marvelling at the peace coursing through her veins, pumping through her heart, she took a deep breath and stepped up to the archway leading into the lounge. Making sure she was in clear sight, she cleared her throat.