If You Only Knew: A gripping, debut thriller that you won't want to put down

by Cynthia Clark

  The clouds shift and a burst of light comes in from the window, catching Maya’s red hair and creating a halo around her face. Julian is staring at the book, following the words that Maya is pointing to as she reads. Leah is transfixed, her lips slightly open as she stares at her sister.

  The thought begins to bathe my mind in a familiar fantasy, and I have to physically shake my head to shrug it off, forcing myself to think of Maya as the neighbour’s daughter, my children’s sitter.

  Maybe the carrier bags rustled or perhaps I’m breathing too heavily because three pairs of eyes turn to look at me, interrupting my silent observation. A grin spreads on Leah’s face and she screams: “Mummy you’re home!”

  Julian is more subtle in his enthusiasm. I sit down on the sofa behind him and ruffle his hair. “What are you reading?” Maya makes to hand me the book. Shaking my head, I encourage her to keep going.

  Watching Maya’s lips open and close as she continues to tell the story, her free hand stroking Leah’s cheek, I have a momentary urge to tell Maya everything, to try and have a bigger presence in her life. I know this is impossible. The reality of the situation fills the pit of my stomach with desperation and anger, a familiar cold knot that lives there. Not wanting them to see the expression on my face I turn around and head into the kitchen, bracing myself in readiness to start cooking the sauce. Folding out the recipe I’ve printed out, I place it on the island, then unpack my bags and take out a large pot, careful not to make too much noise. Once all the ingredients are lined up neatly in front of me, I busy myself chopping onions and mincing garlic.

  In front of me are three tins of cherry tomatoes. I’m psyching myself for the moment I have to open them and pour the red liquid into the pot. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself.

  Maya has finished reading the story and stands up, leaving the kids on the floor leafing through the book.

  “How did everything go?” I ask her.

  “Good. Julian fell at school and has a hole in his trousers. He only had a few scratches on his knee, and I put a plaster on it.”

  “Did he seem ok?” I ask.

  “Yeah, he almost sounded proud of his injury, as if it makes him a badass.” Maya throws her head back and laughs. The sound warms my heart and I join her, any concerns about Julian’s small injury waning as I allow myself to get lost in the moment of camaraderie.

  “Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. A man approached me while I was walking back with the children. Said he’s looking for gardening work, left a card.” She digs deep into her jeans pocket. “Terence I think his name was.”

  My heart stops and my breath starts coming in quick pants. Terence. Terry. Could this be him, the person John Larkin had called? Is he getting closer, fulfilling the threats in the letters?

  “Clarence, sorry,” Maya says, putting a flimsy business card on the counter. My eyes can barely focus as I pick it up, turn it over in my hands, the fear making my ears pound.

  “What are you making?” Maya asks, her left eyebrow raised.

  “Pasta sauce.”

  “Wow, that’s a first!”

  “Easy! I cook sometimes.”

  Maya cocks her head to one side and looks at me. She purses her lips together but I can see the smile trying to break through. Finally, when she cannot keep her stoic look any longer, she bursts out laughing.

  I frown at her. Or at least I try. But I know she’s right and soon I join her.

  “Need any help?”

  Delighted that she wants to spend time with me, I struggle to hide the smile sneaking onto my face. “Sure, can you measure out the spices?”

  Maya finds the measuring spoons, careful to wipe them before putting them into the next spice jar. I get back to chopping the onions, glancing at her every now and then, relishing the moment. She must do this with Ellen all the time, I think, and feel the irrational sting of a wound caused by their closeness. At least she’s here now.

  “What’s next?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  Picking up the recipe, I place it between us and we both spend a few moments reading the instructions. Bracing my shoulders, I pick up one of the tins of tomatoes. But I put it back down on the counter, not yet ready to open it. Although I don’t want to backtrack, I’m suddenly wondering why I’m putting myself through this.

  Maya is regarding me closely, almost as if she’s worried about me.

  “Do you want me to open them for you?” she asks.

  It would be so easy to accept the help. To succumb to the realisation that this is too big a step. But as I look at Maya, standing before me, I feel a wave of embarrassment at my vulnerability. I want her to see me as strong, determined, completely in control, like I usually am. It’s just tomatoes and there’s nothing to be afraid of. I can do this, I tell myself, and seize a tin and tear the top open, dumping the contents into the pot.

  Exhaling, I look at Maya. She smiles at me in encouragement. Picking up the second tin, I repeat the process, then move onto the third. I smile, feeling the elation of success.

  “There, that wasn’t so hard,” Maya says, sounding older than she is.

  “Guess not,” I respond, picking up a spatula and stirring the sauce. I curl my lips in disgust and Maya laughs loudly, a sound that warms my heart.

  “Wanna stay for dinner?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No, Mum is expecting me. But if you’ve got some extra sauce left…”

  “You bet,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t betray my disappointment. “There’ll be some in the fridge with your name on it.”

  She leaves but I can’t stop thinking about her, how much I enjoy the little time we spend together. The trace of an almost serene feeling blooms inside me; pride to have finally made this step, and happiness at having shared the moment with Maya.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m not dropping the charges against her,” George Winters says when I walk into his office.

  A few choice words come to mind but I stop short of hurling accusations. “George, you’re being unjust. Can’t you see that she’s the victim? That she was running away because she had been abused? It was an accident.”

  But he doesn’t budge and there’s no use continuing to argue with him. I can see that his mind is made up and I’m not going to get anywhere on that tack.

  “What about the fact that she’s fifteen? Are you going to let that slip?”

  “You should know me better than that Elizabeth,” he says, a scowl plastered on his face.

  I had been clinging to the hope that Chloe’s case would be dismissed, allowing me to go back to my busy schedule and avoid more conflict with Miles. As much as this case drives me, I’m starting to wish I hadn’t become involved. But it’s too late now. It would look even stranger to drop Chloe now. No, I have to see it through, make time for her, work harder and longer.

  “When can I carry out a pre-trial interview with Ben?” I ask him instead.

  “Someone from my office will get it on the books. You can use our conference room.”

  “That’s a kind offer, but I’ll hold the meeting at my office.” I need to be on familiar ground, able to retain control.

  Jennifer greets me with an expectant look, leaning forward in her desk as I walk by. “How did it go?” she asks.

  “Not good,” I say, shaking my head. “Give me five minutes and come into my office.” Closing the door behind me, I drop into my desk and turn in my chair to look out of the window. Why can’t we catch a break?

  “They’re not dropping the charges,” I say, when Jennifer comes in.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The outcome is going to pivot on Chloe’s testimony. She needs to be properly prepared or she’ll do more harm than good. We have to increase the prep sessions, meet daily if possible. We need a proper outline of exactly how she will answer each question.”

  “Surely the paternity results should help,” Jennifer says.

  “Nothing is certain,” I say
. “Right now, it could equally go against her. We need to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  Tapping my fingers on my desk, I concentrate on sorting through the facts. This case needs some extra help from somewhere, for someone to dig into Ben’s life and uncover some dirt, give me ammunition to use against him. I’ve resisted this for as long as I could, not wanting to tap into the firm’s finances. It’s a last resort, but I can’t postpone what now feels inevitable. I need to know everything about him, even the slightest indiscretion. I just hope that there’s something in his past that we can use.

  “Get me Luke Ross on the phone,” I tell Jennifer. “We need him if we’re to stand a chance.”

  *

  “Why did you leave the scene of the incident?” Luigi asks. I’ve convinced him my case is stacking up well, and Chloe could use some of his tough training.

  “I was afraid,” Chloe repeats.

  “That’s not what you told the public defender?” stresses Luigi. “You said, and I quote, ‘I didn’t realise he was injured.’ Why are you changing your version of events?”

  “I was scared of what he’d do and wanted to get away,” she says, before adding: “I didn’t care if he was injured.”

  “No.” Fixing on her face, I bang my hand on my desk. “Never, ever admit that you’re indifferent to his injuries. That’s what the prosecution wants, to make you seem cold and cruel.”

  Chloe squares her jaw and nods, before trying to stifle a yawn. There are dark circles under her eyes and I can see that she is exhausted. Looking at my watch, I stand up. “Let’s wrap this up. I’ll see you here on Monday. Make sure you’re on time.” Walking out of the office, I ask Jennifer to call a cab for Chloe.

  “What do you think?” I ask Luigi when she’s gone.

  Scratching the stubble on his face, he looks at me for a beat too long.

  “She’s not ready,” Luigi says.

  “Not even close.”

  “The rape offers a reasonable defence. If they believe her. But even then, I’m not sure that will matter if she comes across as inconsiderate of the harm she has caused,” he goes on. “I’m not sure the jurors will be convinced that he raped her. There’s no proof and it can easily be depicted as a lovers’ quarrel. That’s what I’d do if I was in George’s shoes.”

  “No doubt.”

  “When are you interviewing Ben?”

  “On Tuesday.” Picking up a thick folder, I put it in my briefcase. “Fun weekend reading.”

  “I’ll try to sit in.”

  Packing my bag, I leave soon after, wanting to get home with enough time to spare for a shower before going out to dinner with my parents who are visiting for a few days.

  Maya has agreed to babysit and she is already at the house when I get back. She’s sprawled on the floor, Julian and Leah next to her, poring over a book. Mum is standing against the door, looking at them. “Maya reminds me so much of your aunt Jill,” she says. Still staring at the teenager, she continues: “I’m not sure what it is about her, but she looks just like Jill at her age.”

  There’s a lump in my throat and I feel like I cannot speak. “It’s the red hair. Everybody seems to think all redheads look alike.” Then, before she can argue, I head upstairs to get ready for dinner.

  Chapter 19

  “You’re late. Again,” Miles says accusingly on Monday evening, as I walk into the living room and put down my briefcase.

  Closing my eyes, I start counting to ten, trying to compose myself and avoid snapping back. I’m exhausted after spending the last six hours in trial preparations with Chloe.

  “My last meeting ran late.”

  “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “I know.” I sound calmer than I feel. “And I’d have loved to be here earlier. I’m exhausted and have a pile of documents to go over before going to bed.”

  “You cannot let work be your priority,” Miles lashes out. “Don’t forget you have a family.”

  His words feel like swords to my heart and hurt mingles with anger as I try my best to remain calm, refrain from telling him that he too tends to come home late on many occasions. Remind him how I put work on the back burner to spend the weekend with my family, only picking up my case files after everyone had gone to bed.

  But I don’t want the confrontation. “I’m sorry. I’ve had one of those days.”

  Miles’ nostrils flare as he exhales in anger. “I’m going to get changed,” I say, turning towards the staircase. I hear him mumble something under his breath but don’t have the energy to argue. His accusations are adding to my mental strain and I can feel the start of a headache.

  Upstairs I pop into the children’s rooms and look in on them. They’re both fast asleep. I cover Julian up and tuck Leah’s curls behind her ear before tiptoeing towards our bedroom. The hot water feels blissful on my tired body. I stand underneath the shower for so long that the tips of my fingers start to wrinkle. Wrapping a soft towel around me, I sit at the edge of the bath and allow my mind to drift.

  Work has been sucking all the energy out of me. But the tiredness is nothing compared to the sheer disappointment of not seeing Maya tonight. I wanted so badly to be home earlier, to be the one to step in and relieve her from her babysitting duties, to savour a few minutes talking to her alone at the end of the day. That life could have been ours had I taken a different decision all those years ago. Instead, she goes home to Ellen and I have to settle for stolen moments, while constantly looking over my shoulder.

  My phone flashes the arrival of a text message. Ellen’s name flashes on the screen.

  I’m going to be in the city tomorrow. Fancy a late lunch?

  My day is full but I haven’t spent much time with Ellen lately. I miss my friend. And I won’t lose out on an opportunity to hear about Maya.

  Sure

  I text back.

  How are the birthday preparations going?

  Lines of text fill my screen as Ellen rambles on about the specially ordered napkins arriving with a spelling mistake, and her fear that Maya finds out about the upcoming surprise.

  This could have been me, getting ready for Maya’s sixteenth birthday. Instead I’m sitting on the sidelines, a spectator, as Ellen prepares to shower the child I’d given birth to with love and gifts.

  “Are you ok?” I hear Miles on the other side of the door.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I snap out of it. I dry my hair and put on my nightgown before unlocking the door and going back into the bedroom.

  Miles is sitting at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry I snapped,” he says in a gentle voice.

  It’s a little too late for an apology, I want to tell him. That he started a fight despite knowing how stretched I am. I want to scream and throw things, tell him that he’s being unfair, that I never complain about his long hours when he’s stuck late at the hospital, that my job is also important. But I don’t, not wanting to make matters worse, give him any more reason to complain. “It’s ok,” I say instead, the lie sounding hollow to my ears.

  “I’m going downstairs,” I say, putting on my dressing gown and tying the belt tightly around my waist.

  “Ellen sent over shepherd’s pie,” he says. “I can warm some up for you.”

  “It’s ok, I can do it,” I respond, walking towards the door. I stop and look back. “I have some documents to go over.” I turn around, blocking out the disappointment and irritation on Miles’ face.

  *

  “Ready for this?” Luigi asks the following morning as he takes a seat next to me.

  In the conference room, the camera rears its ugly head for Ben’s pre-trial interview. Facing the seat where he will be asked to sit. It’s designed to intimidate and help force out the truth, and I hope it does.

  “Of course,” I respond, taking a sip of my coffee. I’d been up until the early hours preparing for this meeting and I need the caffeine.

  Jennifer pops her head in. “They’re on their way up.” A few minutes later she is back, op
ening the door wide. Carrie Young, one of the assistant prosecutors, pushes Ben’s wheelchair into the conference room. A sense of panic escalates in my head. I hadn’t thought he’d still be using a wheelchair. This might gain him sympathy with the jurors. Luigi hurries around the table to help, moving chairs out of the way to clear a path. The brakes on Ben’s wheelchair squeak when he stops at the table. He stretches his arm for the jug of water but doesn’t quite reach it, making a low growling noise as he leans back in the chair. “Here you go,” I say, filling a glass for him.

  While everyone finds their seat, I take a proper look at Ben. It’s the first time I’ve seen him and I use the few seconds to take stock of the young man in front of me. Even in his seated position, I can see that he’s tall, probably close to six feet if not more. Muscles can be seen rippling under his light sweater as he takes the glass of water and I notice that his hands are impossibly large, the veins protruding ominously.

  “Are you comfortable?” I ask him when everyone has taken their seat.

  Ben shrugs but doesn’t respond.

  “We will be recording this interview.” I signal to Jennifer to switch on the camera.

  “Can you please state your name for the record?” I ask.

  “Ben Grant.”

  “How old are you Mr Grant?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “What do you do?”

  Ben stares at me blankly. “What’s your job?” I ask.

  “Uhm, I’m an actor.”

  “What movies or shows have you been in?”

  Ben looks at Claire and she nods. “I’ve been in some adverts,” he responds. Then he quickly adds: “But I had just secured a recurring role in a new TV series.”

  “Congratulations,” I say in a flat tone. “What’s your relationship with Chloe Wilson?”