The Pact

by Amy Heydenrych

  Bernard removes his glasses, deep in thought.

  ‘Hmm, this is a strange case. Are you sure that the crime is confined to this one murder?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He rustles through a stack of unsorted files. He pulls out one with ‘media law’ scrawled on the spine. ‘Because, if you take a look here, you will see that a journalist has a right to be in possession of classified information, especially if they can prove it is in the public interest. Your new editor should be supporting you in developing this story, not penalizing you for how you obtain your information.’

  Isla’s spirit lifts. She knew Bernard would somehow make her feel better. ‘I suppose so.’

  He is excited now, pacing the small space, ‘Think about it. The only way we journalists break a story is through treading the fine line between what is public and what is classified. There has been no recent case in media history where a journalist has been arrested based on information in their possession.’

  She knows where this is going, but she needs him to say it. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That now is not the time to back down, but to put into practice everything I taught you. Someone out there is trying to scare you, which makes me think that you are on to something big. Who did you say you saw at the café again?’

  Isla finds the image of the phone of the three men gathered. Each one connected. Each one guilty, she’s sure of it.

  ‘There they are. That’s Kenneth, as you know, and that’s Julian. I just can’t figure out who the third man is.’

  Bernard pulls the phone towards him for a closer look. ‘I’m sure I know that guy. I think he might be a lawyer, or a member of the public prosecution, maybe even the police! But I’m certain that they are trying to stop you from uncovering something. You just have to figure out what.’

  Chapter 89

  Freya

  Six and a half weeks after the murder

  The men stand in a row, sullen, aggressive. Freya shrinks back at the sight of them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Detective Cohen, as if reading her mind. ‘This is one-way glass. They can’t see you.’

  But their expressions tell a different story. She can feel the hate searing into her. She once trusted that nobody could see her phone, her emails, the inane daily circle she made to work and back every day, but now she is not so sure.

  She gulps. Folds her arms.

  ‘The one in the middle,’ she says quietly.

  ‘What is that?’ says Detective Cohen.

  She would recognize him from anywhere. The nice-guy smile, the too-tight sports gear. His breathing, quick and hot against her face. Out of the other offenders he stands out, like a mistake, or a false accusation. ‘It’s him,’ she says, louder and surer. ‘The one in the middle – number three.’

  Detective Cohen murmurs something to the officer, and the men are led away. Together, they walk to his office.

  ‘Well, I have good news,’ he says. ‘The man you identified matched the prints on the gift delivered to your office. He already has a record for stalking and harassing three separate women. Thanks to your testimony, we will be able to sentence him to all charges.’

  Freya sighs. It’s almost too good to be true. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, I would like to thank you for backing yourself, and reporting this. Thanks to you, many other women won’t go through the same trauma you did.’

  Does she ask the question hot on her lips? Does she want to know?

  ‘Has he told you why? Why me?’

  Detective Cohen says, ‘From what I can gather from our questioning so far, it was completely random. He happened to be browsing Spark.com when your advert was posted, and something about your profile, and the words written, captured his imagination. All his victims match a similar profile. Medium height, brown hair, brown eyes. Every time, he has targeted a woman through online dating.’

  Freya waits for the relief to hit her, but it never does. All these weeks of fear seem so pointless, especially now that they’ve been linked to a fluke in circumstance. It also doesn’t explain who posted the advert in the first place, and why.

  Detective Cohen sees her out. ‘By the way, what happened to your eye?’

  She freezes. She’s had enough of the cold, forbidding interior of the police station. She’s had enough of expanding on every detail in a testimony. Under it all, there is an insistent, irrational fear that he will react to her allegations the same way Ruth and Julian did.

  ‘It’s silly,’ she lies, ‘I tripped over a weight at gym and fell flat on my face.’

  ‘You lift? I’m impressed.’ He shakes her hand. ‘Take care, Freya. And if anything else comes up, you have my number.’

  Standing in the harsh midday sun, Freya is not sure what to do next. The only thing she can think of is to check her phone. One unread message. Probably Julian or Ruth, checking where she is, or Jasmin, reminding her of the midwife appointment she has scheduled for her. But it is a number she doesn’t know.

  No, she whispers.

  No, no, no.

  The message: You’re not as safe as you think you are.

  Chapter 90

  Freya

  Six and a half weeks after the murder

  Jasmin holds Freya’s hand as they cross the street.

  ‘He’s coming to get me,’ Freya says, breathing heavily, ‘I see him in the faces of all men, all the time.’

  ‘Darling, no! That message is probably one left over from before that man was arrested.’

  But what if the person who posted that advert wants to hurt her, too? Simon has sent Freya a report on their progress so far on identifying the origin of the message. ‘We are dealing with Internet service providers and the support team at Spark to try to find the information we’d need to identify the harasser, but this takes time, unfortunately. There is a lot of red tape. Some other members of my team are also looking into classified information which may hold clues as to who created your fake profile, and when.’

  This isn’t helpful on days like today, when Freya keeps turning and looking over her shoulder, convinced someone is about to attack her.

  Jasmin opens a granola bar and offers her a bite. ‘What about Jay?’

  ‘You mean, what if he was behind the messages?’

  ‘He could be. We already know he was comfortable doing the same thing to Nicole, and look how he lashed out at you! And he is a coder like you, and a hacker too. It would be easy for him, surely?’

  ‘It can’t be. Aggressive as he was the last time he saw me, I just can’t imagine it. He made me swear not to tell anyone about our prank, and wanted to distance himself from that night as much as possible. Why would he do the same thing again?’

  Freya’s mind had started to loop over the idea of another source of the original message – Julian. He could access Freya’s computer if he wanted to, posted anything as her, and then have the technological skill to erase his tracks. Now that she has begun to see the darker, controlling side to him, she can imagine him doing it without a trace of guilt. But she doesn’t dare accuse him of this, not now, not yet.

  ‘Well, I am here for you no matter what, and now I am excited to support you and your baby!’

  Over the past few years, Jasmin has quietly unwound further and further into her true hippy self. She is a qualified kundalini yoga teacher, a part-time reiki practitioner and a doula, who has already helped over a dozen women give birth. Freya didn’t think to ask Jasmin the details of her job in the moments where she used to return to their house share in the early hours of the morning, exhausted and fragrant with essential oils, but now she is grateful. Jasmin is making this new world of motherhood feel a little less alien to her.

  Freya pumps with adrenaline but Jasmin is surprisingly calm. ‘The birth of a child is a beautiful thing.’ And, as if reading Freya’s mind, she adds, ‘There is never a right time for it. You are strong, capable and you want to be a mother right now, so you will m
ake a plan.’

  Jasmin’s acceptance forms a stark contrast to the reactions of Hattie and Kate.

  ‘I told you what Ruth said. A pregnancy could be the end of my career. Everyone knows the rumors. On paper, tech firms are supposed to be all-inclusive and accepting of everyone but they find ways to kick you out, loopholes.’ The pain spasms in Freya’s side again, and she flinches.

  ‘There is still a lot to be grateful for,’ says Jasmin. ‘Some of the poorer women I have worked with get fired on the spot, because they’re involved in physical work, like packing. You have some room to work around this, and stand your ground. You need to be prepared to fight, Freya.’

  Her mind returns to the evening in the bar with Melanie. She’s been so focused on her immediate problems with Jay that she hasn’t figured out how to act on the explosive information she uncovered that night. She thinks of all the strong, intelligent women at Atypical, going about their day-to-day work, ignoring their own discomfort, dismissing their experiences with their CEO. She needs to speak up soon because, if she doesn’t, she fears that nobody will. It’s not just about fighting the harassment of strangers anymore. Thanks to changing her number and Detective Cohen’s efforts, her stalker will be charged and nobody who saw that advert will ever contact her again. She swallows as she thinks of the other message, the one that shocked her as she left the station. The only explanation is that the harassment is closer to home than she first imagined.

  Talking about the potential life with her baby hurts, and Freya begins to wonder if her decision is the right one after all. It’s been like this the past week, and growing in intensity, this pendulum swinging from one future to another. ‘And what if they keep me on, then what? All the meeting rooms at Atypical are made of glass – there would be nowhere for me to pump breastmilk. And who would I leave her with?’

  Jasmin nods quietly, taking it all in. ‘You’re so sure it’s a girl.’

  It wasn’t conscious, but she did see the baby as a girl – a tough little fighter, here against all odds. ‘I just feel it.’

  They arrive at the home office of the midwife. Jasmin has assured her she is the best in the business, and used to the anxieties of almost-mothers. Her name is Sheryl, and she stands in the doorway, tall, gray-haired, and formidable. She brings to mind the tender pragmatism found in the social workers of her youth.

  There are posters on the wall. A cross-section of a uterus with a baby within it. A step-by-step guide on how best to latch a baby to the breast. Massage techniques for when the baby has colic. She sees her mother differently now – small, scared, the type of academic who is uneasy in big crowds. She imagines her doing these checkups, shamed and alone, in a world very different to the one she lives in today. Did she cry every time? Did she look at the posters on the wall and wonder, once or twice, maybe I could take a shot at this?

  Sheryl hands her a registration form with the kind of overly personal questions unique to this situation. Are her nipples inverted? She peers inside her shirt to check.

  ‘Have you thought about your birth plan?’

  Freya looks to Jasmin. ‘Uh, a natural birth?’

  Sheryl and Jasmin exchange a look. ‘No, it’s about a bit more than that. You can choose some birth affirmations to stick up on the wall, light some candles, choose a playlist and decide who you want in the room during the delivery.’

  Jasmin seems so confident and relaxed about this, and Freya is filled with pride at her friend. But the idea that there is going to be a birth, a moment where this idea becomes real is both terrifying and lonely. It will be just her, the midwife and Jasmin in the room. No partner holding her hand and wiping her brow like she always imagined. The journey back home will be just the two of them, mom and baby, embarking on their life together, alone.

  ‘But we don’t need to go into those details yet, do we, Sheryl? All we’re saying is that you can choose how your birth unfolds. You don’t have to feel pressured, scared or alone,’ Jasmin tells her.

  Freya nods, feeling stronger. Maybe I’m a hero, Freya thinks. Maybe I can transform the mess of my life into something beautiful too.

  As Freya lies back on the bed, her heart starts to beat faster. What if hers is the only heartbeat? What if there is something wrong? The past few months have been fraught with the fear directed at people outside of her, she never thought to worry about this.

  ‘Just lie back and relax.’ Sheryl lifts up her shirt and places a Doppler device on the slight swell of her belly. ‘This will feel a little bit cold. Remember, you are very early on in your pregnancy, so it may be too soon to hear a heartbeat.’

  But then it fills the room. Like one thousand galloping horses. Like the crashing of waves on a stormy coastline. Again and again, unmistakable.

  ‘Jasmin!’ She clutches her friend’s hand. Tears fall down her cheeks. ‘That’s my baby! Hello, my baby, hello, my love!’ There she is, unmistakably alive, furiously vital, untouched by the chaos around her.

  When the scan is over, Freya stands on the sidewalk outside for a minute, dazed. Jasmin holds her tight, without saying a word. Nothing could express the beauty, the glory of it.

  ‘You know,’ Jasmin says, ‘this doesn’t have to be the end of anything. Have you ever considered the idea that Ruth may be wrong? That they are prejudiced against you because you are a woman? You have every right to want a family.’

  Perhaps it is possible to imagine an alternate future, one in which she is valued and her pregnancy is celebrated.

  She and Jasmin make their way home, arm in arm, as the clouds in the sky turn pink.

  Chapter 91

  Isla

  Six and a half weeks after the murder

  ‘Come on, people, I know my way inside the damn station!’ Two cops, stony-faced, pay Isla no attention. They silently lead her to a small room for questioning.

  During her first year as a crime reporter, entering the station was like stepping into a cathedral. The enforced silence, the severe sense of discipline. In the beginning she would walk through the cold, gray corridors holding her breath, afraid to make a wrong move. Today she is defiant. The men and women she has worked with so closely over the years pretend they don’t know her. They ignore the fact that one of them is to blame for bringing her over here in the first place.

  Simon. So-called friend, co-conspirator and the person who must have ratted her out. What a snake. She sees him as she paces through the office, standing in the kitchen clutching one of the brie and rocket sandwiches he insists on making each day to save himself money. She should confront him, but she is far too hurt.

  Isla recognizes the officer from her disciplinary hearing. He is as unmoved as during that afternoon. Her body is one ragged, rapid heartbeat. It’s the ones with the poker faces that are the best at questioning. They are the ones that will interrogate you until you snap and admit to something you didn’t even do.

  Come on, Isla, she thinks to herself, remember what Bernard said. They are out to get you for a reason that has nothing to do with you. A few pink, glittery stickers sparkle on the officer’s wrist. A father of little girls. Always look at the person behind the story, even when that person is coming for you.

  ‘You have not been one hundred percent objective in your research for this case,’ he says. ‘You have gone out of your way to pursue persons of interest and obtain classified information, even though a journalist of your experience should know better.’ He looks up at her. ‘The only question is why? What were your intentions for this information and your reportage of this case?’

  How can she explain that Nicole’s murder took her back to the night that changed the course of her life? That getting justice and understanding the motives of every person around her feels like a form of redemption?

  He drums his fingers on the table, the shining stickers catching the light above. ‘Do you know something we don’t?’

  For a moment she sees the officer’s guard slip. He is a father, a person. She tries to look at him
with compassion, and reframe his hardness as crystallized fear.

  She braces herself, remembers what Bernard said. ‘According to US media law, it is my legal right as a journalist to possess classified information, if it is deemed to be in the public interest. Nicole was murdered in a dense block of apartments situated in a highly urbanized part of San Francisco, just a street away from a school. I believed that the documents were a significant part of the case, and I shared them with my source in order to secure her trust.’

  It’s cocky, but Isla did her research. She knows her rights now. They can try and frighten her all they like, but today they can’t arrest her.

  Suddenly, the questioning is over. Isla stands outside the station for a moment, allowing the bright sun to soothe her trembling body. For someone who chose to be a crime reporter, police stations are revered places that, when she least expects it, bring up aching memories of feeling small, scared and unheard.

  She sits on the brick wall, waiting to feel more grounded. Isla is tired, so very tired. She doesn’t even have the energy to move away when she sees Simon approaching her.

  He lights a cigarette. ‘You mind if I smoke?’

  ‘I mind that you’re here next to me.’

  Simon looks hurt. ‘You haven’t been answering my calls, Isla.’

  Of course she hasn’t. Every time she has seen his number on her phone, she has ignored it.

  She can’t hold it in any longer. ‘You could have just said no when I asked you for those documents. You didn’t have to go and tell your boss. You know how tough things have been for me lately.’ As she utters that statement, she realizes how much she has shared with him while nursing steaming paper cups on the edges of police tape, she thinks back to that evening, laughing at the band in the park. Their closeness has come on incrementally, organically. That’s why his betrayal hurts so much. She let him get too close. For the first time in a decade, she let her guard down.