to give up work, is that it?” My head spins. I wonder if Becca is part of some obscure cult, some outdated organization that believes women belong in the home. “Okay. She’ll give up.” Never make promises, that’s what they say at work. Fuck that. This isn’t work; this is my daughter. I’ll promise the world if it keeps her safe. I will dance to Becca’s tune.
Sophia stirs, her hair brushing against Becca’s hand and the needle so close to her neck. “Mummy!”
“Don’t touch her!” My arms reach out without my telling them.
Becca screams at me, “Stay where you are!”
“Mummy! Mummy!” Sophia twists in Becca’s arms, startled and scared. She’s struggling to get free, crying out in confusion as Becca clutches tighter.
“Sophia!” I shout. “Don’t move!”
“Daddy!”
I take a step forward, letting go of the counter and feeling the room spin about me. Becca brandishes the syringe. They’re less than six feet away—I think; they keep moving, or I’m moving, or the room’s moving. All I have to do is grab the arm holding the syringe. If she drops Sophia, it doesn’t matter; it’s not far to the ground, and it won’t hurt her, not like the insulin. How much is there? What will it do to her?
“Don’t come any closer,” Becca says. “I’ll do it. I will. I’ll do it!”
The repetition gives me hope. She’s frightened. She’s trying to convince herself she’s got what it takes. I make myself speak slowly and calmly.
“This isn’t the right way to convince people to share your beliefs, Becca.”
“We’re forcing people to have the conversation. That’s the first step.”
We.
Becca’s still young—if not as young as she made out. There’s someone else pulling the strings.
“Who’s making you do this?”
“No one’s making me. I can see it for myself. It’s everyone’s duty to act.”
“Who’s in charge?”
Becca laughs. “Typical copper! It’s all about hierarchy for you lot, isn’t it? The establishment. The powers that be. When will you see that it’s the establishment that’s fucking everything up?”
Sophia is crying. She’s trying to get free, but Becca’s grip is too strong. They’re both panicking, both fighting against each other, and any minute now, that needle’s going straight into Sophia…
“If you inject her with that, she’ll die, and you’ll go to prison for murder.”
Sophia screams, and it kills me to be the cause, but I have to get through to Becca before it’s too late. Fog swirls around my head, suddenly too heavy for my body. If I pass out, what will happen to Sophia? Where will Becca take her?
“If Mina does the right thing, I’ll let her go.”
Everything is fuzzy. Nothing makes sense. Mina won’t be home for days; is Becca planning to keep Sophia like this till then? “Mina’s on a plane. She can’t—”
“If she does what she’s told, the tracking app will show her plane changing course, and you’ll be free to go.”
“What…? Do you think—?” I can’t formulate a sentence, can’t even work out what this means. Mina can’t make the plane change course—unless… Realization dawns on me.
Unless she’s being threatened too.
“And if the plane doesn’t change course?”
Becca makes the smallest of movements with the hand holding the syringe. At the end of the needle, a bead of clear liquid hesitates for a second before dropping onto Sophia’s neck. My vision blurs, a dark tunnel between me and my daughter, nothing else around us. Nothing else matters. I have to get to Sophia, have to just snatch her, and if Becca presses the needle in, I’ll need sugar I’ll call an ambulance I’ll call 999 I won’t let Sophia down won’t let her down… I tell my legs to run forward and they move but not fast enough and I see the ground coming up to meet me and a thick black fog wraps itself around me as everything goes quiet.
TWENTY-THREE
8 HOURS FROM SYDNEY | MINA
There’s a collective stirring as Cesca follows me into the cabin, the way the atmosphere in the office changes when the boss walks in. I hear her saying hello, and I hope you’re enjoying the flight, and conditions are looking good—we might even get in early, and my head is heavy with guilt. I stop to let a passenger pass, and Cesca does the same, and for a second, we stand side by side, and I see her face on the edge of my vision. Older than me but still young, with high cheekbones and cropped, dark hair with a heavy fringe that sweeps across her eyes.
As the passenger passes,