me from behind. Pain sliced through me as he rammed repeatedly into me with animal grunts.
He came inside me with a violent thrust, his balls pressing hard against my buttocks.
It seemed to release everything in him. He withdrew and dropped me to the floor. Wet between my legs, I curled into a fetal ball, shaking. And I knew now that my nightmare after the first night I’d spent in this house had not been a nightmare at all. It had been real. The sex had been aggressive and it had not been consensual and for whatever reason the memory of it had not encoded into my brain properly.
He pushed at me with the toe of his shoe.
“Get up,” he said, stepping over me as he zipped up his pants. “You look disgusting. Clean up and go to bed. You’re a drunken mess.”
I couldn’t move.
“Go!” He raised his foot to kick. I cringed more tightly into a ball, snot and blood dribbling over my chin as I mewled. He stopped.
I waited. Time stretched. I could hear wind in the gum trees outside. I wanted to go home.
He crouched down and gently moved damp, sticky hair away from my tear- and bloodstained face. He traced his finger softly over my cheek. I was too afraid even to flinch away.
“You should go upstairs, sweetheart.”
I lay there stunned.
“Come on, I’ll help you up.” He put his hands under my arms and drew me to my feet. I could barely stand, my legs were shaking so hard. “Go upstairs.”
I hesitated, then reached for my phone on the marble counter. But he placed his hand firmly over mine.
“No,” he said quietly. “Leave it.”
I didn’t dare cross him. Not now.
I went upstairs without my phone. I entered the dark room and went across to the window. I looked out into the street. I could see that Corolla again. Parked in shadow across the street. Someone was inside. Watching.
I put my hand on the windowpane.
Help me.
The headlights came on. I heard the engine. The car pulled out of the parking space and drove down the street. Brake lights flared at the corner. It turned and was gone. Bats shrieked and fluttered in the dark.
THE MURDER TRIAL
Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.
I watch from the dock as Lorrington winds up to cut Lozza down. I don’t feel bad for her. It’s them or me.
“So, Senior Constable Bianchi, to be clear,” Lorrington says in his resonant baritone, “neither Constable Abbott nor Constable McGonigle accompanied you to the abandoned homestead—you went to the house alone?”
Lozza speaks clearly into the microphone. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Two hours and twenty-three minutes—that’s how long you were all alone with the evidence before a trained team could get in.”
“Objection!” Konikova says, lurching to her feet again. “This serves no purpose other than—”
“Withdrawn.” Lorrington makes as though he’s about to sit; then suddenly he rises again to his full height and clasps the sides of his lectern. “Did you touch anything inside the house?”
“Just one item. I used gloves. I replaced it as I’d found it.”
“What item was that?”
“A baseball cap. A pale-blue Nike ball cap.”
Lorrington straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and tilts up his chin. “Why that one object and no other?”
Lozza wavers. Mistake. The jury notices her indecision. “I . . . At first I wasn’t sure what the object was. I wanted to see—to be certain.”
“To be certain that it was a baseball cap? Did you know anyone who owned a cap just like it?”
“Yes. Ellie Cresswell-Smith was seen by several witnesses wearing a blue cap and windbreaker when she and her husband left the Bonny River boat launch in the Abracadabra. It was the last time anyone saw him alive.”
Lorrington nods slowly. He appears to be consulting his binder and puzzling over something. I like my lawyer more and more. A consummate thespian.
“Had you personally met Martin Cresswell-Smith prior to his disappearance?” he asks more quietly. The jurors almost lean forward.
“Ah, we met briefly. On the beach. It . . . it’s a small town.”
“Did you like Mr. Cresswell-Smith, Senior Constable Bianchi?”
Konikova surges to her feet. “Objection. Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”
“Your Honor.” Lorrington swings to face the judge. “We plan to demonstrate the relevance.”
“Then please don’t delay in getting to the point, Mr. Lorrington. Some of us are thinking of lunch.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I’ll repeat the question. Senior Constable Bianchi, did you like Mr. Cresswell-Smith?”