Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Thrillers; Domestic Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Imogen Brown is a normal 16 year old girl. She's obsessed with beach volleyball, she occasionally enjoys the company of her younger sister Jemima, she's saving for her first car ... and she feels like she doesn't belong. She thinks that her parents, Kat and Dylan are hypocrites, playing the perfect family when she knows they really argue all the time. What Imogen doesn't know is that they're in financial difficulty, after Dylan lost a number of his construction clients. Kat is trying to work things out with him, as all she's ever wanted is a tight-knit family — the family she never had.

One Friday evening, Kat and Dylan have their biggest fight yet — Dylan is snappy and out of character, saying things he doesn't mean. When Kat goes to wake Imogen the next day, she's not in her bed. Kat and Dylan call her friends, but no-one has seen her since the previous day at school. Jemima had stayed at a friend's house, and hadn't seen or heard from her sister since the previous morning. Imogen has gone missing.

Release date: January 23, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Serial killer.

It has a ring to it, don’t you think? A certain … prestige. A little thrill that runs up the spine and ignites the imagination at the utterance of those two words.

I know, I know; I shouldn’t revel in it. I’m well aware of that, and yet … well, I suppose you could say that my macabre title is more than I could ever have hoped to achieve in this life. It’s my legacy. My name will be written into history books and talked about well after I die. People – smart, successful, well-respected people – will study me, will talk about me, will spend years wishing they could somehow get inside my brain. Wishing that they could understand.

If I hadn’t done what I did, I’d be forgotten. I’d die unknown, except to a handful of people, who themselves would be unheard of. I’d have no achievements to my name, no one would even notice that I was gone. It’s not why I did it; I didn’t crave the notoriety. I never planned this. But I can’t pretend it isn’t a bonus.

My honesty is surprising to some, but it shouldn’t be. So many people out there would kill – only figuratively, of course – to have what I have. To be immortalised the way I have been.

They’d deny it, acting outraged at the mere suggestion that they envy me. People are so precious about distancing themselves from the darkness inside of them. Everyone wants to pretend that they don’t have it, that they are free from demons, untethered from their basest impulses. But depravity is there, lurking inside each and every one of us. For some, like myself, it’s a deeper shade of darkness, a shadow filling my lungs like oxygen and pulsing through my bloodstream. Feeding me, nurturing me. For others, perhaps, it’s tamer, a creature that occasionally wends its way around their conscience, reminding them of its presence. But whether loud and raging or timid and mewling, it’s there. In everyone.

If only the others could throw off the burden of expectation. If only, like me, they could allow themselves to surrender completely to their true nature. But they won’t. They can’t. They care too deeply about ‘Doing the Right Thing’, even if ‘Doing the Right Thing’ is little more than a social construct, designed to subdue the masses, to control the behaviour of the many.

If everyone was brave like me, I suppose the label ‘serial killer’ would hold less power. It would be the ordinary, not the exceptional.

So, no. I shouldn’t take pride in it. Logic tells me that. Society tells me that. But it’s who I am. And, in the end, everyone in this country knows my name. I’ll just take a stab in the dark here (pun obviously intended) and say that that’s a hell of a lot more than you can claim.

So tell me: who’s the real success here?

My hands grip the steering wheel, my knuckles leached of their colour. I glance distractedly in the rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of my paler-than-usual face as I check for traffic. Indicating, I turn the wheel, steering onto the side road and then into the already full parking lot, my heart thudding, my mouth dry.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, I tap the screen in front of me and select ‘Redial’. As it rings, I lean forward and stare through the windscreen at the giant Australian flag sailing above the building’s entrance, white stars flapping against the backdrop of a cloudless blue sky.

‘Hey, Kat, what’s up?’ My husband’s voice, usually an instant injection of calm, isn’t enough to stop the bubble of anxiety from ballooning in my chest.

‘Hi, um, can you come home please?’

‘I’m right in the middle of getting this frame up, so it’s not a great time. Everything OK?’

Of course it’s not a good time. But, then again, is there ever a convenient moment for something like this? Dylan needs this job, and needs to do it well; the house he’s building in that new suburb down south is the first big contract he’s had in months. If he impresses this client, the referrals could keep his business booming for years, so he’s been working flat out for weeks, regardless of the weather. I don’t know how he does it – lugging timber and climbing scaffolding and driving forklifts in the scalding sun – but he says he’s used to it after so many years.

‘No, not really,’ I say. ‘I just got to the school. Apparently, Imogen … well, they’re saying she punched someone.’

Saying the words out loud sounds like a betrayal. Of our daughter, of everything we’ve worked so hard for, of our secrets.

A rush of air fills the car from my speakers. Dylan’s quick intake of breath. Shock, to match mine.

‘That’s my girl.’

I catch his words, despite them being muttered almost under his breath.

‘Dylan!’

It was never a secret that Dylan dreamed of having a son. He had visions of kicking a football around in the backyard with a brown-haired little boy who would take over his business after transforming into a man, who he could have a beer with and light bonfires with and whatever else it is that men imagine doing with their sons. I wonder, not for the first time, if he wishes things had been different. If he regrets the decision we made all those years ago. If he’d prefer to have tonight’s stern talk about peaceful conflict resolution with a boy.

‘What?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’m not allowed to be proud of my daughter for standing up for herself?’

‘We don’t know what happened yet. We don’t know if she was standing up for herself.’

‘Well, I choose to believe the best in people. Especially my own children. So, unless I’m presented with proof that suggests otherwise, I’ll be assuming that Imogen was doing the right thing.’

He doesn’t need to say the words unlike you. They fill the car, swelling around me.

‘Please don’t tell her that punching someone is the right thing,’ I groan, my anxiety gradually dissipating. Maybe I was blowing this out of proportion. Perhaps Dylan is right, and it’s just a misunderstanding. I nod, even though he can’t see me. ‘You’re right. I’m not going to jump to conclusions.’

‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘Wait till you have all the facts.’

‘Just get home as soon as you can, please. I don’t want to deal with this on my own.’

‘OK,’ he agrees. ‘Just let me get the guys started on this roof, and I’ll head home as soon as I can.’

He hangs up and I let the silence wash over me. Talking with Dylan temporarily calmed my nerves, but now I’m left to walk into the school office alone, to complete the parental version of a walk of shame without any backup.

The heat of the day blasts me as I step out of my air-conditioned cocoon and follow the line of gum trees to the school office.

I’m met with unconcealed contempt when I introduce myself to the receptionist, stepping aside so the bunch of pink roses in the vase on her desk is shielded from view.

‘Oh, hello Mrs Braidwood,’ the silver-haired woman says, looking me up and down judgementally, as though my daughter punching someone is somehow my fault. I suppose, indirectly, it is. It’s always the mother’s fault, isn’t it?

After a thoroughly disapproving look-over, I’m led down a corridor with small rooms on the left-hand side. Sick bays, presumably, although I’ve never been to this part of the school before. The door to the first room is open, and I peer inside. Sitting on the bed, sobbing quietly, is a girl with dark hair and features, an enormous bruise blooming across her left eye and blood smeared underneath her nose. My veins turn icy. Did my daughter really do that?

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, an old, nagging fear begins to rise. I force it back down, knowing it won’t do anyone any good for me to dwell on those thoughts. It didn’t help me then, and it won’t help me now. And revisiting those anxieties certainly won’t help Imogen. She’s my focus now.

Breathing deeply in an attempt to slow my heartbeat, I continue following the receptionist down the corridor. She gestures into the next room. There’s my daughter, blonde and lithe, tall and poised. The complete opposite of the distraught young woman I saw in the room next door.

‘Imogen!’ I say, rushing towards her. ‘Are you OK? What happened?’

I’m desperate for her to tell me that she was defending some younger girl’s honour, or that she was stopping a bully, that she had no other choice, that she knows it was wrong but she didn’t know what else she could possibly do in the moment.

She stares at the floor and says nothing.

‘Immy?’

‘She hasn’t said anything since the fight,’ says a voice from behind me.

I turn to find a nurse, young and stern – and clearly unimpressed – standing in the corner.

‘OK, but what happened?’

‘The students won’t say,’ she replies, her lips drawn into a tight, thin line. ‘Emerald – the girl who was assaulted – says it was unprovoked. There weren’t any witnesses, so it seems like it’s your daughter’s word against hers.’

Dylan’s declaration from our phone conversation echoes in my mind: Unless I’m presented with proof that suggests otherwise, I’ll be assuming that Imogen was doing the right thing. I should be making the same assumption. She’s my daughter. I should trust her over anyone else.

But there it is again: that fear, like a creature in hibernation, long-forgotten but still alive. Curled up in some dark corner, strengthening and growing and waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

‘Well, I stand by whatever my daughter says happened,’ I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my doubts.

Imogen looks up at me in sharp surprise.

‘As I mentioned, she hasn’t said,’ the nurse points out sarcastically.

I narrow my eyes at her and pick up Imogen’s school bag.

‘Come on,’ I say to my daughter. Then, turning to the nurse, ‘I’m taking her home.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Braidwood, but you will need to speak to the principal to discuss next steps and potential disciplinary action.’

‘Fine. I’ll call her,’ I snap. ‘Right now, my main concern is my daughter and making sure she’s OK.’

She begins protesting, but I tune her out.

Imogen follows me out of the head office, past the receptionist who’s calling my name and into the car park, where I let out a long, trembling breath. We get into the car without a word, and I start the engine, driving away from the school with my heart in my throat.

It’s only when we’re halfway home that I risk glancing at my daughter. She’s staring straight ahead, looking younger than her sixteen years in her blue and green striped polo shirt. Her hair is poker-straight and unruffled, her clothing intact, only a tiny smear of blood on her chest that in-dicates anything is amiss. She must have cleaned herself up. She’s calm, no trace of a violent incident to be found in her posture, on her face. A thrill of fear ripples down my spine.

Focusing on the road again, I use the distraction of changing lanes as a chance to compose myself, to dispel the image of Emerald, blood pooling under her nose, tears coursing down her cheeks.

I clear my throat, unsure how to broach the subject, how to ask the questions burning in my chest without starting a fight. She’s difficult to talk to at the best of times, and this certainly doesn’t count as one of those.

‘Mum,’ she says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse her head swivelling to face me. I keep my focus on the road.

‘Yes?’

I can barely breathe while I wait for her to speak again. I have no idea what she’s going to say, but I desperately want her to tell me she didn’t do it, that it was all a big misunderstanding. Or at least that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s the victim in this. Not the poor girl with the crushed nose and black eye.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

I wait for more, but nothing else comes. I whip my head around, but she’s focused on something ahead of us again, her arms crossed over her chest.

‘That’s it?’ I’m incredulous. ‘That’s all I get, just, “thanks”?’

‘Mum—’

‘Imogen, I didn’t stand up for you in there so you could just carry on and pretend nothing happened. I need to hear from you exactly what made you assault that poor girl—’

‘Assault her?!’ Imogen yells. ‘So much for believing whatever I tell you. You’ve clearly just jumped to your own conclusion, as always. So what was that back there, were you just acting the part? Did Dad tell you to stand up for me?’

‘I saw her face, Imogen,’ I say through clenched teeth, struggling to control my emotions. I wish Dylan were here; he’d know how to speak to our daughter without starting a war. He’d believe the best in her. He’d know how to trust her.

‘Yeah? Well, did you see what happened, too?’

‘No, but—’

‘But nothing, Mum,’ she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. ‘If you didn’t see it, maybe you should keep a lid on your opinion. Otherwise you’re just as bad as that bitch of a nurse.’

‘Imogen!’

‘What? She is a bitch, everyone knows it.’

My blood is pounding behind my eyes, a mix of rage and panic. Panic that I can’t get through to her. That my fears aren’t just deep-seated paranoia. I take a breath and try to imagine what Dylan would say.

‘I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,’ I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. ‘I should have waited for you to explain what happened.’

Silence.

‘So … what happened?’

I keep my eyes ahead as I turn off the main road, too nervous to look at my daughter in case my fragile calm is shattered.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she says quietly.

‘What do you mean, you can’t tell me?’

‘I just … I really need you to trust me, Mum. I can’t tell you what happened, but I can say that I didn’t assault Emerald. I was … helping someone.’

Relief washes over me, but it’s only temporary. I want to believe that Imogen was doing the right thing, but what she’s saying doesn’t make sense. My relief is replaced almost immediately by more questions, more doubt. ‘Was Emerald bullying someone?’

‘Mum, I just told you, I can’t say.’

‘Why not?’ I ask as I pull the car into our driveway. I turn the engine off, and as Imogen reaches to grab the door handle, I grip her arm lightly. ‘Imogen. Answer me, please.’

‘God, Mum,’ she huffs, wrenching her arm away from me and opening the door with as much force as she can muster. ‘What part of “I can’t say” don’t you understand? Why can’t you ever just take my word for it? I thought you were on my side, but you’re not. You never are.’

She climbs out and slams the door, stalking towards the house as the car reverberates. I stay buckled in, my body trembling, my mind whirring, wondering what happened to my sweet little girl. But I don’t need to wonder; I know what happened. She grew up. This is just normal, hormonal teenage behaviour.

Isn’t it?

That voice, the one that’s been nagging at me since I received the phone call from the school, is growing louder and more insistent, gnawing away at me, eroding any confidence I might have had in my daughter’s version of events.

I close my eyes.

‘No,’ I whisper out loud. ‘She’s just a teenager. That’s all this is. It’s just a phase.’

And an inner voice comes echoing back, loud and clear, sending a chill down my spine, despite the baking heat.

But what if it’s not a phase? it taunts. What if that’s exactly who she is?

Slowly, methodically, Imogen rubbed the sudsy plate with a damp tea towel, going over the same spot again and again, smearing the water around rather than drying it. She could hear her parents whispering in the living room, discussing her. Well, not so much her as the incident. She tried to imagine their conversation. Her dad, level-headed and determined to avoid conflict, would be telling her mum to give their daughter a chance, to listen to her point of view. And her mum, who seemed to believe that there wasn’t a single good bone in Imogen’s body, would be coming up with every excuse not to trust her.

Imogen closed her eyes tightly, letting resentment take over. But then a memory surfaced – her mum’s dismissal of the school nurse, the way she had marched Imogen out of the office – twisting around the edges of her carefully arranged rage. She felt a surge of … what was that? Pride? Affection, maybe. It wasn’t anger, anyway. And that made things complicated, which was the last thing she needed. She’d had enough of complicated.

It seemed that, over and over, Imogen was learning that life wasn’t fair, no matter how desperately she wanted it to be. She’d done the only thing she could have done earlier that day at school with Emerald. She didn’t have any other choice, she was certain of it. But she couldn’t explain herself without making everything so much worse, so she just had to let everyone assume the worst about her. Imogen knew that wasn’t who she was – who she really was.

She almost let out a bark of laughter. What would her mum know about who she really was, anyway? She couldn’t see what was right in front of her.

‘Imogen?’ Her dad’s raised voice cut through the whispers.

Imogen finished wiping the plate, placing it carefully in the cupboard above her before walking through to the living room, tea towel hanging limply by her side.

She stood in the doorway and absorbed the scene: her dad sitting on the sofa, his hands clasped awkwardly in his lap – his serious pose. And her mum standing with her arms crossed, her face stony, like she was suppressing rage. Which, Imogen guessed, she probably was. They hadn’t spoken since arriving home, when Imogen had stormed to her room, slamming the door with a satisfying wham. She’d expected her mum to march after her, to continue their battle and insist on knowing everything. But she hadn’t come.

The silence in the house had been suffocating, even when her dad had arrived home an hour or so later, much earlier than usual. He’d picked Jemima up from school, and every so often her cheery voice had filtered through Imogen’s door, setting her teeth on edge. They’d all remained down the hall, not summoning her until dinner was ready. The meal had been torturous for Imogen, the storm that brewed in the kitchen crackling with tension and impending disappointment. Only Jemima seemed unaware, chattering away about an upcoming science excursion her class was taking and doing over-the-top impressions of her maths teacher until she was sent reluctantly away to brush her teeth and get ready for bed.

‘Imogen, love,’ her dad said warmly, patting the sofa next to him.

Imogen paused for a second, then sighed and crossed the room to sit down, focusing on the damp tea towel in her hands, refusing to meet either of her parents’ eyes.

‘Your mum and I are worried about you.’

He was so transparent, Imogen thought bitterly. She knew that what he really meant was, ‘your mum can’t get the truth out of you, so she’s getting me to have a go’, but he was too loyal to say it.

Imogen’s heart squeezed at his complete refusal to betray his wife, even when she was being a total control freak. He was different. He trusted her; saw the best in her. But should she trust him? Should she trust either of them?

She didn’t like the way she was feeling, all of her emotions conflicting and jumbled and flip-flopping from one moment to the next. She didn’t want to think about it any more. She wanted the burden taken from her. She just wanted to know for certain.

‘Imogen,’ he said again, his tone sharper this time.

Imogen rolled her eyes, no longer concerned with gaining anyone’s trust. She wasn’t going to get it, so she didn’t see why she should try. What she wanted now was brevity – a quick exit from this charade so she could go back to her room and check for new messages.

‘Dad,’ she said curtly, ‘I told Mum that I couldn’t say what happened today. I asked her to trust me. She obviously doesn’t, but it would be nice if you did.’

‘That’s not fair, love,’ he said softly.

Guilt pinched at Imogen’s guts, but she pushed the feeling aside. This wasn’t her fault.

‘It’s true,’ she argued. ‘If Jemima was in the same situation, you’d trust her, wouldn’t you?’

Jemima, her baby sister, the child who could do no wrong. The one who was innocent until proven guilty, and even then sometimes long after being proven guilty.

‘This has nothing to do with your sister,’ her mum snapped. ‘Leave her out of this.’

‘Kat,’ her dad said gently, his palms out, pleading with her, with both of them.

Her mum threw her hands up and sighed, relenting.

‘It’s not that we don’t trust you,’ her dad said, turning to Imogen. ‘It’s just that the school is going to want answers. I spoke to your principal this afternoon, and she said that if you don’t offer an explanation, they’ll have no choice but to take Emerald’s word for it and suspend you.’

Imogen shrugged.

‘That’s not really what you want, is it?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Imogen said lightly. ‘But I don’t really have another choice, do I?’

‘Of course you do,’ her mum’s words burst out of her. She couldn’t seem to help herself. ‘Just tell us what happened – that’s the other choice.’

Imogen stared at her, attempting to convey her utter contempt with just a gaze.

Tears wobbled in her mum’s eyes, which only made Imogen’s anger burn more brightly. Her mum wasn’t the victim here. She didn’t deserve to act like one.

‘You can ask me as many times, and in as many different ways as you want,’ Imogen said coldly. ‘But I can’t tell you.’

‘Honey.’ Her dad took her hand. She considered snatching it away, but his was strong and tanned and rough from all those years of building. His were safe hands, and for a second she was tempted to forget the last few months, forget the events of that day, and curl up against his chest like she used to. But she couldn’t do that. Not without knowing. She squeezed his hand in response, and he looked into her eyes, the words that followed gentle and brimming with concern. ‘Are you being threatened by someone? Is that why you can’t tell us? Are you in danger, Immy?’

He didn’t look mad. He looked … heartbroken.

Imogen could feel her resolve, so carefully and purposefully crystallised, dissolving in his protectiveness. She couldn’t let that happen. She needed to get away, to be alone.

‘No,’ she said firmly, taking her hand back. ‘I’m not being threatened. There is nothing wrong. I’m not some kind of awful person, OK? I did what I did for a reason, and I know you want to know what that reason is, but I really can’t tell you, and I can’t tell you why I can’t tell you, and whether you believe me or not doesn’t actually matter because it doesn’t change anything. So I’ll take the suspension, and I’ll deal with the consequences, OK?’

‘No, Imogen, it’s not OK,’ her mum said, her voice raised, her cheeks blooming pink. ‘This is serious, you know. Suspension? We didn’t raise you to be like this!’

‘And what did you raise me to be?’ Imogen’s anger flared as she stood to face her mum. ‘A liar? Want me to make something up? Fine, I beat up that girl because she called me ugly, is that good enough for you? Or what if I said it was because she was picking on a girl who always gets teased? Would you leave me alone then, would that make me acceptable to you?’

Imogen was crying now, which only made her more angry. At herself, at her parents, at the whole damn situation. She was sick of it; sick of dealing with the mess she was in; sick of feeling the tight ball of anger inside her.

She spun around and stomped out of the living room, throwing the tea towel on the ground as she went. Her mum’s shouts followed her down the hallway, but she ignored them. Her parents’ confusion wasn’t her problem.

As she passed Jemima’s room, she spotted her sister’s brown eyes in the space where the door had been left slightly ajar. Her anger surged, and she slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could, satisfied when the noise reverberated down the hall. She knew that she was being the perfect stereotype of a moody teenager, but she didn’t care.

She crouched down, fumbling on the ground for a second. Then, checking her door was properly closed, she reached down the back of her desk, her fingers scrabbling against the wood until she retrieved the device that had been on her mind all day, every day, for the past few weeks. Hope swelled in her chest as she pressed the home button. It deflated just as quickly: no new messages. The disappointment was physical, a hollowing out that made the tears stream more forcefully down her cheeks.

And then the device buzzed in her hand, as though the person on the other end could read her thoughts, and her heart leapt. She smiled as she read the words on the screen. She didn’t need her parents to believe her; to trust her, because there was someone else who always did.

Imogen typed a reply, wiping the tears from her wet cheeks, her anger gone. What did it matter if her mum thought she was a terrible person? Her parents’ opinions didn’t matter. What happened at school today didn’t matter. Her punishment didn’t matter.

She’d take the suspension. She’d let her mum and dad believe what they wanted. They always had, anyway. As long as things stayed the way they always had been, they’d see her as someone to be suspected, someone who couldn’t quite be trusted.

Which was why, Imogen knew, something had to change.

She crossed her fingers, and opened her inbox.

Imogen’s door slams, the force of it making me blink. I did my best to stay impassive in the face of her anger – I even managed to refrain from crying in front of her. But still, her words stung, and the tears have started now that she can’t see me. I’m completely thrown, and totally unsure of how to parent our teenage daughter.

I wipe my eyes. Dylan will know what to do. Of the two of us, my husband has always been the sturdy, logical one, whereas I’ve always reacted emotionally. W. . .