Anya hadn’t forgotten how it felt to seem different, standing out from everyone else. It made her spend more time alone. Worse than that, it made her lonely. “I didn’t know you had a hard time to start with. You didn’t tell me.”
“I know.” He used his feet as a brake and stopped himself mid-swing. “Then Brandon came along, and now I don’t seem so different. No one picks on me any more.”
“Do they pick on Brandon?”
Ben shuffled his feet and nodded.
“Do you?”
“No…But ifwe let him play, he gets really rough and hurts us.” Ben wouldn’t meet Anya’s gaze. “Everyone’s scared of him.”
“Is he the one you didn’t want to play with?”
“Uh-huh.” He stared at his lap.
Anya tried to swing him around to face her but he resisted.
“What do the teachers say?”
“That he has trouble learning and we should be nice to him. But Mum, he does naughty stuff on purpose. He waits until the teachers aren’t looking then he hits someone or ruins our game.”
Anya moved around to face her son and knelt on the ground.
“Were you scared just then when you told him he couldn’t play?”
“Uh-huh.” He looked up. “No one else would do it.”
Being an adult wasn’t all that different from being a child, she thought, only grown-ups had no excuse. The problem was, adult bullies got away with a lot more. People like Veronica Slater, Lyndsay Gatlow and every rapist used power to play on victims’ vulnerability. It didn’t take great social skills, either.
She bent forward and held her son. “Let’s both agree to stop bullies, no matter why they hurt people, whenever we can. How’s that for a deal?”
“That’s a good deal.”
“Hey, how about having a silly day? Who can do the silliest walk back to the car?”
“Me!”
Ben leapt out of the swing and began zigzagging his way through the park. Anya did her penguin walk, only backward, much to his delight.
As she watched him giggle, she worried about her child growing up too fast, even if his empathy made her proud. Children were supposed to have fun, be carefree. They weren’t meant to worry themselves about society’s ills. Ben was never meant to feel responsible for what happened to other people or take it on himself to protect them. It was a lesson she could equally apply to herself.
18
At seven-thirty on Monday morning, Anya parked behind the unmarked detective’s car on Hastings Road. Still glowing from a full weekend with her son, she unclipped her seatbelt and admired the Castle Hill home. Immaculate lawns and box-hedges gave the Federation-style house an almost fairytale appeal. Anya retrieved her doctor’s bag and a forensic-collection briefcase from the boot. In the quiet, leafy area, tall gum trees protruded from behind two-story mansions, most with triple garages at ground level. The sound of a breeze rustling leaves gave it a homely feel.
The area reeked of affluence, the kind synonymous with “new money.” Old money would have invested in acreage or land with water views. People here obviously put their resources into large homes and landscaped backyards in the hope of a better quality of life-a safe environment for children to grow up in.
Now that safety had been shattered.
Walking on the driveway to the path, Anya noticed white powder on the lid and handles of two large wheeled bins by the road.
Detective Sergeant Meira Sorrenti, from the sexual-assault taskforce, greeted Anya on the front lawn. The olive-skinned detective had short black hair that complemented large round brown eyes. She could have fitted in with any number of ethnic groups. The pair had never met before, but Anya knew that Meira’s recent promotion to the unit had created some disquiet amongst the forensic physicians. Rumor had it Meira Sorrenti believed doctors were largely incompetent and hindered rather than helped investigations.
“We’ve secured the crime scene. The victim’s inside. Name is Jodie Davis. She didn’t get a look at the offender’s face, so we’re relying on you to get something.”
Anya didn’t detect any animosity. “Is she badly injured?”
The detective led her across the lawn toward a side gate, the entrance blocked by blue and white crime-scene tape.
“Took a beating. The guy attacked her here while she was putting out the rubbish bins.”
She pointed through the gate at a crime-scene officer in gloves and blue overalls who was photographing the area. “He dragged her back here. Sounds like he wore a dark cap and gloves. He had a knife and threatened to kill her if she made a sound. He raped her once that she remembers. After that, she says she blacked out.”
Anya could almost picture the assault. Next-door neighbors, separated by a treated-pine fence, probably had no idea what had occurred so close.
“So, he didn’t enter the house?”
“We don’t think so. Nothing’s missing and two small kids were in bed upstairs. It doesn’t look like they were touched. Thank God.”
“Is there a husband?”
“Inside. Seems genuine. Poor bastard found her after he got home from a work function. Back door was unlocked and no wife in sight. That was about eleven. When he found her, he saw the bruises, panicked and called the local doctor, who’s apparently an old friend. She took her time deciding whether she wanted to be examined, but eventually the doctor called the detectives who then notified us.”
Meira shoved a hand in the pocket of her gray jacket. “The smart bastard even went back to finish putting out the bins afterward.”
Probably to maintain the impression of normality, Anya thought. “Don’t suppose you found the condom if he used one?”
“If he put anything in the bin, he either planned it or got lucky. Garbage truck had already been by when the uniforms got here. Crime Scene is still chasing down the truck.”
“Even if you do find a used condom, it’s a big leap to pin it to this place last night.”
“I know. But it may be all we’ve got,” Meira conceded.
“Did he say anything unusual to her during the assault?”
“Yeah, the sicko basically said he loved her, and that’s why it hurt.”
Anya felt her stomach lurch. It had to be the same offender.
Across the road, a white delivery van pulled up to a green metal box sitting on top of a pole. The driver pulled a sack from the side door and placed it in the storage container.
Even a routine mail delivery would be treated with suspicion after last night. Detective Sorrenti took out a black notebook and documented the time and registration number of the van. Birds cooed in the warm breeze.
“I’ll take you in. At least she hasn’t showered yet.”
They entered through one of two wooden doors with intact stained-glass panels. A curved staircase led off the tiled foyer. A bunch of fresh yellow tulips sat in a glass vase on a round table under the steps, amidst wedding photos and framed shots of smiling babies and young children.
Further inside, a large kitchen/family room with a glassed observatory area had views to an expansive backyard and pool. Tastefully decorated rather than a show-home, this place had furniture and fittings especially for a young family. Coloring pencils and paper were strewn across a small wooden table in the center of the living space.
The kitchen benches gave off the unmistakable odor of lemon-scented cleaner.
Detective Constable Abbott met them and spoke quietly. “The family only moved here a couple of months ago from Ohio and have had numerous tradesmen come and go, to replace taps, fit water-saving devices, not to
