have food on it, either. It was some kind of crystal embedded in the enamel.
“Congratulations,” Anya managed, backing toward the entrance.
“Nick’s a great bloke,” Desiree continued. “You could do a lot worse. And he’s a great kisser.”
“I’m sure he is,” Anya blurted, wondering why the words came out of her mouth. “I really have to go.”
Desiree propped herself to get up and Anya gestured to stop her.
“I’ll let you out.” The woman smiled and lumbered to the door, which had been deadlocked. As Anya stepped out onto the porch, Desiree said quietly, “From one woman to another, I hope you find someone.” Looking weary, she arched her back and rubbed her belly. “I know this little one’s gonna cause me pain. God knows, it already has with the morning sickness, reflux and backache. And don’t start me on about the hemorrhoids.”
Anya had no intention.
“And from what everyone says, the birth is going to be agony. But I’ve gotta go through it to have this baby.” She rubbed the back of her neck, as though massaging out another sore spot.
“You know, my friends back home used to have a really wise saying. ‘If you can’t feel pain, you can’t feel love.’”
Before Anya could respond, the door clunked shut.
40
Once outside, Anya stood at her car. Desiree’s words repeated in her mind.
It was just like
Did Desiree somehow know what the rapist said? Was she sending Anya a message? Had she, herself, been raped? Was she saying that the baby was a product of the assault?
The words were disturbing. It wasn’t something expectant mothers would normally come out with. She drove off, wondering whether Desiree was warning her about Geoff or Nick. The thought made her check her rear-view mirror to make sure no one was following. A few minutes passed and, after running an amber light, the hairs on the back of her neck relaxed. She wondered why she’d felt so threatened. Why did Desiree say “friends back home?” What friends, and where exactly were they from? Fisherman’s Bay?
She thought back to the minimal conversation they’d had. Desiree had said something about men being bastards but that she’d found a good one.
Anya turned on the radio and a news update rapidly faded into the background. Desiree’s comment could have been innocent. The woman was not far off giving birth. The labor would be on her mind already. To increase the focus, a pregnant woman was a magnet for everyone with a birthing horror story. Even strangers felt the need to regale mothers-to-be with the most horrendous tales of excruciating agony culminating in third-degree tears, stillborns or permanent incapacity.
At least that was Anya’s experience and that of her friends. Not once had any of the well-meaning scaremongers bothered to say that pain relief was available and that there were no prizes for being a martyr in the delivery room. Or that most women who gave birth chose to do it again.
If either Geoff Willard or his cousin was the serial rapist, and Desiree had spent time with them, it was possible she’d picked up the phrase, having no idea of its sinister meaning. Maybe it even came from Lillian Willard. It was a strange “tough love” sort of expression. No, it couldn’t have been just a coincidence, she decided. There was no such thing.
Anya hit the indicator and pulled into a breakdown lane on the M2. Immediately she put her hazard lights on to save anyone running into her. Multiple cars passed. No one slowed or stopped. Thank God, she thought, that chivalry was dead. The last thing she wanted was some man or men stopping. She’d seen rape victims fall for that one many times. Locked in, she dialled Hayden Richards.
“Jesus Christ! She really said that to you?”
Great. The detective didn’t come out with comments about over-reacting or panicking for no good reason.
“Where the hell are you now?”
“On the M2. I’m fine. Just heading back home. Look, it was said in innocence, I’m sure. They were trying to hook me up with Nick Hudson.”
“Christ! How did you get out of that one without ticking him off?”
“I behaved like a professional and sneaked out the door.”
She could hear Hayden’s voice go up half an octave. “Nothing like the rejection of a woman. I wouldn’t have picked you as the skulking-away type, not until the end of the game-show, anyway.” His voice returned to normal, much to Anya’s relief.
“How about you go straight home and get some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.”
Something in his tone suggested he was more concerned than he wanted her to know. She was about to hang up when he spoke.
“Can you do one thing for me? Promise you’ll lock all your doors and windows.”
Anya felt as though someone had just walked over her grave.
41
The following morning, Anya felt hungover from tiredness. She’d had nightmares again, just like she used to have when she had oral exams at medical school. In the recurring dream, she’d sit in the exam and watch, helplessly, as two examiners dissected her body with scalpels.
She leaned against the kitchen bench, sipping herbal tea, and made an effort to think things through rationally. Dismally, she admitted to herself that there was a lot to worry about.
Veronica Slater had affected her more than she wanted to admit. The biggest concern was that the solicitor had virtually ruined her chances of consultancy work for both the police and defense attorneys. That didn’t give her many other options in private practice. Her income would plummet.
Sorrenti would not want Anya to give evidence in any rape trial involving Geoff Willard. The fact that Veronica had asked her to consult on the case-very publicly thanks to the staged press-conference outside the prison-wasn’t surprising, but still distressed her. Veronica never intended to use Anya’s findings. She had no obligation to use any opinion that might hurt her case. She might have to go through twenty specialists to find one who gave her client a favorable slant, but she would. The media would be anticipating Anya’s evidence at a trial. Her omission could hurt the reputation she’d worked so hard to forge.
Things seemed to be getting out of control. Even the most basic housework seemed overwhelming. Suddenly she could see mess and dirt all over the house. So much for the plan to get a cleaner. She might not have enough money to pay the mortgage by the end of the year.
She picked up the kitchen rubbish to take it out the back door and deposited yesterday’s dirty clothes in the laundry on the way. What faced her was the piled-up washing, impossible to ignore. Deciding to put on a load of whites before Elaine arrived, she put out the bin and quickly sorted what she was most likely to need sooner rather than later. Adding some powder to the full load, she switched it on to the fast-wash cycle.
Whenever she put in a load of washing, it reminded her of a case she had seen a few years ago. A baby had suffered a severe head injury from being placed in a bouncinette on top of the family washing machine. The baby had slept, but when the cycle hit the spin-dry phase, the baby bounced right off, onto the concrete floor. The mother didn’t seem to understand how it could have happened. Unfortunately, stupidity wasn’t a good enough reason for community services to remove the child from the mother’s care.
Anya checked her answering machine. There were three messages. Martin had given her address and number to a mother from preschool, so Ben could play some time. The mother would call during the week. Anya didn’t recognize the friend’s name, but that was hardly surprising. She had only been to preschool a few times to collect her son.
Dan Brody’s message asked if they could have a chat about the Willard case. Anya felt her pulse race again at
