“If there was a scrunchie left in your studio, if it belongs to Rabz, it would be because she and a group of friends from the Puggo came around to help me move your boxes in there when they arrived. And why would they do that? Because they are nice. They all are. The whole bunch. I was in the Puggo one night a couple of weeks after I arrived in town—I’d been eating there regularly—and I mentioned I’d bought a house and your boxes were arriving.” He watched me closely as he spoke. His body was unnervingly still, his eyes pale, cold. “I was telling them about you, Ellie, my lovely wife from Canada. They were keen to hear about you, and they offered to come round and help when the truck arrived with your boxes.” He paused.
I swallowed at something I could see in his eyes. Something I didn’t like.
“And look at what they see now.” He held his hand out to me. “See what my ‘lovely’ wife looks like, see who she really is—a neurotic addict. Can’t you see? Abusing substances like this is making you suspicious of everything.”
“Liar.”
Everything in his face compressed. His eyes narrowed.
“Stop,” he said. “Now.”
I didn’t recognize his voice.
“You brought her into my studio, Martin,” I said very quietly. “Into my house—”
“Our house,” he said.
“I bought this house. It was with my funds—”
He lurched to his feet and grabbed a handful of my hair at the top of my head and yanked up so fast I felt roots tear from my scalp. I screamed and surged to my feet to stop the resistance. He fisted my hair, tightening his grip. It felt as though my scalp was ripping right off. My eyes burned. Terror punched my heart. I didn’t move, didn’t dare make a sound. I was breathing hard.
He let go, and as I crumpled down toward the floor, he kicked me in the bum. The force of his foot lurched me forward in a drunken, apelike flailing as I used my hands to try and stop my head from slamming straight into the kitchen counter. I hit the counter with my shoulder and fell onto my side on the floor. My temple smacked against the tiles. He took two fast strides toward me, and before I could catch my breath, before I could scrabble away along the bottom of the counter, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of my bangs and lifted me up again. I screamed in pain, in shock. He let go and raised a hand. As I went down, his backhand smashed across my mouth. My head spun. My body whirled. I slammed back down onto the floor on all fours, blood pouring from my lip. Snot ran out of my nose. I was shaking, terrified that if I made another sound he would kill me.
He clamped his big arm around my neck, holding me still on all fours, and he ripped off my panties. He got down behind me and I heard him undoing his pants. Tears ran down my face. I scrunched my eyes shut, every molecule in my body screaming to try and flee again, but I didn’t dare make a noise or move.
Clutching my neck so I could barely breathe, he thrust into 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
