What purpose would it serve?
Possibly to veil the fact that she had killed her husband—stage an abduction with an accomplice to pretend she was really a victim? But her scam had been exposed because Lozza had shown up in hot pursuit, and they’d crashed?
K9 tracking teams had been brought in. Another chopper deployed. Ground search and rescue assistance. The area was being scoured for the driver, who’d fled on foot, but the suspect had gotten a head start because everyone had been distracted by the fire, which had spread rapidly through the eucalypt forest in the wake of the explosion. Plus, the ensuing wildfire had obscured trace.
Lozza slowed as she neared the bend where the Corolla had hit an animal and almost lost control.
The memory flashed through her mind again as she passed the spot where she’d seen the injured animal rolling down the bank and into the woods.
Lozza’s heart kicked as something struck her. She’d seen what she’d expected to see—an injured kangaroo being flung down the bank. But in her memory, the way it had gone down, the way the car had fishtailed—had she seen the rear door swing open for a moment before the Toyota Corolla had righted and gone around the bend? Lozza frowned and glanced up into her rearview mirror. The road was clear. She spun a U-turn across the highway and headed back.
When she saw where the Corolla tires had punched into the soft sand on the side of the road, she pulled off and parked on the verge. She opened the door and got out. The scent of eucalypts was strong, the sound of beetles buzzing loud. A truck rumbled by. Lozza approached the bank, a sensation building inside her.
She saw it, down at the base of some trees. The tawny brown . . . not a kangaroo.
A blanket tied with ropes. She saw a bloodied human hand sticking out from the folds. The top of a head with dark hair. It moved.
She was flung from the car. She wasn’t inside when it crashed and burned.
“Ellie!” she screamed as she bounded and jumped sideways down the steep bank. The bundle moved again. The fingers twitched. Ellie was alive. Emotion seared into Lozza’s eyes.
She dropped to her haunches. “Ellie, it’s okay, I’m here. Help’s on its way.” Lozza reached for her phone and called it in. She then fumbled to untie the ropes, and she drew back the blanket around Ellie’s face. Ellie stared up at her.
“Don’t move,” Lozza whispered. “I’ve got you. Help’s coming.”
She untied more ropes and carefully peeled back the rest of the blanket. Ellie moaned.
“Where do you hurt?”
Ellie moved her mouth. Her lips were dry. “All . . . all . . . over,” she whispered. “I . . . my leg . . . broken . . . hip . . . hurts . . . was hit . . . back of head.”
Lozza heard sirens wailing, louder, louder. Closer.
Ellie tried to talk again.
“Shh, don’t say anything.” She took off her T-shirt, and wearing only her bra, she pressed the shirt against the bleeding wound on the side of Ellie’s head.
“I . . . I freed my hand,” Ellie whispered. “Managed . . . to open the door . . . When . . . car swerved I spilled out.”
Lozza nodded. “Yes, yes you did. Good job, Ellie. You’re going to be good. Hang on.”
Ellie tried to moisten her lips, moaned. Her eyelids fluttered. “The photo—”
“Shh, don’t talk. Save your energy. The ambulance is almost here.” They’d see Lozza’s car parked up on the road. She smoothed hair back from the victim’s eyes.
“I know who . . . person . . . in the photo . . . with me and Dana . . . All this time . . . she . . . targeted . . .” Her voice faded. Lozza’s pulse quickened. The sirens grew deafening—they were almost here. Ellie’s lids fluttered. She moistened her lips, trying to speak again. Lozza leaned close.
“Willow,” Ellie whispered. “She . . . she was . . . in the bar that night. Listening . . . her and . . . they . . . they did it together.”
THE MURDER TRIAL
Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.
Dana Bainbridge is pointing at me in the dock. Everyone in the room is looking at me. Tension presses down. My throat closes.
Focus. Stay calm. Lorrington has got this.
I’m a victim.
Do not react.
Breathe.
“For the record,” says the Crown prosecutor loudly into the mike, which makes her voice echo and bounce around the heavy silence in the courtroom, “Ms. Bainbridge is identifying the defendant, Mrs. Sabrina Cresswell-Smith. The real Mrs. Cresswell-Smith. Married to Martin Cresswell-Smith for the past fifteen years.” She pauses. The court artist’s chalk scratches furiously on paper. “Also known as Willow Larsen, among the many fraudulent aliases she has used with her husband in their cons around the globe.” The prosecutor returns her attention to Dana.
“Ms. Bainbridge, are you certain that the accused is the same woman in the photograph?”
Dana leans close to the mike. “Yes. She was sitting right next to us at the bar counter—unnecessarily close because there was a vacant stool on her other side.”
“What was she doing at the counter?”
“Eavesdropping while busy texting with someone on her phone. She was a brunette then.”
“Did Ellie mention the woman to you at the time?”
Dana reaches for her water. She sips and carefully sets her glass down, using the moment to regather her composure.
“Not at the time. But when Ellie phoned and asked if I still had digital copies, she mentioned that she thought the woman at the bar had earlier been seated next to their dinner party. Ellie, by her own admission, was arguing very loudly with her father that night. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith would have heard Sterling Hartley making Ellie an offer of money for any project Ellie chose. Ellie said she’d hung a framed print of the photo on her
