I waited five years, until June started kindergarten, and after applying for a dozen jobs I managed to find one working part-time on a terrible salary as an assistant arts educator for the Board of Education. I saw it as an entry position, worked my butt off and within six months was put forward for a promotion. On the day of my interview we found out June had cancer. Clear cell sarcoma of the kidney, to be precise. So that nixed that plan. The only thing I was promoted to was full-time nurse, mother and carer for the next four years – becoming an unpaid expert in the right angle to hold a cardboard bowl when your child is projectile vomiting and what to say to someone who is bald as an egg and asking you how they look.
Not that any of it matters now. I’d give up everything, even my own life, for June – for any of the kids. In a heartbeat.
I wander into our en-suite and turn the shower on, stripping out of my clothes and dumping them in the laundry bin. Once June was in the clear a career didn’t seem so important. We didn’t need the money by then and it felt like it was far too late, despite what all those articles in women’s magazines like to preach. But recently I have to admit I’ve been feeling the itch, the need for something more than bi-weekly yoga, managing the gardener, mind-numbingly dull PTA meetings, and watching back-to-back episodes of American Crime.
I step into the shower and let the hot water sluice over me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take that walk down to the gallery in town with my portfolio. But even thinking about it makes me squirm. Just uttering the word portfolio, even in my head, makes me feel like a fraud. No one wants to look at my paintings.
I reach for the shampoo and start washing my hair, and I’m just rinsing out the suds when I hear a scream.
Chapter 5
My heart slams into my chest like an axe into a block of wood. I turn the shower off and stand there, dripping. Did I imagine it? I strain to hear but there’s only a buzzing silence and I’m about to turn the water back on, putting it down to faulty pipes, when another scream tears through the house.
June.
I wrench back the shower door, skidding in my haste. I grab my robe, pulling it on as I race out into the hallway. The door to June’s room is wide open, the bedside light on, but she’s not there. I’m about to call her name – shout it loud – when I hear another scream from downstairs; a sound so gut-piercing that for a moment I can’t reconcile that it’s June, that it’s even coming from a human, because it sounds like an animal caught in a trap. I follow it, my legs elastic, my heart constricting tighter with every beat.
Adrenaline flooding my body, I’m about to leap down the stairs three at a time when I hear Robert yelling, the words slurred and twisted: ‘Leave her alone!’
I freeze instantly, gripping hold of the bannister. From this angle I have a partial view of the kitchen. A man in black is standing in the doorway with his back to me, holding June by the arm. She’s sobbing, trying to pull away from him. At first I think it’s Robert and wonder what on earth he’s doing but then the cogs turn and I realize it’s not Robert. It’s a stranger. In our house.
What’s happening? I don’t understand. My brain goes blank, as though a plug has been pulled. But instinct takes over. I want to throw myself down the stairs and hurl myself at this stranger who has my daughter, who’s hurting her. I stop when I hear another voice – a second man’s – demanding: ‘Where’s the wife?’
There are two of them. The one holding June looks up towards me and I let out a strangled cry. A monster with razor-sharp teeth stares back at me, blood dripping from his eyes. It takes a second before I realize it’s not a face, it’s a mask.
Seeing me standing there, frozen at the top of the landing, the man lets go of June and lunges towards the stairs. My brain takes another second to kick in and he’s already halfway up before I manage to turn and run towards the bedroom. I can hear him behind me, his boots pounding, and when I glance over my shoulder he’s already reached the landing. Not looking where I’m going, I slam into a side table, grunting as pain explodes in my hip, making me stumble like a drunk.
I throw myself, limping, into the bedroom and turn in panic to slam the door but I’m not fast enough. He’s there, right behind me, and he throws his whole weight against the door to stop me from shutting it. My bare feet slide on the carpet as I push back but I’m not strong enough. His foot wedges into the gap, prying it open. He’s wearing gloves – black leather gloves – and he’s holding a gun in his hand. It’s the sight of the gun, its blunt nose an inch from my face, that makes me let go and fall backwards.
The door flies open and smashes into the wall, throwing him
