LITMIR.BIZ

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you were writing the script for her life and she was sick of it. If you weren’t trying to run her life, maybe she wouldn’t have done stupid things.’

      My fingers slipped off the edge of the window, and I stumbled backward, propelled by the vitriol of his words. Tyler reversed out of the driveway quickly, his wheels skidding in the gravel.

      Another flash went off near me. I turned my face to my shoulder and raised my hand as if I could ward it off.

      God only knew what the reporters would write about this. I looked like a lunatic, my blonde hair a nest of damp tangles sticking up in every direction, the scent of alcohol on my breath.

      I looked up as I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel. Two police detectives, badges clipped to their belts, got out of the car.

      ‘All right, guys, get out of here. You know the rules. Get off her property now,’ the male detective said.

      He was squarely built with short legs and a squat body. Dark circles were etched beneath watery blue eyes that appraised me from under thick eyebrows. His wrinkled black suit covered an equally wrinkled blue shirt and tie. His thinning hair was a mess, as if he’d only just woken.

      Just behind him, the female detective waved a reporter edging closer to my house back to the road. She was a complete contrast to him: crisp black business suit, starched white collar. She was tall as an Amazon with cropped, pale blonde hair, a chiseled jaw, and ice-blue eyes. Her face was completely blank: the picture of professional detachment.

      Once the reporters were a safe distance away, they crossed the grass to me.

      ‘Abigail Knight?’ the man said, extending his hand to shake mine.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m Detective Phillip McNally, and this is Detective Jane Samson.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Samson gave me a brief, firm handshake. Her hands were warm and large, making mine feel small and childish in comparison.

      ‘We’d like to speak with you about your daughter’s accident. Can we come inside?’ McNally asked.

      I stared at them, blinking. Accident? Why did they think they were here if it was an accident?

      ‘Yes . . . come in.’

      I led them inside and shut the door, then stood awkwardly in the living room for a minute. I couldn’t immediately recall what I was supposed to do.

      ‘Would you like a drink?’ I finally asked.

      ‘No, we’re good,’ Detective McNally said. ‘Can we sit?’

      ‘Of course.’ I showed them to the couch and sank onto the recliner.

      ‘We’re very sorry for what’s happened to your daughter,’ Detective McNally said. He blinked slowly, as if trying to wake himself up. ‘Also for the delay. We’ve only just been alerted to what happened by a’ – he glanced down at his notepad – ‘Dr Griffith. I know this must be a difficult time for you, but we’d like to take an official statement. Is now okay?’

      ‘Yes. Of course.’

      He pulled a pen from a pocket on the inside of his coat.

      ‘Let’s start with that last night you saw Olivia. Can you tell me what happened?’

      My eyes flicked to Detective Samson’s face, but she didn’t say a word.

      My hands shook, and I pressed them under my thighs. I wanted my daughter. I missed her so much it was physical, like scraping cotton wool over an acid burn.

      I started at the beginning, telling them about our Saturday: work, homework, the barbecue.

      ‘Did everything seem normal?’ Detective McNally asked.

      ‘Yes. I mean, except – well, she got a haircut.’

      ‘A haircut?’ McNally echoed. I could see he thought grief had driven me a little bit crazy.

      ‘Yes. It was unusual.’

      ‘Unusual how?’

      ‘Olivia’s sensible. She doesn’t drink, she’s on the swim team, and she gets straight As. She never does stupid teenager stuff like walk home alone in the dark or sneak out at night to go drinking. It was just weird that she suddenly cut all her hair off. But teenagers do these things, right?’

      ‘Sometimes.’ He didn’t look at me, just kept staring at his notepad. ‘Is there anybody who didn’t like her or had a grudge against her?’

      ‘No,’ I said, shocked. ‘Everybody likes Olivia. I’m not just saying that. Last year at school, she was voted ‘most likable.’ She was homecoming queen. She’s happy and popular and, and –’ My voice broke, and for a second I couldn’t continue.

      Both detectives nodded, their heads moving up and down like bobble-head dolls.

      ‘Do you think –?’

      ‘We don’t think anything yet,’ Detective Samson cut me off. It was the first time she’d spoken, and it startled me. ‘We’re just building a picture, gathering evidence.’

      ‘Something happened! She has bruises!’

      ‘Do you have any reason to think anybody would hurt Olivia?’ McNally asked, his eyebrows raised.

      I stared at him, dismayed. They’d been here ten minutes, and already they didn’t believe me.

      McNally continued asking me questions: Who were her friends? Her boyfriend? Had they had any problems? Had she ever tried to harm herself? Had anybody ever tried to hurt her? Had she been having problems at home? At school?

      Occasionally he’d jot something down. The longer we sat there, the more unsettled I felt. Samson barely said a word, and McNally was the picture of a frazzled, overworked cop. How would these two find out what had happened to my daughter?

      I showed them upstairs, and the detectives searched Olivia’s room, put random items into little plastic bags. They took her laptop and some of her school notebooks, asked me more questions.

      By the end, my neck ached from carrying the weight of my pounding head. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was. I wanted my daughter back.

      ‘Did you find her bracelet?’ I asked Detective Samson.

      Her brow creased.

      ‘A silver charm bracelet. Olivia always wore it. Always. But it wasn’t on her wrist.’ I brushed a hand over my eyes.

      ‘No, we didn’t find it, but I’ll check again.’

      ‘Was Olivia with anyone that night? Drinking with friends?’ Detective McNally asked. Neither of them had bothered to sit down after searching Olivia’s room. They towered over me in the living room, and my toes curled at the invasion of my personal space.

      ‘What? No!’ I replied, startled. Olivia wasn’t a drinker. ‘All her friends were at the barbecue. And she doesn’t –’ Then I remembered the scarf, her haircut, her pregnancy.

      Bile, thick and acidic, rose in my throat.

      I jumped up and raced to the bathroom, slamming open the toilet lid just in time to heave up every last drop of vodka, retching again and again into the white porcelain bowl.

      Afterward, I shut the toilet seat and rested my head on the lid. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. The insides of my eyelids were red. I was sweating, hot moisture covering my entire body. I shoved Olivia’s phone into the back pocket of my jeans and stripped off my hoodie, tossing it on the floor.

      When I opened my eyes, I saw a slip of white plastic sticking up from the mess of tissues in the trash can. I sat up slowly, reaching for it. It was a pregnancy test. A pink plus sign practically glowed on the end.

      Olivia knew she was pregnant. And she hadn’t told me.

      The knowledge was

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