Thirty Days: Part One (23 page)

My lip begins to quiver before I gasp. “Those poor little girls.”

“Hey, we’re going to get justice for Stephanie and Silvia. The other little girl never had a hand laid on her. Nathan Macintosh is going to spend the remainder of his life behind bars. I will see to it.” His tone is filled with hatred as he gently raises his hunched torso and rests his hand onto my shoulder. “Abigail, this is going to be a tough case, but I need you to have the documents ready. I need you to make sure everything is where it needs to be and every file, call, and measure is taken to assist me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” I’m unsure if I really can, because this is so much bigger than I could have imagined.

“Good girl.” He kisses me on the top of my head like he’s done it a million times before and then he takes the containers and plates from the table.

“What happens tomorrow?”

“We do our final run through at the office here, and Tuesday we will be in court.”

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump that has formed in my throat.

“You better get to bed. Tomorrow you can read more. You’ll have some files to copy, so you can go through a lot of the stuff then.”

I nod hesitantly before pushing my chair out and walking straight for the stairs.

“Good night, Abigail.”

I don’t reply, for tears have already begun streaming down my cheeks and my throat hurts so much, any words would be too difficult to speak.

Sobbing, warm water washes away the long day from my skin. The body wash smells of strawberries as I try to lather and rinse. Such a sweet and innocent smell. Innocent like Stephanie. Thoughts of what her last moments on this earth would have been like play on a repeated loop, making me physically ill. My Chinese dinner no longer sits in the pit of my stomach. It glugs down the shower drain. My legs are heavy as I towel myself and slip into the black negligee Marcus’ money bought me. Even though it feels light against my skin, it doesn’t lighten the heaviness that weighs my heart down.

Comfort

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I stare at the four cardboard boxes I stole from the table after I heard Marcus’ door latch. These boxes hold vital information for the case Marcus is trying this week. Heartbroken and breathless, I remove the lid from the box labelled ONE. There are three binders in it, which explains why it was the heaviest to lug up the staircase. The first binder is white and has a sticker across the front that says ‘Police Transcripts’. Tentatively opening the cover, I turn the pages and read reports from that night. Tears flow steadily when I come across the transcript from the triple zero call her father made that night.

Caller: Please help me. (He’s crying hysterically.) My daughter, she’s gone, there’s blood, and she’s eight. Oh my God, please God, please help us.” (He screams. It’s high-pitched. Audio is impossible to comprehend.)

Operator: Sir, where is the blood?

Caller: It’s on the back door. I found it open. My little princess, someone has taken her. Hurry. (He sobs.)

Operator: Sir, we are trying to help you. Your name, please?

Caller: Garth Tumbling. (He continues to sob.)

Operator: Mr. Tumbling, what is your address? (A woman’s voice can be heard screaming. It’s fierce and no other sounds or words can be heard. Five seconds after screaming commences, audio can clearly make out a woman’s voice screaming Stephanie over and over.)

I jump when I hear banging.

“Abigail, can I come in?”

“Marcus, you frightened me.”

“Sorry, can I come in?”

“Why?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, go away.”

The doorknob turns and soon Marcus stands in the doorway wearing only long cotton pyjama bottoms, his eyes staring immediately at the boxes. “Abigail, why?”

“I need to know.”

“You can learn more tomorrow. You won’t sleep if you read this stuff.”

“What did she look like?”

Slowly he shuffles over to the bed, removing each box one by one and placing them onto the floor. The binder still sits open in front of me. I keep my eyes glued to him as he sits in front of me, and a quiet huff expels from his lips. There’s silence, and I can see him thinking or is he reliving the memories? I’m not sure, but his demeanour is unsettled, to say the least.

“She was beautiful, Abigail.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“Many.”

“Can I see one?”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

“Tell me then.”

He takes the binder and closes it before lowering it to the floor. “Get under the covers.”

I don’t know why I do, but I do.

He climbs in beside me, lying looking up at the ceiling.

I turn my body to face him. “Tell me.”

He takes one, two, three deep inhales. This is painfully hard…the sheer hurt etches on his face. “Well, she had strawberry blond hair. It was long, to the arch of her back. Pale blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Front teeth too big for her little mouth, her adult teeth having just come completely through. She was petite and fragile, yet she fought like a champion much bigger and heavier than her. She was brave, Abigail.” He turns to look at me. A single tear runs down my cheek. Marcus wipes it away before pulling me into his arms. “Sleep, Abigail. She is at peace, and we need to get her justice.”

I nod before closing my eyes.
Justice for
Stephanie
.

The Rain

The smell of cooking bacon awakens me. I jolt upright as fear pulses through my veins. The face of a little girl with scattered freckles and pale blue eyes haunted me throughout the night. Every time I’d felt like I was drowning in her sorrow, Marcus’ arms would embrace me tighter. For the first time in a long time I’ve slept beside a man, and I’m petrified at the thought.
As my eyes focus, I realise I’m alone. The blankets beside me are crumpled yet empty. Quietly, I walk down to the kitchen.

“Hello,” I call out before entering.

“Abigail, I’m in here,” Marcus’ voice calls back.

Stepping into the open doorway, I’m greeted by his back, his pyjama bottoms still resting on his hips.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning around.

“Yes. Very.”

“Good. Sit.”

A plate of bacon, eggs, and a piece of buttered toast is positioned in front of me. We sit opposite each other. It’s so quiet you could hear the sound of a pin dropping. As each bite of food fills my stomach, I’m surprised that he can cook so well.

“So you cook?”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s really good,” I say with my mouth half filled. He doesn’t look at me. Each bite is taken in uncomfortable silence, and he appears ignorant of my existence.

“Are you finished?” he says finally, placing his cutlery across the plate as the last bite of toast enters my mouth.

“Yes,” I murmur, still chewing.

A small smile gently invades his blank expression before he stands and clears the table. As soon as he finishes, he’s gone.

I hear feet on the staircase and then the banging of a door on the upper level. Why is he so closed off this morning?
Uncomfortable much?

The room begins to close in around me.
Abruptly, I stand and throw back the heavy curtains that still remain closed behind the table, allowing some sunlight to enter.

“Wow,” I exclaim, shocked as a long jetty comes into view and then the water. Sunrays glisten across a tranquil river, bringing instant peace. “Beautiful.” I’m drawn to the sight like a moth to light. I dare not take my eyes from the view as the glass doors to the balcony slide open with ease. I’m met with a soft breeze and the crisp smell that only fresh morning air can deliver. I don’t know why, but I instinctively step across the concrete veranda and then onto the lush green grass. “Fuck me!” I’m in awe of the view.

Strong hands are gently placed on each of my hip bones. I startle, but don’t need to look back—the smell of fresh mint and the multitude of sensations that dance across my skin tell me it’s him.

“How I’d like to do that,” he whispers into my ear.

Without my consent, my voice emits a soft moan.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Abigail?”

I swallow hard as butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. I want him. I just can’t have him. “I can’t…I mean, I don’t.” My voice is so low, barely auditable. My heart begins pounding in a frantic, arrhythmic way as my body turns in a spin, stopping once it’s contained in his embrace.

“I know you do.” He lets me go immediately and steps backwards. “You need to get ready. Your clothes have been returned.”

“My suitcase?” I screech with hope.

“No, Abigail, your dry-cleaning.”

“Oh.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He says nothing more, then turns his back to me. A black suit, tailored perfectly, is my last sight as he leaves once more.

“My God,” I say under my breath.

Back inside, I hurry to the upper level and prepare for my first day at Sims, General, and Klein’s Sydney office.

Nervous.

A navy business suit, a bleached white shirt, black laptop bag, and shiny dark stilettos await me, laid out on the bed. There’s a small white box to the left. Curious, I pick it up and open the lid. A gold pendant is nestled inside. It’s the letter ‘A’. But when did he get it? Better still, why?

“You can’t buy me, Marcus,” I scold, confused. Placing each foot into the designer shoes that were chosen for me, I huff before grabbing at the strap of the bag and attempting to sling it over my shoulder. It’s heavier than I’d first thought it would be and, in the nick of time, I prevent it from falling to the floor. “What’s in here?” I wonder aloud.

“Are you ready, Abigail?” Marcus asks in a firm tone from outside the bedroom door.

“Yep.”

The door opens, and he walks in. A navy tie is in place and tucked neatly into his jacket, which is fastened by one button. He’s so clean. The smell that wafts from his skin is alluring. His eyes glance down at the bed and then back at me.

“Did you not like your gift?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Well, you should be wearing it. Here.” Picking up the box, he moves behind me. The chain is lowered over my face until it sits at the nape of my neck. Steady hands fasten the clasp in place. “Show me.”

I do.

His lips curl upwards, pleased in response. “After you, Miss McMillian.” He shifts to the left and instructs me to pass.

My heart begins to gallop and even though we don’t touch, my body responds to his presence.

We walk by each other’s side out the front door. Grady waits in a suit identical to what he wore yesterday. Automatically, he comes to my side to offer assistance.

“Ready?” Marcus says, his voice sounding formal.

“I think I am.”

“Good, we’re running late.”

Of course we are.