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I stand furious in front of the camera. “I’m not watching—do you see this!” I scream. “I’m not watching. I don’t care what you do.” I throw an apple at the wall that the camera is attached to. “Go to hell you sick bastard.” I am so enraged that the veins are standing out of my neck and my breathing is laboured.
The door opens, Carl appears and I instantly cower. He pulls the blanket off the television and leaves the room without a word. No hit, no kick. I slump to the floor and fall deeply into self-pity and sob.
It’s about twelve I think. I am sitting at the window in a chair looking at the paddocks below lit by moonlight. I feel sick to my stomach, I don’t know if this plan is going to work and if it does how far away civilisation is from here. I could run for days and not see anyone. What if this is in fact a property and there are guards on the gates surrounding it? I don’t think that’s the case though because I can see the forest just over the hill. I wish the bushland came right up to the house because then it would be easier for me to run without being seen. I think it’s about 500 metres to the forest from the house but that is only on this side of the house. What’s the other side like?
What will I do Dad? Tell me what to do? Which way do I run?
I have no shoes so I have to try and make some, but from what? How do you make fucking shoes? I asked them for some bedsocks tonight, and said my feet were cold. Bed socks are thick and hopefully will protect me a little. If only I had something hard to strap to my feet. I’ve got nothing… like my brain. I can’t sit still and start to pace my ten thousandth pace today. I’m so nervous I’m going to get myself killed. Strategically I think I have about a thirty per cent chance of making it out alive. First I have to attack, then I have to run, then I have to find a phone and call the police. What’s the frigging number for the police in America again? I frown as I try to remember it; is it 555 or 551? I am pulled from my thought by the sound of a strange car pulling up on the other side of the house. I can see the headlights out the window but not the car. Fuck, who is here? Is the boss here? Have they come to kill me? I run to the door and hold my head up against the back of it to try and listen but I’m upstairs so I can only hear the front door opening. I strain my ears… nothing. Oh my god, the boss is here. They would only come here in the middle of the night if they were going to do something.
What are they going to do?
Chapter 26
Joshua
“Can you tell me what this photograph is of,
Mr Stanton?” I narrow my eyes to look at the picture. I am on the stand and have been interrogated for three hours. I can’t take much more.
The photograph is of bruising on hipbones and arms and I frown in confusion. I have seen these images before but I can’t place them. Where have I seen these? Black fingerprints on the insides of someone’s arms—I don’t get it.
“No,” I reply.
The prick of a prosecutor shakes his head. “These are images from Natasha Marx’s phone saved under the title ‘Joshua’s handiwork’.”
I frown. What?
“She was trying to leave us a trail to convict you.” He turns to the jury box. “Images from the very phone of the victim, stating Joshua Stanton had done this. Do you need more proof, jury, that this man is evil?”
They all stay straight-faced. My eyes flick to Cameron who is putting his hands up in a gesture and I frown. Huh? He holds his hands up again as if water skiing. Oh shit, the penny drops.
“Those are photos that I took when we went water skiing in Thailand. I put the heading ‘Joshua’s handiwork’ because Natasha wanted to send it to her mother as a joke,” I stammer. “The bruises are from being pulled from the water onto the boat. Ask anyone?” I stammer. “There were ten other people with us.”
The prosecutor fakes a laugh. “Yes, of course they are,” he replies sarcastically.
“Mr Stanton, where are Natasha Marx’s diaries?” he asks.
My stomach drops and I stay silent.
“Miss Marx has kept a diary for years and years but they have not been recovered. Where are they?”
I swallow. This is the first outright lie I have told and I know I can’t do it for shit. “I don’t know,” I reply.
“Yes, you do. You have disposed of these diaries because you don’t want anyone to know what Natasha really thought of you and how she was falling in love with Max her bodyguard,” he yells.
I shake my head. “No,” I answer.
The prosecutor turns to the jury. “Joshua Stanton’s house is under constant guard twenty- four hours a day. Nobody could have got to those diaries except Mr Stanton himself. He is hiding the evidence of his murder,” he yells.
“No,” I reply and my eyes flick to Vincenzo and he shakes his head in frustration.
“That is all for today, Mr Stanton.” He takes a seat as he smiles smugly at his assistants.
I stand and go back and sit next to Vincenzo and he gives me a reassuring smile as he stands. “I call to the stand Bridget Marx.”
I hold my breath as I watch Bridget nervously walk up and take a seat and swear on the bible. She smiles softly at me and I drop my head. This is bullshit. Why are we going through this?
“Miss Marx, you are Natasha’s sister?”
