I flick my head to my left, following the direction of West’s words to find him bobbing his head.
There’s a firm grip applied to my right shoulder. I whip my head to my right. Maloney doesn’t look at me, even though the pressure of his grip increases. Instead, he stands tall, with his eyes forward. I don’t shake him away. I need his grasp because fear is ripping through my body and I just need to feel something, anything.
I fixate on the silver doorknob once more, and as I do, I shudder. This is it. My heart kicks up another gear, and the pain in my chest leaves me breathless. My palms become sweaty. My breathing labours. The doorknob twists. My heart skips a beat before pumping even harder. I close my eyes.
The smell of the paper Morgan buys in a roll for the children to draw on fills my senses. Butcher paper. Why does it smell like butcher paper here, when on entry it smelt like cleaning chemicals? This makes no sense.
I flick open my eyelids to find a white sheet hanging over the top of a mound. A man wearing thick black glasses, with protruding lenses, stands with his hands limply dangling in front of him. He nods. I’m not sure why, but after he nods he lifts his arm and peels back the white sheet. He folds the material over itself, stopping above her breasts, not exposing anything more than her head, neck, and upper chest.
Brown hair—that’s all I recognise. The face is swollen and bruised beyond recognition. She’s unidentifiable.
I hear a gasp, then another, followed by sobbing coming from the opposite side of West. Who’s crying? I search for the source, taking my eyes away from the body laid out in front of me.
Kylee has her hands splayed out on the panel with her forehead pressed against them. “No, no. What did they do to her?”
A deep, winded cry comes after she speaks. Ronald lays his head on the top of Kylee’s and cries; a sound I’ve never heard in all the time I’ve known him.
“Reid.” West’s grey eyes infringe my vision. “Is this Morgan?”
“How the fuck can I tell? Her face. Her face is …” I dry heave, folding at my mid-section. I pant. I pant fear, anger, and sorrow into my palms cupped around my mouth.
Small circles rub against my back. “Does Morgan have any markings we may be able to identify her by?” Maloney says calmly.
I slowly pull myself upright. Maloney’s hand falls away. I seek his comfort, the calm that comes from the way he speaks, and then I nod.
“Where? What?” he says.
“A pink heart-shaped birthmark where her bra sits across her back.” I don’t have to think about any other. Morgan’s birthmark is unique.
“Okay.” His tone soft.
“Irwin, please check her back for a heart-shaped birthmark. Pink in colour. Located where her bra strap would sit.” I’m not sure how the man in the room can even hear West say this, and I don’t look to find out if he does. I keep my eyes fixed on Maloney’s while trapping my breath behind my lips.
“The window has gone black,” Maloney says. “He’ll be repositioning her with privacy.” He pauses. “When the glass becomes clear again, I’ll tell you, and you’ll need to look, okay?” His eyes are sympathising, yet broad.
I nod.
“Reid, you can do this,” Maloney encourages.
I swallow hard.
“Keep breathing, mate.”
I gulp a needy breath.
“We can see the room now. Irwin’s pushing the table closer to the window. I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”
I nod.
There’s silence around me, even though inside my head it’s loud.
“We’re ready.” Maloney breaks eye contact when he rotates his head.
I follow suit. Purple, green, yellow, and black are the colours of the bruises that splotch her back. Patches of white skin shine in comparison, standing out between the discolouration. I search for her birthmark, the place it should be.
It’s not there. Only white skin.
There’s just pale milky skin.
It can’t be Morgan. It isn’t Morgan.
“It’s not there.” Pure shock. “It’s not Morgan. It’s not Morgan,” I cry out as I slide my hands down the transparent panel and slump to the floor.
I weep. I weep for the woman who lies on the table unidentified. For her family and whatever it is she’s endured at this sick psychopathic man’s hands. Her death is related to Morgan’s disappearance. As West said, she was wearing Morgan’s clothing.
Has her kidnapper killed before?
Is he a serial killer?
Are there more women to be found?
What has he done to Morgan?
The Wolf
I can navigate the bush that surrounds me in any weather or light. I’d know it with my eyes closed, like the back of my hand—I know this bushland. There are forty hectares I’ve spent years walking, yet I worry. I worry that Morgan might find her way off my land, infringing on another’s.
The closest neighbouring house to mine is another one hundred hectares away, yet their land is much, much closer. There’s no way Morgan could have made it to their home during the night on foot even with the healthiest of bodies. She’s a walking corpse—a fucking walking corpse that managed to ambush me.
“Fuck,” I groan.
If I don’t find her today, there’s a possibility she’ll stumble her way out of here, and if she does, I’ll go on a massacre. I’ll kill any fucker who gets in my way until I’ve found her. My fury will be unleashed. I’ll take more lives than I planned to. I’ll do anything to see that bitch dead. I was never going to let her live—I just wanted to give her a chance to figure out the game. She’s royally fucked up my fucking game.
Leaves rustle above me, stealing my attention. I tilt my head back. The sun has me squinting my eyes as I search for the source. A grey fur-covered claw reaches out scooping a handful of eucalyptus leaves from the old gum tree in front of me. It’s not Red. It’s a fucking koala.
Where the fuck is Red?
She should have run her circle and collided with my chest by now. She should have been in those bushes last night, too, only she wasn’t—a fucking possum was, though. That glowing-eyed critter copped the full brunt of my rage as it flew off the end of my boot. I wish it had been Morgan’s face connecting with my swinging leg, then I wouldn’t be out here walking these grounds like I am.
Each foot I place in front of the other has me thinking about the wildlife that hunts these parts alongside me. The wildlife always hungry for blood, just like I am.
Have they ripped her to pieces? Have the dingoes, foxes, and wild pigs taken the pleasure I want for myself?
I growl, “Fucking hope not.”
Morgan’s life is mine for the taking, not theirs.
Grey stones fill my vision. A massive rock wall, too high to scale, has me huffing. I’m going to need my equipment to find her. I’m probably going to need to borrow some of Winston’s high-tech shit as well. It won’t take long for the day to become night.
Thank fuck Winston is out of town hunting, which means I have full access to his gear without any questions asked. Winston is a nosey bastard, but given his past, and what he once did for a living, it makes sense he’s suspicious. You don’t roll with the mafia and not think every person is out to get you.
Four hours, give or take a few minutes, is how long it usually takes for me to reach Winston’s shack and get back. Add in the time it’ll take to retrieve the stuff I need … “Shit, Morgan, you’ve messed with the wrong fucker today.”
I breathe. I close my eyes. I calculate the amount of time that’s passed in comparison to the condition Morgan’s in, and the time I’ll need … I’ll be cutting it close to how near to freedom she could get.
Disappointment rushes through my veins, and with a harrumph expelling from my pressed lips, my temper rises. I whip around and stomp heavily towards my cabin. I think about the fucking holes ripped through my shirt and torn through my skin. That bitch left those there. Morgan has taken so much from me, and I just want this game over.
Calm yourself.
Don’t lose control.
You will find her.