But what is she thinking? Jill thought, watching Ca.s.sie beaming as she approached, genuinely smiling at her for the first time in a very long time. Doesn't she understand the s.h.i.t she's in?

'Jill,' said Ca.s.sie, when she reached her side, 'could you reach into my top pocket?'

Brow furrowed, Jill reached in and removed a memory stick for a computer.

'In there,' said Ca.s.sie, 'you'll find multiple video and audio files doc.u.menting Christian Worthington buying and dealing commercial quant.i.ties of drugs.'

Jill stared at the USB in her fingers.

'And Jill,' said Ca.s.sie, 'this is very important. You won't see me in there, but you'll hear people talking to me a lot, especially Christian. But he doesn't call me Ca.s.sie. He uses a pet name of mine Seren.'

'Seren?' said Jill.

'Yep. Nice, isn't it? It's short for Serendipity. You know, it means happy coincidence, lucky chance.'

71.

Tuesday 16 April, 12.41 pm.

Dirk McClintoff put his c.o.ke in the cup holder and his smoke between his lips to take the corner. The traffic had been a freaken nightmare an hour to get from Parramatta just to Petersham. He swore he could feel his ulcer bleeding a little more when he got stuck at every light. The petrol gauge dropped without mercy before his very eyes as he crunched the semi-trailer up through the gears after every holdup.

Finally, his turnoff. He didn't know why he was in such a hurry to get home, though. The place had been cold and gloomy since his b.i.t.c.h wife had left him. Not that it had exactly been all warm and fuzzy when she'd been there. She'd spent every waking minute on online forums or at the shops spending his money.

As always, he indicated from the centre lane to take the left turn. No way this rig could take the tight corner from the kerbside lane. As usual, he could sense the other drivers' frustration all around him as they waited for the heavy truck to negotiate the corner. Where were they gonna go anyway, he thought. The road was a parking lot ahead of him.

'What the f.u.c.k!' Dirk's cigarette fell from his mouth and landed on his b.a.l.l.s. The blue WRX was flying in the empty left lane up the hill. This p.r.i.c.k's gonna try to overtake in the left lane! Dirk ripped up the handbrake and stood straight up on the footbrakes, but he knew there was no way he was gonna stop this thing before . . .

Dirk's forehead smacked into his window when the Rexie slammed into the side of his trailer. He shook his head, dizzy. He then shot out of his cabin and bolted through cars around to the left side of the truck. He stopped dead, knowing there was f.u.c.k-all he could do.

He rubbed at his forehead, feeling his fingers sticky with his blood. His head would hurt tomorrow. He took another quick look at what was left of the blue car jammed in under the trailer. Who was he to complain? At least he still had a head.

Epilogue.

June.

Seren used the remote to b.u.mp up the aircon a smidge. Marco would be home in an hour, and she wanted it toasty. She smiled and hugged herself, thinking of the trail of clothes he left as soon as he walked into the apartment each day. His private-school uniform. He began shedding bits and pieces in the lift the hat, the blazer and by the time he reached his bedroom, he wore nothing but jocks and socks.

'I hate it there,' he moaned every day, trying to hide his smile. She knew he loved his new school; saw the effort he was putting into his homework for the first time in his life.

She thumbed through a Gourmet Traveller and selected tomorrow's dinner. Slow-cooked salmon, she decided, poached in barely warm olive oil for an hour. It has to be seafood, she thought, staring out at the water off Birkenhead Point beyond the balcony.

She picked up the business card from the kitchen counter; flipped it over and back again, studying every letter, as though this could make its owner move things along faster. I wonder if he'll even want to stay with us, she worried. She read the name again Barbara McDougall, Department of Community Services. Barbara had found her little brother, Bradley, within twenty minutes of her first call. He was eighteen now, and living in a share house.

She stared at the front door of the apartment, picturing Bradley walking in here on the weekend to visit them. Will he look like me, she wondered? Like Mum, like Dad? Will he forgive me? She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and turned again to look out at the water. A monstrously fat pelican sat perched on a buoy in the winter sunshine, staring straight at her. He seemed to wink. Did he just wink?

She winked back, just in case.

And that reminds me, she thought. I must do more about maintaining this lifestyle. She hopped off the bar stool in the kitchen and padded, barefoot, across the thick carpet to her bedroom. She rebooted the computer and logged in to her bank. She electronically transferred funds to pay the rent on her old apartment, wondering who would have commandeered it. Probably Tready. She shuddered. He, or whoever else it was, would be the last person to tell anyone that she didn't live there anymore. He'd probably have moved right in and rented his own s.h.i.thole out to the hookers on an hourly basis.

What else do I need to do to keep all of this going? she wondered. She was sure that Christian would never bother her again. He knew that Ca.s.sie had told her where to find the gun he'd hidden during a murder trial for his client. That would get him at least fifteen and up to twenty-five years for aiding and abetting, perverting the course of justice. He'd cop his five years sweet and forget he'd ever laid eyes on her.

She stretched her neck and stared at the ceiling. She'd thought she'd had the world figured out, people figured out. She knew there were good and bad people. She knew that some people were kind, could love, could be relied upon. She didn't know there were people like Ca.s.sie Jackson. She smiled, thinking of the last letter she'd received. Ca.s.sie still had another six months in gaol-ordered rehab. That'd make it summer before she could have her over here to thank her properly. She was already planning the menu.

And Zeko? What about Zeko? Was it time to call him again, remind him that it was best that he forget her name completely? She didn't think so. She knew as well as he did that his mortgage and his six kids relied upon that slaughterhouse wage, and that some skinny blonde b.i.t.c.h wasn't worth losing it all for. No, as long as she showed up to visit the lovely Maria Thomasetti for another few months, she was home and hosed.

Except that eight hundred thousand wouldn't last forever with these Sydney rental prices.

She did a quick Google search and leaned back in her leather office chair; she put her feet up on her bed and dialled the number she had found.

'Sydney Stock Exchange,' said a female voice.

'Oh, hi,' said Seren. 'I'd like to enroll in your beginners' cla.s.ses for share trading.'

'You're not going to believe this,' said the woman. 'I was just closing off the enrollments for this session. I can just squish you in. If you'd called a couple of minutes later, you'd have had to wait another two months. How lucky!'

'That's me,' said Seren. 'Lucky.'

Acknowledgements.

Once again, this book is inspired by the soldiers I've met in my day job. In this case, the veterans of wars taking place every day in homes, behind closed doors: survivors of domestic violence. If you're in one of these war zones, find someone to help you out. You can do it.

To the book sellers and everyone I've met within the book industry: thanks for welcoming me into your world. I'm still trying to find a baddie amongst you (sorry, occupational hazard). So far, no one.

To the whole team at Random House Australia: thank you. For everything.

To Josh: Dr Leah Giarratano has had a long career as a psychologist. An expert in psychological trauma, s.e.x offences and psychopathology, she has had many years' experience working with victims and psychopaths. She has worked in psychiatric hospitals, with the Australian Defence Force, and in corrective services with offenders who suffer severe personality disorders. She has a.s.sessed and treated survivors of just about every imaginable psychological trauma, including hostages; war veterans; rape, a.s.sault, and accident victims; and has worked with police, fire and ambulance officers.

Leah is also the host of a prime-time television doc.u.mentary series ent.i.tled Beyond the Darklands, in which she delves into the minds of some of Australia's most infamous criminals.

end.