You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

She nods. ‘William Newson was on my newsfeed. It’s not every day that you read about someone you know being murdered. There was less about Thomas Malouf – I almost missed it.’

‘When did you last see the two men?’ Bridget asks, watching her carefully.

‘I never actually met William Newson,’ she admits with a shrug. ‘I knew his name, that he was Thomas Malouf’s lawyer, and that he had an impressive track record. As for Thomas, I didn’t set eyes on him after that night. Everything was handled through police and lawyers. I guess I would have seen him if we’d actually made it to court.’

‘It said in your file that there was no trace of drugs found in your urine or bloodstream,’ Bridget challenges, although she’s aware that date-rape drugs can be gone from the system within a few hours.

Another nod, followed by another shrug. ‘Your body knows, even if no trace has been left, even when you can’t rely on your mind to properly remember. I knew something was wrong the minute I woke up the next morning.’

‘Can you tell us where you were three weeks ago on Tuesday August twentieth?’

‘I was at work.’

‘Which hospital do you work in, Hayley?’

Redfern is well-situated for Royal Prince Alfred and St Vincent’s. Doctors, nurses and medical staff would find the suburb a convenient place to live, if not the safest after nightfall.

‘I’m not in a hospital,’ she says, her eyes downcast. ‘I don’t work as a nurse any more. I decided I wasn’t cut out for it. I retrained – I’m in a call centre with the health department now. It’s easier at the end of a phone. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome.’

Sasha asks if there’s someone who can verify that Hayley was at work, and records the details in her notebook. She and Hayley are close in age. Sasha goes clubbing some weekends, and it’s obvious from her expression that she can easily imagine herself in Hayley’s position: choosing the wrong guy to dance with.

Bridget and Sasha say goodbye shortly afterwards and walk briskly to their car. Two doors down they pass a heroin addict shooting up. Redfern is becoming more gentrified, but pockets of poverty, violence and drug addiction constantly undermine the efforts of town planners and police.

‘What did you think of that?’ Bridget asks, when they’re safely in the car and on their way.

‘I felt sorry for her,’ the young detective replies. ‘Hard to move on from something like that. Charges being dropped when you know the person is guilty. Seeing them get off scot-free. It’s just not right.’

Thomas Malouf got off scot-free … but William Newson didn’t. He paid the ultimate price: his thirty-five-year marriage. His wife divorced him because of Hayley Webster.

‘You know that Malouf’s sexual history wasn’t deemed relevant?’ Bridget says, stopping at a T- intersection. ‘The fact that this was his second time being accused wasn’t weighed up in the decision to drop charges.’

Sasha’s mouth is an angry line. ‘The unfairness is enough to make you go crazy.’

Bridget spends Sunday at home, even though her mind is in the office, mulling over the names on Katrina’s whiteboard, in particular the newest addition: Hayley Webster. Did the unfairness make Hayley go crazy? The charges being dropped is one thing. PTSD and being unable to work as a nurse are another thing altogether: the course of a life changed for ever. Hayley was adamant that she was drugged, but it’s human nature to find excuses for our bad decisions. Is it possible that Thomas Malouf was unfortunate enough to be falsely accused on two separate occasions, ten years apart? And how much digging – if any – did Hayley Webster do into his background? Did she find out about two other girls – nameless, thanks to identity protection – whose case did make it to court, but still didn’t result in a conviction? Would such knowledge have made her even crazier? The fact that she lives in Redfern could be relevant. Crime, violence and poverty conveniently on her doorstep. Not that hard to procure a gun … or find someone willing to kill for a price.

In the afternoon, Bridget drives her daughter to Chatswood, to shop for a dress for her Year 12 formal. Forget Hayley for the next few hours. Focus on Cara. Her daughter is on the cusp of finishing school, striking out in the world. Classes will finish next week, then it’s a couple of weeks’ study leave, followed by the dreaded exams. Cara seems more focused on the formal than the exams, which could be a blessing.

‘What do you think?’ she asks, emerging in a full-length sky-blue dress, the plunging neckline exposing the undersides of her breasts. Good thing her father isn’t here, Bridget thinks. Shane would have to be resuscitated.

‘Turn around,’ Bridget says, mustering a casual tone. ‘I’m not sure about how the back is falling …’

Her next choice is emerald green – a beautiful shade that complements her auburn hair – with an equally revealing drape neck.

‘Gorgeous colour. Maybe a bit too much fabric with the fall …’ Good thing Bridget doesn’t have to pass a lie-detector.

They go to a different store and select another armful of dresses to try on. Then on to a different shopping centre, which has lots of small boutiques. Short dresses, maxi dresses, lace, satin, all with one thing in common: low-cut necklines and exposed backs. How is one meant to wear a bra?

‘You don’t wear a bra, Mum,’ Cara informs her in a condescending tone. ‘You use those stick-on cups.’

Another image of Shane being resuscitated.

It has been more than two hours. Cara is getting frustrated and Bridget is getting impatient. Hunger is making them snippy with each other. Then they find it: a maxi dress with navy sequins. A slit starting high on the leg, not too much cleavage on show. There’s a teary moment of mother-daughter bonding, followed by a different type of eye-watering on