Like Mother, Like Daughter Read online

  Praise for Elle Croft

  ‘An original and thrilling page-turner with an end I didn’t see coming’

  Victoria Selman

  ‘I couldn’t put this down. Pacy and gripping’

  Cass Green

  ‘A relentless and intense pace that kept me completely rapt and eager to find out answers. I loved the final twist’

  KL Slater

  ‘A gripping psychological thriller. Skilfully plotted – I just couldn’t put it down. And the ending! You just have to read it. I am looking forward to more from Elle Croft’

  Patricia Gibney

  ‘A gripping tale of betrayal, deceit, and duplicity. The ending will stay with you long after you’ve finished the last page. Fabulous’

  Jenny Blackhurst

  ‘The Guilty Wife will make you question those closest to you as the plot unfolds at pace, with an ending that pulls the rug from under your feet’

  Phoebe Morgan

  ‘Twisty and fast-moving, The Guilty Wife kept me guessing until the very end! A great read’

  Isabel Ashdown

  ‘What a clever idea! This kept me reading through the night…’

  Jane Corry

  This one’s for Adelaide, the city where I fell in love with books, beaches and Brendan.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Elle Croft

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1: KAT

  Chapter 2: IMOGEN

  Chapter 3: KAT

  Chapter 4: KAT

  Chapter 5: IMOGEN

  Chapter 6: IMOGEN

  Chapter 7: KAT

  Chapter 8: SALLY

  Chapter 9: KAT

  Chapter 10: KAT

  Chapter 11: IMOGEN

  Chapter 12: KAT

  Chapter 13: KAT

  Chapter 14: IMOGEN

  Chapter 15: KAT

  Chapter 16: SALLY

  Chapter 17: KAT

  Chapter 18: KAT

  Chapter 19: SALLY

  Chapter 20: KAT

  Chapter 21: IMOGEN

  PART TWO

  Chapter 22: KAT

  Chapter 23: KAT

  Chapter 24: IMOGEN

  Chapter 25: KAT

  Chapter 26: SALLY

  Chapter 27: KAT

  Chapter 28: KAT

  Chapter 29: IMOGEN

  Chapter 30: KAT

  Chapter 31: KAT

  Chapter 32: IMOGEN

  Chapter 33: KAT

  Chapter 34: SALLY

  Chapter 35: KAT

  Chapter 36: KAT

  Chapter 37: IMOGEN

  Chapter 38: KAT

  Chapter 39: KAT

  Chapter 40: SALLY

  Chapter 41: KAT

  Chapter 42: KAT

  Chapter 43: KAT

  Chapter 44: IMOGEN

  Chapter 45: KAT

  PART THREE

  Chapter 46: IMOGEN

  Chapter 47: KAT

  Chapter 48: SALLY

  Chapter 49: KAT

  Chapter 50: KAT

  Chapter 51: IMOGEN

  Chapter 52: KAT

  Chapter 53: KAT

  Chapter 54: IMOGEN

  Chapter 55: KAT

  Chapter 56: IMOGEN

  Chapter 57: KAT

  Chapter 58: KAT

  Chapter 59: IMOGEN

  Chapter 60: KAT

  Chapter 61: KAT

  Chapter 62: IMOGEN

  Chapter 63: KAT

  Chapter 64: IMOGEN

  Chapter 65: KAT

  Chapter 66: IMOGEN

  Chapter 67: SALLY

  Epilogue: JEMIMA

  Acknowledgements

  Credits

  About the Author

  Also by Elle Croft

  Copyright

  Prologue

  SALLY

  Serial killer.

  It has a ring to it, don’t you think? A certain … prestige. A little thrill that runs up the spine and ignites the imagination at the utterance of those two words.

  I know, I know; I shouldn’t revel in it. I’m well aware of that, and yet … well, I suppose you could say that my macabre title is more than I could ever have hoped to achieve in this life. It’s my legacy. My name will be written into history books and talked about well after I die. People – smart, successful, well-respected people – will study me, will talk about me, will spend years wishing they could somehow get inside my brain. Wishing that they could understand.

  If I hadn’t done what I did, I’d be forgotten. I’d die unknown, except to a handful of people, who themselves would be unheard of. I’d have no achievements to my name, no one would even notice that I was gone. It’s not why I did it; I didn’t crave the notoriety. I never planned this. But I can’t pretend it isn’t a bonus.

  My honesty is surprising to some, but it shouldn’t be. So many people out there would kill – only figuratively, of course – to have what I have. To be immortalised the way I have been.

  They’d deny it, acting outraged at the mere suggestion that they envy me. People are so precious about distancing themselves from the darkness inside of them. Everyone wants to pretend that they don’t have it, that they are free from demons, untethered from their basest impulses. But depravity is there, lurking inside each and every one of us. For some, like myself, it’s a deeper shade of darkness, a shadow filling my lungs like oxygen and pulsing through my bloodstream. Feeding me, nurturing me. For others, perhaps, it’s tamer, a creature that occasionally wends its way around their conscience, reminding them of its presence. But whether loud and raging or timid and mewling, it’s there. In everyone.

  If only the others could throw off the burden of expectation. If only, like me, they could allow themselves to surrender completely to their true nature. But they won’t. They can’t. They care too deeply about ‘Doing the Right Thing’, even if ‘Doing the Right Thing’ is little more than a social construct, designed to subdue the masses, to control the behaviour of the many.

  If everyone was brave like me, I suppose the label ‘serial killer’ would hold less power. It would be the ordinary, not the exceptional.

  So, no. I shouldn’t take pride in it. Logic tells me that. Society tells me that. But it’s who I am. And, in the end, everyone in this country knows my name. I’ll just take a stab in the dark here (pun obviously intended) and say that that’s a hell of a lot more than you can claim.

  So tell me: who’s the real success here?

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  KAT

  My hands grip the steering wheel, my knuckles leached of their colour. I glance distractedly in the rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of my paler-than-usual face as I check for traffic. Indicating, I turn the wheel, steering onto the side road and then into the already full parking lot, my heart thudding, my mouth dry.

  Taking a deep, shaking breath, I tap the screen in front of me and select ‘Redial’. As it rings, I lean forward and stare through the windscreen at the giant Australian flag sailing above the building’s entrance, white stars flapping against the backdrop of a cloudless blue sky.

  ‘Hey, Kat, what’s up?’ My husband’s voice, usually an instant injection of calm, isn’t enough to stop the bubble of anxiety from ballooning in my chest.

  ‘Hi, um, can you come home please?’

  ‘I’m right in the middle of getting this frame up, so it’s not a great time. Everything OK?’

  Of course it’s not a good time. But, then again, is there ever a convenient moment for something like this? Dylan needs this job, and needs to do it well; the house he’s building in that new suburb down south is the first big contract he’s had in months. If he
impresses this client, the referrals could keep his business booming for years, so he’s been working flat out for weeks, regardless of the weather. I don’t know how he does it – lugging timber and climbing scaffolding and driving forklifts in the scalding sun – but he says he’s used to it after so many years.

  ‘No, not really,’ I say. ‘I just got to the school. Apparently, Imogen … well, they’re saying she punched someone.’

  Saying the words out loud sounds like a betrayal. Of our daughter, of everything we’ve worked so hard for, of our secrets.

  A rush of air fills the car from my speakers. Dylan’s quick intake of breath. Shock, to match mine.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  I catch his words, despite them being muttered almost under his breath.

  ‘Dylan!’

  It was never a secret that Dylan dreamed of having a son. He had visions of kicking a football around in the backyard with a brown-haired little boy who would take over his business after transforming into a man, who he could have a beer with and light bonfires with and whatever else it is that men imagine doing with their sons. I wonder, not for the first time, if he wishes things had been different. If he regrets the decision we made all those years ago. If he’d prefer to have tonight’s stern talk about peaceful conflict resolution with a boy.

  ‘What?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’m not allowed to be proud of my daughter for standing up for herself?’

  ‘We don’t know what happened yet. We don’t know if she was standing up for herself.’

  ‘Well, I choose to believe the best in people. Especially my own children. So, unless I’m presented with proof that suggests otherwise, I’ll be assuming that Imogen was doing the right thing.’

  He doesn’t need to say the words unlike you. They fill the car, swelling around me.

  ‘Please don’t tell her that punching someone is the right thing,’ I groan, my anxiety gradually dissipating. Maybe I was blowing this out of proportion. Perhaps Dylan is right, and it’s just a misunderstanding. I nod, even though he can’t see me. ‘You’re right. I’m not going to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘Wait till you have all the facts.’

  ‘Just get home as soon as you can, please. I don’t want to deal with this on my own.’

  ‘OK,’ he agrees. ‘Just let me get the guys started on this roof, and I’ll head home as soon as I can.’

  He hangs up and I let the silence wash over me. Talking with Dylan temporarily calmed my nerves, but now I’m left to walk into the school office alone, to complete the parental version of a walk of shame without any backup.

  The heat of the day blasts me as I step out of my air-conditioned cocoon and follow the line of gum trees to the school office.

  I’m met with unconcealed contempt when I introduce myself to the receptionist, stepping aside so the bunch of pink roses in the vase on her desk is shielded from view.

  ‘Oh, hello Mrs Braidwood,’ the silver-haired woman says, looking me up and down judgementally, as though my daughter punching someone is somehow my fault. I suppose, indirectly, it is. It’s always the mother’s fault, isn’t it?

  After a thoroughly disapproving look-over, I’m led down a corridor with small rooms on the left-hand side. Sick bays, presumably, although I’ve never been to this part of the school before. The door to the first room is open, and I peer inside. Sitting on the bed, sobbing quietly, is a girl with dark hair and features, an enormous bruise blooming across her left eye and blood smeared underneath her nose. My veins turn icy. Did my daughter really do that?

  Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, an old, nagging fear begins to rise. I force it back down, knowing it won’t do anyone any good for me to dwell on those thoughts. It didn’t help me then, and it won’t help me now. And revisiting those anxieties certainly won’t help Imogen. She’s my focus now.

  Breathing deeply in an attempt to slow my heartbeat, I continue following the receptionist down the corridor. She gestures into the next room. There’s my daughter, blonde and lithe, tall and poised. The complete opposite of the distraught young woman I saw in the room next door.

  ‘Imogen!’ I say, rushing towards her. ‘Are you OK? What happened?’

  I’m desperate for her to tell me that she was defending some younger girl’s honour, or that she was stopping a bully, that she had no other choice, that she knows it was wrong but she didn’t know what else she could possibly do in the moment.

  She stares at the floor and says nothing.

  ‘Immy?’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything since the fight,’ says a voice from behind me.

  I turn to find a nurse, young and stern – and clearly unimpressed – standing in the corner.

  ‘OK, but what happened?’

  ‘The students won’t say,’ she replies, her lips drawn into a tight, thin line. ‘Emerald – the girl who was assaulted – says it was unprovoked. There weren’t any witnesses, so it seems like it’s your daughter’s word against hers.’

  Dylan’s declaration from our phone conversation echoes in my mind: Unless I’m presented with proof that suggests otherwise, I’ll be assuming that Imogen was doing the right thing. I should be making the same assumption. She’s my daughter. I should trust her over anyone else.

  But there it is again: that fear, like a creature in hibernation, long-forgotten but still alive. Curled up in some dark corner, strengthening and growing and waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

  ‘Well, I stand by whatever my daughter says happened,’ I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my doubts.

  Imogen looks up at me in sharp surprise.

  ‘As I mentioned, she hasn’t said,’ the nurse points out sarcastically.

  I narrow my eyes at her and pick up Imogen’s school bag.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to my daughter. Then, turning to the nurse, ‘I’m taking her home.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Braidwood, but you will need to speak to the principal to discuss next steps and potential disciplinary action.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll call her,’ I snap. ‘Right now, my main concern is my daughter and making sure she’s OK.’

  She begins protesting, but I tune her out.

  Imogen follows me out of the head office, past the receptionist who’s calling my name and into the car park, where I let out a long, trembling breath. We get into the car without a word, and I start the engine, driving away from the school with my heart in my throat.

  It’s only when we’re halfway home that I risk glancing at my daughter. She’s staring straight ahead, looking younger than her sixteen years in her blue and green striped polo shirt. Her hair is poker-straight and unruffled, her clothing intact, only a tiny smear of blood on her chest that in-

  dicates anything is amiss. She must have cleaned herself up. She’s calm, no trace of a violent incident to be found in her posture, on her face. A thrill of fear ripples down my spine.

  Focusing on the road again, I use the distraction of changing lanes as a chance to compose myself, to dispel the image of Emerald, blood pooling under her nose, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  I clear my throat, unsure how to broach the subject, how to ask the questions burning in my chest without starting a fight. She’s difficult to talk to at the best of times, and this certainly doesn’t count as one of those.

  ‘Mum,’ she says.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse her head swivelling to face me. I keep my focus on the road.

  ‘Yes?’

  I can barely breathe while I wait for her to speak again. I have no idea what she’s going to say, but I desperately want her to tell me she didn’t do it, that it was all a big misunderstanding. Or at least that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s the victim in this. Not the poor girl with the crushed nose and black eye.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says.

  I wait for more, but nothing else comes. I whip my head around, but she’s focused on something ahead of us again, her arm
s crossed over her chest.

  ‘That’s it?’ I’m incredulous. ‘That’s all I get, just, “thanks”?’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Imogen, I didn’t stand up for you in there so you could just carry on and pretend nothing happened. I need to hear from you exactly what made you assault that poor girl—’

  ‘Assault her?!’ Imogen yells. ‘So much for believing whatever I tell you. You’ve clearly just jumped to your own conclusion, as always. So what was that back there, were you just acting the part? Did Dad tell you to stand up for me?’

  ‘I saw her face, Imogen,’ I say through clenched teeth, struggling to control my emotions. I wish Dylan were here; he’d know how to speak to our daughter without starting a war. He’d believe the best in her. He’d know how to trust her.

  ‘Yeah? Well, did you see what happened, too?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘But nothing, Mum,’ she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. ‘If you didn’t see it, maybe you should keep a lid on your opinion. Otherwise you’re just as bad as that bitch of a nurse.’

  ‘Imogen!’

  ‘What? She is a bitch, everyone knows it.’

  My blood is pounding behind my eyes, a mix of rage and panic. Panic that I can’t get through to her. That my fears aren’t just deep-seated paranoia. I take a breath and try to imagine what Dylan would say.

  ‘I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,’ I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. ‘I should have waited for you to explain what happened.’

  Silence.

  ‘So … what happened?’

  I keep my eyes ahead as I turn off the main road, too nervous to look at my daughter in case my fragile calm is shattered.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she says quietly.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t tell me?’

  ‘I just … I really need you to trust me, Mum. I can’t tell you what happened, but I can say that I didn’t assault Emerald. I was … helping someone.’

  Relief washes over me, but it’s only temporary. I want to believe that Imogen was doing the right thing, but what she’s saying doesn’t make sense. My relief is replaced almost immediately by more questions, more doubt. ‘Was Emerald bullying someone?’

  ‘Mum, I just told you, I can’t say.’