Page 29 of Darling Girls

‘I didn’t use anything,’ she said, her hands trembling. ‘I just tipped the cornflakes into my mouth.’

‘Disgusting,’ Miss Fairchild said. ‘You aredisgusting.’

The wait to find out what was going to happen next was agonising. The room was deathly quiet, apart from Jessica’s panicked breathing. Norah looked less panicked, more resigned.

At last, Miss Fairchild pushed back her chair abruptly and stalked over to the pantry, retrieving a tin of baked beans. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘since you’re not a fan of using utensils to eat, I will stop providing them. Crockery too. And don’t think I’m going to let you get my tablecloth dirty.’

She wrenched the lid off the beans, animated now, the blue veins pulsing in her neck.

Alicia didn’t understand. Was Miss Fairchild going to make her eat beans straight from the tin? Alicia was still coming to terms with the idea of that when Miss Fairchild upended the tin and spilled beans all over the polished kitchen floor.

Alicia let out a gasp. So did Jessica. Norah closed her eyes.

‘Go on,’ Miss Fairchild said, her mouth twisting into a perverse sort of smile. ‘I’m sure you’re hungry. Don’t let it go to waste!’

‘You want me to eat off the floor?’ Alicia stammered, beginning to cry. It was the shock of it as much as the humiliation.

‘Why not? You seem to prefer eating like an animal.’ Miss Fairchild pulled Alicia from her seat and pushed her onto her knees. ‘So do it.’

By the time Alicia lowered her head to the floor, she was sobbing so hard she thought she might be sick.

You deserve this, the little voice whispered to her.Youaredisgusting.

She slurped a mouthful of beans from the floor.

‘And don’t be leaving any behind,’ Miss Fairchild said, looming over her. ‘We’ve wasted enough food today already!’

13

JESSICA

Phil was asleep. He’d exited the bathroom approximately seventeen seconds earlier, and just like that he was curled up on his side, snoring.

Jessica didn’t know how he did it. She had a very specific routine that she had to follow if she was to have the slightest hope of drifting off. Make sure the house was clean and tidy; take out the garbage; check every door and window to ensure it was locked. Once that was done, she showered and put on pyjamas, brushed her teeth, took her Lexapro and melatonin tablets, applied her serums and moisturiser. Then she placed her phone on charge, told Alexa to turn on white noise and got into bed to read a chapter of her book before turning off her lamp and staring into the darkness for hours until her body finally relented.

Tonight, as she slid between the sheets, she suspected it would take a while. Disturbing vignettes from her childhood circled in her brain – swimming pools and basements, birthday parties and horses. And fear, of course. Lots and lots of fear. It was a mistake to go to Port Agatha. Jessica knew it in her bones, in her blood. It wasn’t just the memories the visit would unearth, either; it was more than that. After all, the police weren’t just looking for information. They’d foundhuman bones. If they determined that the cause of death was suspicious, they’d be looking for a murderer . . . and she and her sisters were foster children. Adults, technically, but always foster children. If people started pointing fingers, Jessica knew in which direction they’d be facing.

She rolled over in bed, wishing Phil would wake up. She understood the irony. She spent most waking hours ignoring Phil – too busy with work and her sisters to properly engage – but the moment he fell (instantly) asleep, she became desperate for his attention. She knew she could wake him. He wouldn’t mind. He’d listen to her explain everything and then say, ‘It’ll be cool, Jess. The cops will believe you. Want me to come to Port Agatha?’

But she wouldn’t wake him. Even after all these years, yearning for the love and attention of someone who couldn’t give it to her was much more comfortable than actually receiving it.

She looked at him sleeping. So cute. People often referred to Phil as ‘cute’. He was small and athletic with earnest brown eyes and a warm smile. The two of them had been babies when they met – both of them working at an upmarket Italian restaurant in Melbourne. Jessica was the maître d’; Phil was a busboy. Jessica had been exceptional at the job. If her upbringing as a foster child had taught her anything, it was how to people-please. She knew how to adapt to people’s moods, how to charm and please, how to make everything look easy even when it was extremely difficult. Especially when things were extremely difficult.

Phil was also good at his job. On top of his day-to-day duties, he would do things to make her day easier – like bringing her a glass of ice-cold water as she stood at the front desk on a busy night, or quietly standing behind her in those few instances when customers became aggressive. It was nice knowing someone had her back.

‘It’s my job,’ he’d say, whenever she thanked him.

But one night, when they’d both stayed back for a couple of drinks at the end of their shifts, he’d made an admission.

‘Itismy job,’ he said, looking into his half-drunk glass of beer. ‘But I’ll admit, I’m more diligent about it when you’re on shift.’

‘Why?’ Jessica asked. She wasn’t fishing for compliments. Back then, the idea of someone doing something kind specifically for her was not something she was accustomed to.

‘Because I like you.’

He’d said it as if it were obvious – like she was an idiot not to have known. And so they started dating. Jessica never thought to ask herself if she liked him too. It didn’t seem relevant. Being loved had been the goal of her life. Loving someone in return . . . that was just showing off.

She rolled towards her bedside table and picked up her phone, saw two new voice messages waiting for her. This was against the rules of her sleep routine, of course. It was too stimulating. According to an article she’d read, every minute spent looking at your phone in bed delayed sleep by six minutes. But tonight she couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t like she was going to be sleeping anyway.