Bloodborn by Kathryn Fox Page A

make conversation in the car when every muscle in her ached with fatigue and her mind still raced with the details of Giverny’s death. Inside, she locked the door and switched off the alarm. Everything was as she had left it. The unworn leggings and sloppy joe protruded from the opened suitcase on the floor. She grabbed them and headed upstairs to the bathroom.
    After a hot shower she felt even more exhausted, but had at least washed the smells and horror of the Goodwin house from her skin and hair. Back in her Ugg boots, she scuffed downstairs. A message on the machine from her ex-husband explained that the plane had been delayed another day due to electrical storms at LAX airport. Ben excitedly shouted something about loud thunder before the message cut out.
    She had to smile. Even a delayed flight was an adventure for her child. Martin probably didn’t see it as quite as much fun. Traveling with a child was challenging enough without flight complications.
    The instructions for the bookshelf kit were where she had left them on the kitchen bench. So much for a day off to rest and recuperate. After tipping the morning’s tea into the sink, she boiled the kettle again, this time opting for a strong black coffee and scrambled eggs whipped up in the microwave.
    Smelling the toast and eggs made her realize that she hadn’t eaten all day. She devoured the eggs while standing at the kitchen bench, then washed down another antibiotic dose with the coffee. Thankfully her cough was less frequent already—the only positive thing in the last two days. Feeling miserable and sore would improve with more sleep.
    Back in the lounge room, the television blared with news updates of a vicious knife attack on two sisters that had left one dead and the other in a critical condition. Anya moved onto the couch and blew breath across her coffee with relief. At least Sophie was still alive at the time the show went to air. Maybe the Saint Jude medal was lucky for her. God knew nothing else had been that day.
    She pressed record on the DVD remote just as photos of the girls smiling and embracing filled the screen. What struck Anya was how pretty the girls were, and how much alike they looked. Nothing like what she had seen today.
    Elderly neighbors were reportedly “shocked” by what had occurred in their “quiet” street and spoke about the family keeping to themselves. Reporters implied there was something odd about that, but Anya believed privacy should be respected. Having grown up with incessant media interest in her family, she fully understood the desire to mind only your own business. She wished more people shared that view.
    She wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the chest infection, seeing Sophie or being overtired and missing Ben that made her think about Miriam. Little Mimi, the one who loved to run around outside. Two years older, Anya was asked to watch her little sister at a local football match while their mother tended to an injury on the field. One minute they were playing chasings, then Mimi was gone. She was only three years old. Vanished.
    No one ever saw her again or found clues as to who had taken her. Each year meant less chance of finding out.
    Media accused their father of killing Mimi, stories of sex slaves and pedophile rings abounded in the state and national press. So much so that Anya changed her surname to avoid the scrutiny—Crichton was her grandmother’s name. Even thirty years later, the speculation and media interest persisted.
    The next news story brought her back to the present. Noelene Harbourn, with a frilly blue apron this time, embraced four solid men, her sons, while announcing that she would sue the police.
    The brothers were remarkably alike in build, coloring and facial features. They all had short necks, which made them stockier and more thuggish—almost Neanderthal. One had a mole on his chin that distinguished him from the others.
    The reporter declared that the popular local