7. Iris
Iris
Two years earlier
I pull up outside my therapist’s office. It’s my second visit, and I’m still a little sceptical if this is the right thing for me. But I also know I have to do something, because I’m barely functioning at the moment, and I have my three beautiful children relying on me.
I take a seat in the waiting room, and it’s only a few minutes before Allie calls me into her office.
It’s cosy, with different options for me to sit, but I choose the same spot as last time, a brown leather armchair near her desk.
There’s something about the couch that just screams soap opera at me, and I can’t imagine lying down on it.
‘How are you today, Iris?’
Good. I want to take the easy option and say as much. But the truth is I triple checked the lock on every door before I left the house, even though Sam was in there with the kids.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Any more panic attacks since we last met?’
Only daily. I’m constantly waiting for something to happen—for someone to get into the house, for someone to snatch one of the kids from their bed, or from the pram if we’re out. It’s a constant loop of panic, and I can’t break it.
‘A few.’
‘Let’s talk about some of them.’
Allie listens as I go through a handful of the episodes I’ve had this week, and we talk about the various triggers. Although at this point, I can be triggered by absolutely anything.
‘Iris, this crime that took place near your home and to people you know has understandably taken a toll on you emotionally and mentally.’
A tear rolls down my cheek, and Allie holds a tissue box out to me. I dab at the tear but there’s not much point, dozens more follow.
‘It’s time to take your power back. We are going to work on reframing the thoughts you’re having, setting boundaries and shifting your locus of control.’
It all sounds good, but I’ve got absolutely no idea what she’s on about. And my face must tell her so.
Allie smiles. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll walk you through some things you can try.’
When I get back in my car an hour later, I actually do feel lighter. There’s a sense of hope, and a flicker of motivation has me excited.
Present Day
I’ve been waiting all day to look at my emails.
Tina hadn’t got back to me with the photo mentioned in the transcript but a friend of mine, Ryan Price, sent me some files.
He’s an ex-cop turned private investigator and was my first, and only, partner when I graduated from the academy.
We’d only worked together a few months but we’ve always kept in touch, and he’s the closest thing to a partner I have working on this.
We’re a team and while he usually charges a fortune for his work, for me it’s free.
If Sam knew I was working with him, or our old academy classmate, he’d be furious.
I had to wait until he went to bed to get my laptop out.
In the early days of my research, it’d been news articles and other things easily accessible to the public and Sam was supportive.
He knew it’d been my therapist’s idea, a way to take back control over the situation.
When my panic attacks began to ease and I started to live my life relatively normally again, he assumed I’d stopped.
But I can’t stop. It’s become more than therapeutic. It’s an obsession.
From: [email protected]
Iris,
I had a few hours spare yesterday and followed up on a lead I got from another ex-cop.
He overheard two men arguing in a bar about their increased workload, only the workload sounded like illegal activity.
Give me a call if you want a rundown of the conversation, but I’m confident from what was said, this is relevant.
I decided to pay the bar a visit, and the owner was all too willing to give me a look at some security footage—he has a few skeletons in his closet, which made convincing him easy.
Anyway, I found the two men in question.
See the photo from the security footage attached.
The man looking away from the camera goes by the name Kyle, and the one facing the camera is Eddie.
Be in touch soon.
Ryan
This is huge. Finally, a photo of the men in question, assuming the conversation this ex-cop heard is related but I trust Ryan’s opinion.
I need more information, but Kyle is the same name mentioned in the transcript.
What are the chances that’s a coincidence?
I scroll to the bottom of the email to open the attachment, and that’s when one of the twins starts screaming.
They’re usually pretty good sleepers these days, but now and then one of them will wake and it’s a race to console them before they wake the other one.
I rush into their room, and Lara’s sitting up in bed.
‘Shhh, shhh, sweetie,’ I whisper. ‘Come with me.’
I pick her up and take her back to the couch with me. No need to wake up the whole house trying to get her back to sleep straight away. She lies down next to me and within moments her breathing is heavy, and she’s asleep.
I double click the attachment, and a grainy image fills my screen. The back of a man’s head in the foreground, and beyond it, another man looking toward the camera. This must be Eddie. I zoom in on his face and gasp.
I know this man. The photo is poor quality but I’m sure it’s him. And his name isn’t Eddie.
Footsteps pad down the hall, and I look up to see Sam, eyes half-closed.
‘Asleep?’ he asks, glancing down at our child.
‘Yep,’ I reply, placing a shushing finger to my lips.
‘Are you coming to bed soon?’
‘I need another hour,’ I say.
‘Iris.’ His voice is sharp. I’m worried it’ll wake Lara next to me. ‘The twins are finally sleeping through and now you’re staying up to ridiculous hours. You need to sleep.’
I sigh and close my laptop with an emphatic click.
‘Thank you,’ he says, shuffling back to our bedroom.
I scoop Lara up off the couch, careful not to wake her and manage to successfully transfer her into her bed.
My mind races as I crawl under the covers next to Sam. I know the man in the photo. Sam knows the man in the photo. What do I do with that information? Maybe it’s time to tell my husband what I’ve actually been doing all this time.
***
I pull into the childcare and kinder carpark after a surprisingly drama-free, obedient-kid fuelled morning routine. They rarely happen, so I assume I’ll end up getting a flat tire or stub my toe before the end of the day to make up for it.
On cue, Lara trips over on her way to the door and howls at the top of her lungs.
A microscopic spot of blood appears on her knee, and at the sight of it, her cry becomes even more intense.
Onlookers wouldn’t be far off thinking she must have broken a bone based on the sound.
I crouch down to comfort her but it’s clear the only thing that will help is a Band-Aid.
In Lara’s mind, a Band-Aid can fix anything from a bleeding knee to a bad dream.
I rummage through my hand bag but come up short.
As I’m about to pick her up and take her inside to ask for a Band-Aid, which will result in a prolonged, teary goodbye, I spot Eva pulling into the carpark.
I wave at her from the footpath where the three kids and I are huddled around the “seriously injured” knee.
‘Don’t move,’ I say to the kids as I stand and head toward her car as she’s getting out.
She looks me up and down as I approach and I glance down to make sure my top isn’t on inside-out today.
‘Sorry, Eva. You don’t happen to have…’ I pause. ‘Oh my God, what happened?’ I say, taking in the purple bruise on her cheekbone.
Her hand goes to her face, gently rubbing over the nasty mark. She huffs out a laugh. ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. Just a run in with a bit of equipment at the gym yesterday.’
I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge if she’s telling the truth but I barely know the woman.
‘You were about to ask for something,’ she says.
Lara’s wails amp up, and I snap back to what I’m here for. ‘Yes, do you have a Band-Aid? Lara had a fall and she’s a little Band-Aid obsessed at the moment.’
Eva reaches into her car and a few moments later hands me a small brown plaster.
‘You’re a lifesaver. Literally, if you ask Lara.’
Eva smiles. ‘No worries. Hope she’s okay.’
After I drop the kids off, Sam and I meet up for coffee in a rare moment where we get to be alone together. He doesn’t usually get breaks like this, so when they pop up, I jump at the chance to hang out with him, especially after our fight the other night.
He arrives at the cafe in uniform, and I can’t help but smile—he always looks handsome in his blue collared shirt.
The waitress takes our order and once she walks away, I’m left with an internal battle.
Part of me wants to say nothing and let this be the rare and special moment that it is—alone time to talk.
But the other part of me wants answers. Faces of young children flood my mind’s eye and I can’t let it go.
‘How’s work?’ I say, settling for an easy opener.
‘Same old,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. The movement lifts his jacket to reveal his belt stocked with equipment. Every time I see his firearm, handcuffs and all the other equipment he lugs around every shift, I get a pang of longing, a vision of myself wearing the same belt.
The waitress arrives with our coffees. Sam sips his long black, a coffee I will never understand, while I practically inhale my latte.
Wiping the froth from my lip, I take a steadying breath. ‘Any news on the child trafficking investigation?’
Sam’s shoulders immediately slump and he places his coffee down on the table between us.
‘Iris,’ he says, in a voice I can imagine him using with the kids. ‘How many times have I told you? Have you forgotten our conversation the other night?’
Of course I haven’t forgotten. It’s been eating me up that Billy heard us argue. But every few days I read about another missing child. And then every time I drop the kids at kinder and daycare, I worry. What if they’re not there at the end of the day?
‘Let the police do their job,’ he adds.
‘But are they doing anything?’ I ask. ‘Because from all reports, they’re doing a whole lot of nothing while more children go missing.’
He sucks in a breath at that, and I can’t help but flinch.
It was a low blow. I have no doubt there’s some sort of task force at work, probably in the city, and that there are officers somewhere losing sleep over this the same way I am.
But I want to know. I need to know. If I had the resources the police have, I would make this my life’s work.
My every single day. Why do they seem to be sitting on their hands right now?
‘Do you trust me, Iris?’ His mouth is a hard line and I know he’s hurt.
‘More than anything.’
‘Then leave it.’
‘Fine,’ I say before taking a spoon to the remaining froth left in my coffee cup. ‘But one more thing?’
His eyes pierce into mine, as though daring me to ask the question.
‘Do you still speak to Brent?’
Sam’s lip twitches. It’s fast before he regains his composure. ‘Who?’ he asks.
‘You know, Brent from Rosehill. I’m sure you worked with him at Rosehill Police Station before we moved.’ I search Sam’s face for any hint of recognition. ‘I remember him from a Christmas party. Argh, what was his last name?’
‘Dawson?’ Sam offers.
‘That’s the one. Spoken to him lately?’
Sam’s face is giving me nothing, completely void of emotion. I almost don’t recognise my husband in this moment. ‘No, not since we moved. Why?’
‘No reason,’ I say, quickly breaking eye contact because I’m not as capable as him when it comes to masking what I’m thinking.
He leans in closer and whispers. ‘Iris, why are you asking about Brent?’
Sam’s expression makes me feel as though I’ve simultaneously achieved something in my investigation and crossed a line I shouldn’t have.
I clear my throat and do my best to sound unperturbed. ‘I saw him in a photo recently. Somewhere online. And I thought I’d ask.’
Sam’s eyes narrow. ‘Iris, this has to stop. Whatever you think you’re doing to help. Whatever digging you’re doing. It stops now. It’s dangerous.’
Then he strides to the counter, pays for our coffees and leaves without saying goodbye.
My heart is racing. I’ve made a breakthrough, I know it. Brent must be dirty and that’s why Sam’s angry.
I take out my phone and send an email to Ryan.
From: [email protected]
Thanks Ryan. That was helpful.
I have another favour to ask. Can you find me all the information you have on Brent Dawson. He was also a Rosewood cop.
Cheers,
Iris
I put my phone away and head home. I have quite a few things that need organising for the trivia night and they’ll keep me busy until I hear back from Ryan or Tina.