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  To the best mum in the worldI,

  I didn’t join a cult. I started one.

  I. If you’re wondering why I dedicated my book to your mum (because you think she’s the best), I have terrible news for you. She might be a pretty good mum, but she’s not as good as mine. If you disagree, let’s meet at the bike sheds after school. Don’t worry, I’m not going to fight you – my mum will. She’s always got my back. It’s why she’s the best and why I dedicated this book to her. Love you, Mum.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Tonight’s speaker needs no introduction, but I’m paid to give one, so here we go.’

  The presenter paused for laughter, but little came.

  ‘She’s a bestselling author, a former Young Australian of the Year, and Walkley Award winner. At just twenty-nine, those are particularly impressive feats. However, she is best known for exposing one of Australia’s most insidious and prolific killers.

  ‘Tonight, on the seventh anniversary of Lily Williams’ tragic death, we talk to the tenacious young journalist who uncovered the truth that shook not only her small town, but also the entire nation, to its core. You’re really in for a special treat this evening. So please welcome to the stage author, journalist, and co-creator of The Lily Foundation, Marlowe Robertson.’

  * * *

  She mistook their applause for rain.

  Instinctively, Marlowe turned her head towards the concert hall’s sweeping ceiling before she realised the sound could never permeate the Sydney Opera House’s concrete sails. No, it wasn’t rain, it was the crowd – and they were applauding for her. She inhaled deeply. She still wasn’t used to the attention – the ovation – the people clambering for a selfie or a signature, and the sold-out events.

  Her publicist’s bony finger prodded her spine, and her eyes fell on the flustered stagehand attempting to usher her out of the wings.

  ‘Sorry,’ Marlowe mouthed, unsure whether or not her microphone was on.

  When she walked out onto the stage, she was blinded by the spotlights. The roar of the audience reverberated through her body, but she couldn’t see them. She paused, shielding her eyes from the lights. One by one, individual people came into view, all wearing the flower crowns that had become synonymous with Lily Day. She stood, dumbfounded at the sea of white before her, and raised her hand to her own crown. Tears bit at the corners of her eyes, and her lips quivered. The applause grew louder.

  ‘It’s quite the sight, isn’t it?’ the presenter asked, placing her hand on the small of Marlowe’s back.

  Marlowe turned to face the woman. She was a former breakfast-show host with immaculately styled hair and the pinched features of someone who’d had one too many cosmetic procedures.

  ‘I just –’ her voice broke, and she turned back towards the crowd.

  ‘We love you, Lo!’ an audience member called out.

  A small smile tugged at Marlowe’s mouth, but she was interrupted by the presenter pushing her towards the interview chair. She winked in the general direction of the call-out – prompting further cheers – before heading to her seat.

  As she sat down, she adjusted her leather jacket. The January heat made it an impractical choice, but her publicist had insisted. She’d long grown out of the grungy aesthetic she’d favoured in her early twenties, but it had become a part of her brand.

  The jacket, boots and dark, femme-fatale fringe were expected of her. They all served to remind people of that infamous photo – her and the dead girl: Lily in a flower crown and floor-length gown, and Marlowe looking like a biker moll. The striking juxtaposition had made it the perfect cover for her book. Though she may have reconsidered it if she’d known she’d have to dress like that for the rest of her career.

  ‘Thank you so much for being here today, Marlowe,’ the presenter said, a false smile plastered on her plastic features.

  ‘Please,’ Marlowe replied, smiling warmly, ‘call me Lo.’ The nickname was another remnant of her youth that she wished she could leave behind.

  The lights in the concert hall dimmed and two small screens illuminated at their feet. One showed the camera angles being broadcast live, while the other contained a countdown to the event’s end. It was going to be a lengthy interview, but they had a lot of ground to cover. The presenter jumped right in.

  ‘I want you to take us back to that date – the nineteenth of January 2008 – the night Lily Williams was killed.’

  Marlowe took a deep breath. The memories were still so vivid. After all, she’d been reliving them for years via her bestselling book, The Showgirl’s Secret.

  The Showgirl’s Secret

  by

  Marlowe Robertson

  CHAPTER 1

  The night air was punctuated by screams.

  Familiar locations whizzed by – the beach, the harbour, the park. By the time I’d identified one, the next would already be in view. The comfortingly familiar landmarks that made up the seaside township of Kiama took on an uncanny air, reduced to nothing more than a nauseating blur. The showground beneath me only added to the chaos. Blinking lights. Pulsing music. Hordes of people lining up for showbags, sideshow games or carnival-style food.

  I could just make out the other rides among the blur. They were all named after dances or natural disasters. The Cha-Cha, Avalanche and Break Dance were equally as nausea-inducing but lacked the spectacle of the Hurricane. It towered over the showground – its six octopus-style arms fanning out – and was accompanied by the deafening hiss of the pneumatic air compressor that powered its ascent. I could cope with the heights; it was the speed the rocket-shaped shuttles gained as they returned to the ground that was the issue.

  On the upswing, Rachael’s body would slam against mine. It would be her cue to raise her hands above her head as the centrifugal force lifted her from her seat. For that split second, she was weightless – floating above the town – screaming giddily. Her joy was tangible. Probably because it was the closest she’d ever get to escaping the bucolic little hellhole we called home.

  ‘Put your arms up, it’s more fun,’ Rachael yelled, attempting to pry my vice-like fingers off the shuttle’s safety bar.

  I held on even tighter as my stomach lurched.

  I’d almost managed to get out of having to go on the ride, telling my friends that I couldn’t risk leaving the backpack containing my DSLR camera unattended. Unfortunately, and to my horror, one of them had agreed to fall on his sword and become the designated bag holder. After making a big song and dance about it in front of our friends, Dan had placed his hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my eyes, before saying, ‘You work too hard, Lo. You deserve some fun.’

  To anyone else, it would have seemed like a sweet gesture, but only I could see the deviant glint in his eyes as a cruel smirk carved its way up his cheeks. We’d been the kids to avoid on school excursions – dubbed the ‘Chunder Wonders’ – because we both suffered from severe motion sickness. He wasn’t helping me. He was saving himself.

  When the ride finally came to a stop, I hauled my body out of the shuttle and attempted to ground myself. My friends were excitedly talking about a potential round two, and I knew I had to make my escape. I scanned the crowd for Dan, swaying wildly, while trying to prop myself up on the ride’s flimsy railing. The entire showground was spinning but, even in my disoriented state, I could tell that he’
d vanished. Two days’ worth of work was on that camera. My rage and nausea intermingled – a potent combination – and my foot reached for a step that wasn’t actually there.

  Fortunately, the quick reflexes of the ride operator saved me from face planting.

  ‘Whoa. You right, love?’ he asked, his hands firmly grasping my shoulders.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, quickly pulling away from his touch and steadying myself. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Your mate’s round the back, by the way.’

  Relief washed over me, but it wasn’t enough to quell my queasiness.

  Despite the ground appearing to undulate beneath my feet, I was able to tiptoe through the vine-like wires between the Hurricane and the ghost train. When I reached the other side of the trailers, I saw Dan and the ghost train operator sharing a joint, staring out over Surf Beach. The carny saw me first and loudly cleared his throat before nodding in my direction. He looked uneasy.

  ‘Don’t worry – she’s cool,’ Dan said, turning to face me.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ the carny replied. ‘Fuckin’ pigs everywhere.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, flopping facedown onto the ground next to Dan. ‘My dad’s head pig.’

  ‘What the fuck, man? I thought you said she was cool?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Stop fucking around, Lo,’ Dan snapped. ‘You’re freaking him out.’

  ‘I will not dob anyone in if they promise to make the world stop spinning.’

  ‘Here,’ Dan said, passing me the joint.

  ‘No, I’m gonna puke.’

  ‘It’s good for nausea,’ the carny said. ‘Half my business comes from cancer patients going through chemo.’

  He had a point.

  I inhaled deeply, and my stomach heaved as the acrid smoke hit my lungs. I clamped my eyes shut, but the darkness just exacerbated the feeling that I was still hurtling through the air. The Hurricane had restarted and the roar of the air compressor reverberated through the ground, making things all the more disorienting.

  ‘See?’ Dan said to the ride operator. ‘She’s complicit now.’

  ‘I was never going to narc on you in the first place.’

  ‘Good,’ the carny said, bending down to stare me straight in the eyes. ‘I’ve had enough trouble tonight.’

  I raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, but it seemed to send another wave of nausea coursing through my body. I groaned loudly, inhaling the scent of the oval beneath me. The grass was surprisingly cool.

  ‘Lo actually might be able to help clear things up,’ Dan said. ‘She works with her.’

  ‘Well, you tell that psycho bitch she’s lucky he’s not pressing charges.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘The whole thing with Lily on the ghost train,’ Dan replied. ‘You saw it, right?’

  I closed my eyes and sighed. Lily’s face was still etched behind my eyelids.

  I hadn’t just seen it; I’d photographed it.

  CHAPTER 2

  As part of my internship with the local paper, I was tasked with documenting the show for an online gallery. Normally, the job would have gone to Lily but, as she was this year’s showgirl, she was required to be in front of the camera rather than behind it. It pissed me off that I was in her shadow once more, but it was also the most responsibility I’d had during my entire year of interning. I wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

  I’d spent the last two days photographing the sights of the show, hoping to capture its essence. I was already thinking of an angle for my photo essay and had landed on ‘competitiveness’. Because, at the end of the day, that’s what the show was all about. It wasn’t about ‘family’ or ‘community’ or ‘rural identity’. It was about winning.

  I’d scored some great shots too. The triumphant fist-pump of the winning woodchopper; a young equestrian kissing the muzzle of her champion showjumper; a wall of submitted artwork covered in prize-winning ribbons; and – of course – the most victorious competitor of all: the showgirl and her sash.

  I’d been given full creative control over my coverage of the show, save for the showgirls. The paper’s editor, Mark, had insisted on overseeing everything involving them. So, instead of the candid shots I’d been taking all weekend, I was forced to capture awkwardly manufactured moments. I was loath to admit it but, surprisingly, I’d found myself enjoying taking pictures of Lily. There was something about her – there always had been – and it became more obvious when observing her from behind the lens.

  She’d always been striking. Not to mention, my complete antithesis. Her statuesque form towered over my average height, while my pale skin looked ashen against her bronzed tan. Even my favourite feature – my poker-straight jet black hair – appeared to deflate next to her mass of honey-blonde curls. But her most arresting features were undeniably her eyes. She was born with heterochromia. Her right iris was green, while her left was blue. It was something she was bullied about as a child but, as an adult, it gave her an other-worldly air.

  So, when Mark insisted I take photos of the showgirls as they emerged through the saloon-style doors of the ghost train, I reluctantly obliged. I set myself up in front of the train’s exit and snapped a few test shots, while Mark loaded Lily and two of the runners-up into a small cart. I held my finger on the camera’s shutter. To get the shot that I needed I’d have to react the second the doors pushed open. The ride operator was already getting antsy that we had commandeered the ghost train, which put even more pressure on me to get the shot on the first go.

  Suddenly, my finger pressed down. I’d reacted to something but it wasn’t the doors opening. There had been a scream – a loud one – and it had come from inside the ghost train.

  I raised my eye from the camera and realised that the exterior lights had all been extinguished. The animatronic ghouls dotting the ride’s outer wall had also stopped moving – their piercing laughter silenced. In the line out front, people talked in hushed whispers, while the ride operator disappeared through the ghost train’s entrance. I caught Mark’s eye and he aggressively pointed at the camera. I sighed, lining up the shot once more.

  The exit doors flung open and I held my finger down, capturing bursts of images. Through the lens, I realised that I hadn’t got my shot. Instead, the images were of Lily running from the ghost train – a look of genuine terror imprinted on her features. She ran straight towards me. For a moment, I thought she was going to bowl me over but she changed her course at the last second and our shoulders lightly brushed. I spun around, but she kept running like a woman possessed.

  My mind was racing. What the hell had happened in there? I quickly realised that the two runners-up were yet to emerge from the ride and thought the worst. But, as I spun back around, the doors flung open again, revealing them both. They were still seated in the cart – which was being pushed along by the ride operator – and seemed fine, albeit a little embarrassed. I snapped a few pictures. But, without Lily, they were pointless.

  ‘Sorry, folks,’ the carny announced to the waiting queue. ‘We’ve lost power. Hopefully she’ll be up and running soon but any pre-purchased tickets can be used for other attractions.’

  I watched as Mark offered his hand to the two girls, apologising profusely, and escorted them out of the cart. I also watched him disappear through the doors of the ride, arguing with the carny. While I waited for them to sort things out, I scrolled through the photos of Lily. They were stunning, yet genuinely unnerving.

  She was looking particularly ethereal that night, wearing swathes of white lace with a crown of calla lilies set on top of her waist-length hair. In the photos, her loose curls were fanned back from her face from the force of her movement. It made her expression seem even more stark. That was fear – real fear – the type that takes over your entire body. It was palpable, even in photographic form.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped a mile.

  ‘Fuck!’ I made eye contact with Mark and im
mediately chastised myself for appearing unprofessional. ‘Sorry, you scared me. I was miles away.’

  ‘She has that effect on people, doesn’t she?’

  I frowned and he gestured at the camera’s screen.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘The circuit tripped. From the sounds of it, Lily had a panic attack and needed to get out.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going to try to find her. Or at least her parents. You’re done for the night. The gallery will go live first thing Monday morning, so I’ll need the photos and your copy to approve by lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘Will do!’ I replied before cringing at my over-enthusiasm.

  ‘Maybe leave that one out, yeah?’ he said, gesturing at the image.

  ‘Yeah. It doesn’t really fit with my theme.’

  ‘Theme?’

  ‘I was hoping to explore the nature of competitiveness and what it means to us as a town. Every aspect of this whole show is based on winning or losing –’

  ‘Whoa, calm down there, Lo. There’s no Walkley for internet galleries. Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be. Check out the ones Lily has done and replicate that, okay? We want people to actually click on the bloody thing.’

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded, trying not to sound as deflated as I felt.

  ‘I’ve really gotta go, darl,’ he said, staring off into the crowd. ‘Say hi to your dad for me.’

  He headed off in Lily’s direction and I looked at the photos I’d taken of her. My finger hovered over the delete button, but I couldn’t go through with it.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘To be fair, if I were trapped inside some creepy ghost train when it blacked out, I think I’d freak out too,’ I told the carny and Dan.

  ‘Look, I told your boss the carts weren’t designed for more than two people, but he wanted to squeeze three in for the photo. Besides, the circuit didn’t trip until after your friend had her little freakout. After she assaulted one of my men.’