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He pushes his bowl away and leans on the worktop. “You’re going to have to tell me at some point, so it might as well be now.” He sees the tears in my eyes and adds, “And don’t give me that line about it changing how I see you. Give me some credit.”
The words stick in my throat. I feel like Schrödinger’s Cat—at this moment, with the truth about to be revealed, the future still holds promise, and yet also the threat of being torn apart at the same, and I don’t know which way it’s going to go.
I swallow hard. I don’t want to tell him. But I don’t think I have any choice.
I finish off my coffee.
“Hallie…” he says.
“That’s not my real name.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Hallie Woodford isn’t my real name. It changed when I was eight and we moved away from Dunedin.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “You’re in witness protection?”
“Yes.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “No wonder you were so upset when you heard from your father.”
“Yeah.”
“So… what is your real name?”
“Mum chose our new name based on our old one so it wouldn’t be so hard for Dee and me to get used to. My first name was Harriet—Harry she used to call me.”
“And your surname?”
“It was unusual. Wildblood.”
“Wildblood.” He tries it out. It sounds weird on his lips.
“My father…” I moisten my lips. “My father’s first name was Joshua.”
“Joshua Wildblood.” Fraser frowns. “I know that name.”
I wait calmly for the penny to drop. It’s an unusual name, so I’m sure he’ll have heard it.
After about ten seconds, I watch the realization spread across his face.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh no.”
I nod, feeling calmer now I know there’s no going back. “Twenty years ago, my father was convicted of abducting, raping, and murdering a total of eleven young women. It was the worst crime of its kind in New Zealand for over a hundred years. It was on every news channel, and splashed all over the internet. The police and other authorities helped us move across the country, and gave us a new identity. We had new passports, new Inland Revenue numbers, and new National Health Index numbers. We even had a new family history—we told everyone our father had died—bowel cancer, in case you’re interested. Nobody else was. Nobody questioned us, ever. People aren’t interested in anything except themselves, unless it’s good gossip or sensational. And I’ve made sure not to be sensational. I’ve flown under the radar in every area of my life so I don’t attract attention.”
The room falls silent. The early sunlight suddenly feels like a huge yellow blanket, suffocating me. Fraser’s face is impassive.
“Say something,” I implore.
“A lot of things make more sense now,” he says. “It must have had a huge impact on you and your sister.”
“Mum did her best for us. She took us to a therapist. Answered our questions. And told us repeatedly that it was nothing to do with us. That our father still loved us. You can imagine our reaction to that.”
He doesn’t reply.
I continue, “It’s natural when you’re a teenager to ask existential questions. Who am I, why am I here, that sort of thing. And I couldn’t get it out of my head. Half of my DNA came from my father. So did that mean half of my personality came from him? We know that genetics help shape our personality. Nature versus nurture.”
“Your upbringing, choices, and values would override any inbuilt tendencies, surely,” Fraser says.