Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
MARA
The kettle screamed again. I swore under my breath and clicked it off with more force than necessary. Fourth time this morning. Not because I needed the tea. Because it gave me something to do between phone calls and heavy silences.
Steam rose in curls as I poured hot water into my oversized mug, the one with chipped paint that read ‘World’s Okayest Social Worker.’ It was a gift from Kelly on my third burnout. Now it sat proudly on my desk like a badge of survival.
Outside my office window, grey clouds hung low, draping the Bunbury skyline in a dull wash. The sea breeze cut sharp through the cracks in the building, and despite the heater wheezing at full blast, my fingers stayed cold.
I glanced at the clock. 8:49 AM.
The day had barely started.
I leaned back in my creaky chair and opened the latest intake file. The woman’s name was Nina Tilley, age 27, mother of one, who lives out in Dalyellup. Partner: Darren Myles. I didn’t need to read further to know what I was going to find. The warning signs were always there, subtle, buried in the intake notes, sometimes scrubbed clean with pretty words and polite excuses. But I’d been doing this long enough to know the truth always bled through.
There it was.
“Client states partner is ‘angry a lot’ and occasionally ‘pushes her when drunk.’ Client reports feeling unsafe but unsure what to do. Child aged 3, present during altercations.”
A slow, familiar heat crept under my skin.
I took a deep breath, typed out an appointment note in our system, and flagged the file as urgent. That heat never went away—the frustration, the helpless rage at how often we saw this, how little the system did until it was too late.
My mobile buzzed.
Kelly.
I swiped to answer. “Yeah?”
“You’ve got a walk-in. She says it’s urgent. I’ve put her in Interview Two.”
“What’s the name?” I asked.
“She won’t give one.”
Of course not.
“I’m coming.”
I slipped on my boots, grabbed my tea, and headed out of the office, weaving through the tangle of desks and colleagues in various stages of caffeination and crisis management.
The building was an old converted community centre. Paint peeled from the walls, and one of the overhead lights flickered with a vengeance. But this place, cracked and imperfect, was where people came when they had nowhere else to go.
I pushed open the door to Interview Two.
She was young. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Tiny frame swallowed by a hoodie three sizes too big. She flinched at the sound of the door and shrank into the corner of the room like she wanted to disappear into the walls.
“Hi,” I said gently, keeping my tone low and warm. “I’m Mara. You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to.”
She didn’t respond, just stared at me with wide, dark eyes. Her hands were shaking. I set the mug down on the table and sat across from her, giving her space.
“You’re safe here. Nothing you say leaves this room unless you want it to. We don’t call the police unless you ask. I just want to help you figure out what you need.”
Still nothing. But she didn’t run. That was something.
After a moment, she whispered, “He’s going to kill me.” My stomach dropped.
“Can you tell me who?” I asked.
She nodded, slowly and uncertainly. “My boyfriend. Max. I tried to leave last night. He caught me at the back fence.”
She lifted the sleeve of her hoodie. Angry purple bruises climbed up her arm like ink stains. Fresh. Some already turning yellow. My heart cracked down the middle.
“I got away,” she said, voice trembling. “I waited until he passed out and ran. I’ve got a bag stashed at the bus depot. But I didn’t know where to go.”
“You did the right thing coming here.” Her lips trembled, and she bit down hard to stop the emotion spilling out.
“Do you have family nearby?” I asked.
“No. They stopped talking to me when I moved in with him.”
Not uncommon. Abusers isolate. They make sure there’s nowhere for their victims to go, no one to call.
“I can help you get into a shelter,” I said. “A safe one. Confidential address. You’ll have support people to help you with the next steps. You don’t have to go back.”
She looked up at me for the first time.
“I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
I nodded. “Then let’s make a plan.”
***************
By mid-morning, I had her name, Alyssa Jett. She’d been flagged once last year when a neighbour made a report. No charges laid. No follow-up. Just another name in the system.
I found her a bed in a transitional home two suburbs over and arranged transport. She left before lunch, gripping a garbage bag full of her things like it was gold.
Kelly handed me a sandwich. “You okay?”
“She’s safe for now.”
“Yeah, but you’re not.”
I didn’t answer. She didn’t press.
I had just pulled up the next file when the front door opened, and in walked a hurricane dressed like a biker.
Boots scuffed. Jeans ripped. Leather vest patched up like it had stories of its own.
And then the smile.
Saint grinned like a cheeky teenager about to make a very bad decision. “Knock knock!” he called, throwing his arms out dramatically. “Got a half-dead stray and absolutely zero qualifications. Is this where I dump him?”
I blinked. “Saint?”
“Mara Banana!” he said with exaggerated joy. “Still saving the world one emotionally repressed human at a time?”
My jaw dropped. “Oh my god. You’re still a menace.”
He smirked, stepped aside, and motioned to the boy beside him, skinny, black eye blooming under a mop of messy hair, and terrified.
“Saw said you’d know what to do. This kid’s been through it.”
I sobered instantly. “Of course. Bring him in.”
I crouched down in front of the boy. “Hey, I’m Mara. You okay if we talk in private?” He gave the tiniest nod.
Saint gave him a thumbs up. “Don’t worry, mate. She’s not scary, just bossy.”
“Saint,” I warned.
He winked. “Don’t lie to the child, Mara. He deserves the truth.”
I guided the boy into Interview Room One. We talked for an hour. His story was heartbreaking. I made the calls. Arranged safety. When I stepped out, Saint was sprawled across the reception couch with a paperclip chain he’d made.
I stared. “What… are you doing?”
“Stress crafting,” he said, holding it up like it was art. “Also, your receptionist stole my pen.”
Kelly passed by and muttered, “You gave it to me.”
“Semantics,” he shot back, then winked. “She’s sassy. I like her.”
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. “Thanks for bringing him here. You did the right thing.”
He gave a mock bow. “What can I say? I’m basically a civilian hero now. Put that on my tombstone.”
“I’ll make sure it’s in Comic Sans.”
“Ouch.” He clutched his heart. “You wound me.” Despite myself, I laughed.
“Still riding with outlaws?” I asked.
“Only the sexy ones,” he said with a wink. “Which is just me, obviously.”
I rolled my eyes, but there was warmth in it. Saint might’ve been loud, unpredictable, and a certified goofball, but he had a big heart. Always had.
When he finally stood to leave, he looked at me, more serious now. “You good?”
I shrugged. “Just tired.”
“Then rest. Eat chocolate. Watch something stupid. Preferably with explosions.”
“Thanks, Saint.”
“Anytime, Mara Banana.” And just like that, he was gone.
********************
By 6 PM, I was still in the office. The sky had bruised over into dusk, and most of the buildings were empty. I packed up slowly, spine aching, head throbbing. I grabbed my bag, locked the files away, and stepped outside into the night air.
My car sat under the flickering streetlamp, an old silver Corolla that rattled when I turned the key but never let me down. I slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of peppermint gum and worn upholstery welcoming me like a friend. I let out a long breath and started the engine.
The heater whirred to life as I pulled out onto the quiet streets of Bunbury, the day trailing behind me like a shadow. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. My brain spun with names, bruises, and broken systems. But also with small wins.
Like Alyssa Jett.
Like the kid Saint brought in.
And maybe, just maybe, like the feeling that the universe wasn’t finished with me yet.
