Good Girl, Bad Girl(44)

“I don’t know that game.”

Evie seems to be evaluating me, chewing at her bottom lip. “So how would this work?”

“You’ll live with me. You’ll have your own room and bathroom. It’s nothing fancy, but I’m sure you’ll cope. We’ll share the chores.”

Her top lip curls. “I’m not your slave.”

I ignore her. “I’ll pay the bills. You’ll study or get a job—in which case I’ll charge you board.”

“Don’t you get paid for being a foster carer?”

“I’m going to save that money for you. You’ll get it when you turn eighteen—as long as you don’t steal from me, lie to me, or run away.”

Caroline returns, taking a seat between us.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a case turn around like that,” she says brightly. “I don’t have a lot to compare it with, of course. Was any of that planned?”

“No.”

“But your letter to the judge . . . ?”

“I wrote it two nights ago.”

Evie has unzipped her boots and is rubbing her heels. I see the blue veins beneath her pale skin on her ankles. She interrupts.

“Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m away a lot.”

“I could look after a dog.”

“You’re not with me for long enough.”

“Two hundred and ninety-eight days,” she says, having done the maths. “If you get a dog, I could take it with me.”

“We’re not getting a dog.”

“And the bossing starts,” she mutters, but doesn’t fixate on the rejection. I haven’t seen Evie this animated before. Normally our conversations have been stilted and defensive, where each question is treated like a land mine to be avoided or disarmed. I could be winning her trust. I could be deluding myself.

“When can I see the house?” she asks.

“Why not today?” asks Caroline.

“I need to get it ready. Clean it up.”

“Prepare the dungeon in the basement,” says Evie.

“Very funny.”

“You said I could see it before I decided.”

“OK.”

We eat lunch. Caroline chats about the case, wanting to replay every highlight, wishing her immediate boss had been there to see it.

Evie watches us, as though trying to read something between the words. Occasionally she wrinkles her nose or makes a spitty sound in her throat or blows air across the top of her soft drink bottle, making a tooting sound.

Caroline disappears to pay the bill.

“Is everything OK?” I ask.

Evie leans closer. “You’re flirting.”

“I’m not flirting.”

“Yes you are. And she’s engaged.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m not blind.” Evie holds up her left hand and wiggles her wedding ring finger. “You said you had a girlfriend.”

“I do.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Please don’t do that.”

I look away, which Evie finds amusing.

Caroline returns. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing,” I say too sharply.

“Cyrus has a thing for lawyers,” says Evie with a glint in her eye.

Caroline pauses, clearly uncomfortable, and I feel myself shrink in her estimation. I want to shove a serviette in Evie’s gob, but I know this is what she does. I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.

Moments later, we’re outside on the footpath, buttoning coats, wrapping scarves, and flagging down a cab. I try to remember what state I left the house in this morning. I hope the central heating has stayed on.

We retrace the route of my earlier cab ride, past the university and Wollaton Park. As we reach my road, I picture Parkside Avenue through Evie’s eyes. It must look like I’m rich, almost posh, until the cab slows and stops. The house appears instantly shabbier than I remember, set amid a dense throng of rambling roses and clematis.

“It’s huge,” says Caroline, being polite.

“It’s falling down,” says Evie.

“It belonged to my grandparents.”

“Are they dead?” asks Evie.

“They’ve retired to Weymouth.”

“Can I live with them?”

Junk mail tumbles from the mesh basket beneath the mail slot as I open the door.

“How long have you lived here?” asks Caroline, ever the optimist.

“A little while,” I say.

Seventeen years.

I give them a tour of the ground floor—the parlor, the study, the library, the drawing room, the kitchen. Evie opens the fridge.

“You have no food.”

“I buy when I’m hungry.”

“You order takeaway.”

“No. I can cook.”

Evie has moved on. “Do you have a computer?”

“Yes.”

“Wi-Fi?”

“Of course.”

“Can I get a phone?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?”