Good Girl, Bad Girl(71)

“They’re hers,” says Shades, motioning to me.

“Can she prove that?” asks the cashier.

“I’m her proof.”

“And me,” says Katelyn.

Back in her booth, the cashier opens a safe, taking out bricks of cash, which she begins counting.

“If you like, I could mind this for you—keep it in the safe. You can pick it up tomorrow or the next time you play.”

“I’m not coming back,” I say.

The cashier looks annoyed. She hands me my money—more than seven grand. I shove it deep into my coat pocket and descend the stairs.

The bouncer has gone, along with Shades, Livingstone, and Barnum. The streetlights barely touch on the darkness and the air is damp with mist.

Katelyn has followed me outside. “Do you want a lift?” she asks. “My car is just there.” She points to the vacant lot where two cars are parked amid mounds of rubble. I can’t see her face.

“Good luck finding a cab at this hour,” she adds, lifting the collar of her coat. “Not around here.”

“How far is the station?” I ask.

“Trains won’t be running.”

I sniff at the silence.

“You could come back to mine,” says Katelyn. “I got a sofa. My boyfriend won’t mind.”

The quiet descends again.

“Make up your mind. I’m freezing my tits off out here,” says Katelyn. She sets off. Halfway across the road, she yells, “Hope you don’t run into that asshole Barnum.”

I glance up and down the empty street, wondering if she’s right. She’s almost at her car. I run to catch up. She opens the passenger door and leans inside to sweep envelopes and fast food wrappers onto the floor. She straightens and holds the door for me.

“Mind your head.”

I duck. In that split second I realize my mistake as Katelyn takes hold of my hair and drives my forehead into the frame of the door. It bounces off and she does it again. My legs fold and a knee rises up to meet me on the way down, snapping my head sideways. And then darkness.





39




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CYRUS




* * *



The night feels tilted.

I’m cradling my pager in my hands, staring at the screen, willing Evie to send me a message . . . any message. She can abuse me for all I care. She can call me names or make threats or go back to Langford Hall. I just want to know she’s safe.

When we first met, Evie told me that people wanted her dead. I thought she was exaggerating or turning every setback into a catastrophe. What threat could she possibly pose, a teenage girl, who has spent a third of her life in care?

Sacha Hopewell’s parents were the same—convinced their daughter had been hounded out of her home and forced to hide by some nefarious, nameless conspiracy.

I shouldn’t have shouted at Evie for stealing the envelope. I should have remained calm and let her explain. It should have been a discussion, not a confrontation, but I fucked up. Despite my training, I’m unequipped for this. Floundering.

I’ve searched Evie’s room. She didn’t take a rucksack with her clothes or her makeup. I think she’s wearing the dress and boots that Caroline Fairfax bought her for the court hearing.

The other thing I noticed was that she’d decorated her bedroom, painting the walls with vertical green and white stripes. She must have found some old paint in the laundry or garden shed. I wonder how she managed to get the lines so straight.

Again, I’ve misjudged her. All this time I thought she was skulking around the place and poking through my stuff, but she was doing something useful. Apart from painting, she reorganized the pantry and the laundry, lining up cans and bottles in alphabetical order and according to size, the labels always facing out.

I don’t know what to do next. What if she’s jumped off a bridge or thrown herself under a train? She could be unconscious or have amnesia. I’ve called the city’s hospitals, asking about admissions. The obvious next step is to contact the police, but I know the ramifications of that. Evie will be classed as a runaway and returned to Langford Hall, where Guthrie and the others will make sure she stays. I don’t mind being proved wrong. I didn’t force Evie to stay with me. I gave her a choice. I bought her clothes, a new bed, vegetarian food, and sugary breakfast cereal. I promised her a phone. I’ve offered her normality, a home, freedom . . . In the same breath, I chide myself for being so stupid. Evie is damaged. Broken. Wild.

Victims of childhood abuse don’t associate kindness with trust. There is no fairness or balance. I am everything Evie has learned to mistrust. Men. Authority figures. Experts. Just being here—alone with me in this house—must have worried her, possibly frightened her.

The last time she lived in a house with a man she was sexually abused and kept in a secret room. She became so reliant on her abuser and traumatized by her ordeal that she didn’t run when she had the chance. She hid from his killers and the police and the tradesmen who renovated the house.

Even as I rationalize this, another thought occurs to me. I look around the room again—at the freshly painted walls and the aging furniture and the bed that still smells of plastic. On the landing, I glance up the stairs and begin climbing to the top floor. This part of the house is closed up, with the rooms used for storage or awaiting a purpose. I enter each of them, turning on the lights. Not all of them work.