Good Girl, Bad Girl(93)

“Are you sending me back?” she asks, biting on the inside of her cheek.

“I haven’t decided.”

“What? I’m on probation?”

“You’ve always been on probation.”

My fingers grip the wheel too tightly and I realize—not for the first time—that I’m afraid of Evie. I fear her physical proximity and her darkness and the damage she could inflict upon me when she senses her power.

She gazes out the window, no doubt aware that we’re not heading home or towards Langford Hall, but she doesn’t say anything. I’m taking us east, across the river, past Trent Bridge cricket ground, and through the outskirts of Nottingham where the houses give way to patchwork fields stitched together with hedgerows.

The Radcliffe Animal Centre has a small shop attached to a series of kennels and prefabricated buildings that look like miniature aircraft hangars.

“Come on,” I say, getting out of the car. Evie is still wearing my overcoat. She follows me into the front office, where a woman behind a desk is chewing on a triangle of Marmite-covered toast.

She licks her fingers. “You’re up early.”

“We’re looking for a dog,” I say.

Spinning her chair, she pulls out a form. “Adopting or fostering?”

“Fostering,” I reply. “For the moment.”

I pass the form straight to Evie. She blinks at me, lost for words.

“You put your name and address at the top.”

There are questions on the page, wanting to know the size of our yard and whether we want an inside or an outside dog, what breed and gender. Evie keeps glancing at me, unsure of how to answer.

“You choose,” I say.

“You can meet a few,” says the woman, picking up a walkie-talkie and summoning someone she calls Raptor. Moments later a young man appears dressed in a green uniform with heavy work boots. His hair is dyed blond at the ends and pulled back into a ponytail. We follow him along a cement path to a series of low kennels and wire enclosures. The dogs have heard us coming and set off barking, spurring each other on.

“I got just the one for you,” Raptor says. “She’s my favorite. She loves being around people and doesn’t cope with being on her own, you know. Separation anxiety.”

He tells us to wait in the yard. Evie watches him leave. Her hands are deep in her pockets. She seems to be holding her breath, anxious that I might change my mind.

“Is this a trick?” she whispers.

“No.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“That’s the thing, Evie. You shouldn’t be surprised when people treat you with respect. It’s how it should be.”

“Does this mean you want me to stay?”

“I’ve always wanted you to stay.”

She turns away, hiding her face.

“I went to the bus station, hoping I could get to London, but I didn’t have any money. This guy came and talked to me. He offered me somewhere to stay.” Evie hesitates. “It was Felix Sheehan—the brother of that girl.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

I take a deep breath. “Did he . . . ? Were you . . . ?”

“No.”

“The doctor said you were drugged.”

She doesn’t answer. “Felix is a dealer. He doesn’t deliver the stuff himself—he has people do it for him.”

“Is that what he wanted you to do?”

Evie nods.

“We have to tell the police.”

“No!”

“He attacked you.”

She looks at me pleadingly. “They’ll send me back to Langford Hall.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I ran away. I gambled. I hung out with drug dealers . . .” Evie sucks in a breath and starts again. “I think he took pictures of me.”

“What sort of pictures?”

She shakes her head. “Please don’t tell the police.”

I want to argue, to change her mind, but at that moment a door opens and a Labrador bounds into view, pulling on a lead and wagging her tail so furiously that her whole body is shaking. Raptor tries to hold her back, but she wants to sniff everything and everyone.

“Her name is Poppy,” says Raptor. “We reckon she’s about eighteen months old. Still a puppy really, but she’s been desexed and microchipped and had all her jabs.”

Evie has dropped to her knees and grabbed Poppy by the head, rubbing behind her ears and under her chin. Poppy’s tongue lolls out, wanting to lick Evie’s face. She laughs and wrestles with her—every movement practiced and assured. She’s more comfortable around animals than people. That’s why she wasn’t frightened of Sid and Nancy in the kennels—why she stole food for them.

Raptor is still talking.

“She’s very intelligent, although a little neurotic. We had to call the vet last week cos Poppy chewed up some of her toys and swallowed the plastic.” He looks back at the kennel. “You want to see some of our other rescues?”

“No,” says Evie. “Poppy is perfect.”

“If she were mine, I’d walk her at least twice a day—maybe more. She needs lots of stimulation.”

“I will.” Evie looks up at me. “You want to pat her? She’s really friendly. She has golden flecks in her eyes. See?”