Unhooked by Lisa Maxwell
For Kathleen,
who believed in
this story from
the beginning.
Thanks for saying
yes twice.
Whatever the stories may say, not all
children grow up.
Some lose their lives before their milk teeth.
Some run away.
Others are taken.
Many leap headlong, tempted by a tale
of who they might be . . .
Never to find that other shore.
Once upon a time, there was a boy not so very far from being a man. He crossed a sea to venture to London, for he wanted to find his brother, who was the bravest of soldiers. He carried with him only a light pack, for he had every intention of returning. . . .
Chapter 1
OUTSIDE THE RAIN-SPLATTERED WINDOW of the taxi, London looks like it’s dressed for a funeral. The streets are a blur of monotone gray, and the sidewalks are filled with commuters scurrying home under dark, faceless umbrellas. When the car turns away from the main road, we find ourselves in a neighborhood of empty streets that shine darkly in the rain, the quiet houses still waiting for their owners to return.
The driver makes one more turn before stopping at a corner and glancing over his shoulder at the three of us in the backseat. “One-Thirty-Three Gloucester Road,” he barks as he stops the meter.
My mom doesn’t make any move to get out of the cab. She’s sitting in the seat across from me, chewing absently on her thumb. Her eyes are wide as she stares out the window, but I’m not sure she’s actually seeing anything.
“I think we’re here,” I tell her gently, and she blinks over at me, like she’s startled to find me there.
My best friend, Olivia, looks up from her phone and peers out the window of the cab to see where we’ve stopped. Her brows bunch together as she stares out through the rain. “Are you sure this is it, Gwen?” she asks, not even bothering to disguise her disappointment.
I’m not really surprised the house doesn’t meet Olivia’s expectations. She grew up in the sort of place that can only be called an estate. Before my mom decided to move us to London, we actually lived in her family’s gatehouse, while my mom worked on commissioned art for Olivia’s parents—pretty much anything would be a disappointment by comparison. But when I lean over to see the building Olivia’s looking at, my stomach sinks.
One-Thirty-Three Gloucester Road stands apart from the other brick and stone buildings that crowd the street. Narrow alleys flank either side of its redbrick walls, almost like the other houses don’t want to get too close. Its peaked roofline soars at least one story above its flat-roofed neighbors, and its chimneys claw toward the gray sky. A wrought-iron balcony on the third story looks like it’s barely holding on to the ivy-covered brick, and one of the windows on the second floor has been boarded up.
“Are you sure this is the address you were given?” I ask my mom, who by now has also noticed where we’ve stopped.
“I . . . think so.” Her face betrays only the slightest bit of uncertainty, but her hands shake as she searches through her lumpy oversize bag. It seems like her hands always shake unless she’s holding a paintbrush, especially lately.
Finally she retrieves a worn envelope and pulls out the contents. A deep crease forms between her brows as she looks over the papers.
“Let me see,” I say, taking the rumpled sheets when it’s clear she’s having trouble finding the information she wants. Which is just another sign of how overwhelmed and anxious she’s been recently—she’s looked at those papers so many times in the last few days that they’re creased almost to tearing.
Ignoring the way she’s picking nervously at the hem of her coat, I scan through the narrow script to find the address that’s been arranged for us by her newest commission. Then I lean forward and check it with the driver. He gives me a gruff confirmation before opening his door to start helping us with the bags.
In the seat next to me, Olivia has gone very still. I think she’s suddenly realized her hastily conceived decision to invite herself along to help us move might not turn out quite the way she’d expected.
“I guess this is it,” I say, breaking the silence that has overtaken the cab. I hand the envelope back to my mom.
Her eyes meet mine as she takes the papers, and her mouth presses into what might be the start of a smile. Her expression is so expectant, and I know she’s waiting for me to say something. Because, usually, this is where I’d paste on a smile of my own and make the best of things. This time, I just stare back at her.
Her expression falters, and she looks away before I do. Without another word, she steps out of the stuffy warmth of the car, pulling the hood of her jacket up against the rain.
But I don’t follow her. Not right away.
I’m used to ending up in all sorts of odd places—a trailer park in Sedona, a shacklike cottage near a beach in Costa Rica infested by tiny lizards (which, thankfully, ate the not-so-tiny bugs), a gorgeous jewel box of a studio apartment in Prague. My life has been a series of poorly timed moves for as long as I can remember. But something about this place has me pausing.
“You know my parents would let you live with us back in Westport,” Olivia whispers when I don’t get out of the car. “We have plenty of room, and they’re never around enough for you to even bother them. You don’t have to move. Or live here. I mean, it’s less than a year until you’re eighteen, and I know we could convince your mom—”