Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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The smell of damp and rot is burning my nose. The drip-drip of the leaking tap in the kitchen is pounding in my brain. I can hear Owen's deep voice as he talks on the phone, his feet sticking to the soiled floor as he pads around the room. I lean back against the settee, trying to ignore the clinging, musty scent and dark stains on the fabric. My device is bleeping wildly, so I keep my focus on changing the battery and not on Owen's phone call. Or the unsettling feeling of not really knowing where I was or how safe we were here.
Everything is a blur after we'd left the Steele's. I'd followed Owen blindly, barely noticing the streets we passed or buildings that watched us judgementally as we fled. The house he's brought me to is falling apart. It sits in the centre of a street where every house looks in a similar state of disrepair. We kept our heads low, hoping the dark night would keep us hidden from prying eyes. The streetlights felt like spotlights as we'd darted across the road. Owen said the house belonged to Davey. I didn't ask what for, but it wasn't hard to work out. It wasn't for anything good.
I'm sitting in the front room. Old-fashioned wallpaper peels from the walls, the carpet is so dirty I'm not even sure what colour it is. Years of dirt and neglect seem to cling to every surface. I finish changing the battery. I slip the old one into my bag and lean back. I want to get up but my body is too weak. So I flick through channels on the TV, just for something to do with my hands – my phone's dead and I have no interest in charging it. There was no one I wanted to hear from right now who wasn't in this house. I don't pay any attention to soaps and crime drama repeats as I flick through. The TV is so old it's not even a flatscreen. I settle for some talk show. But I'm not sure I'm absorbing a single thing the guests are saying.
Owen walks in from the kitchen. He looks drained. His face is etched with shadows. His skin marble pale. He leans against the doorframe and just watches me. I feel the weight of his gaze, the emotion behind it. Finally, he moves forward, sinking to the ground before me. He exhales and leans forward, his hands on either side of me, gripping the settee.
"It's tonight. Taggart has a shipment coming in later. I'll go with them when they leave."
I swallow hard, looking at the anger, the sadness burning into his features. He hooks his finger under my chin and lifts my face. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me.
"It's not a life, is it? Hiding, maybe forever."
He smiles at me sadly, thinking hard before he speaks.
"When my mum left, I had nothing. No way of surviving. I didn't want to be shipped off to some home. And once Taggart took an interest in me, no one wanted to help me anyway. I didn't realise then what he was doing. He made sure I had no other options. When you sell your soul to the devil, you never get to be free. This isn't any different. Not really."
I swallow hard and my hands go to his shoulders. I let my aching body shift forward, using him for support.
"We could keep looking. There are answers, there have to be. If David killed Damien, there must be a way to prove it. We were stupid to break in like that. We had no idea what we were doing. We could try again?"
