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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I'm curled up on the settee, the TV blaring as my family gets ready for their days ahead. I'm not listening to the sounds of the cheerful breakfast show presenters, in their garish clothes and plastic smiles. I'm thinking of Damien, of how one day he was here and now he's gone and the world hasn't ended. And the strange terribleness of that. I'm thinking of Owen, even though I don't want to. And I'm wondering where he is. I don't want to worry if he's cold, scared, or hungry. I want my anger towards him to burn through such thoughts the way it scolds through everything else.
From my place in the front room, I can see into the sleek white kitchen. The modern room contradicts the antique furnishings and heavy fabrics of this one. Only bursts of green from plants hanging from the ceiling, plotted on window shelves, add any colour, their leafy tendrils circling down walls and counters. Everything else is contemporary and gleaming. Mum's helping the twins get ready for school, searching for missing shoes and quickly brushing their hair as they abandon the half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table. Dad, all sleek and serious as ever, his shirt as blue and flat as his eyes as he reads on his phone, spooning porridge into his mouth whilst leaning across the island. The surrounding chaos ignored.
Mari walks past me, her bottle-green uniform crease-free and immaculate, as she heads to the front door. She says her goodbyes absently, her eyes focused on her phone as she messages Ruby, letting her know she's leaving so they can walk to school together like they do every morning. My presence, so separate from their busy lives, makes me feel like a house pet. That I'm only partially here.
I hear Alice's voice in the kitchen and my stomach tenses. I haven't spoken to her. Not once. I'd knocked on her door last night, but she hadn't answered. I wasn't sure if she was asleep or if I was simply unwanted.
"I need it back..." Her voice is low, still coarse from crying. I can see her normally tanned face is devoid of colour, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. Her perfectly straight hair is greasy at the roots and tied messily on top of her head. She's not dressed for school - she's wearing an oversized hoodie on top of a pair of faded leggings. She's talking to Dad, who doesn't shift from his position or lift his gaze from his phone. "You said..."
"It's evidence. This isn't even a discussion."
"But..."
"Alice," he says darkly, the finality so complete my older sister flinches. She looks frail, her ballerina body had little flesh to spare, but in the day and a half since Damien's death, she looks even leaner. He exhales and pulls his wallet from his back pocket, slips out a credit card. "Buy a new one. Whatever you like." She hesitates, more out of stubbornness, but then finally takes the card between her elegant, long fingers. She turns, sees me watching and then walks out of the room. I hear her footsteps as she rushes up the carpeted stairs.
Dad stands as Mum herds the twins to the back door. Coats and shoes on. Mum's eyes are as red as Alice's, fatigue casting shadows across her face. Dad ruffles the twins' hair and walks out of the room, still draining a mug of coffee. He walks towards me, dropping the mug on the kitchen counter before he wanders into the front room. The twins are shuffling out of the door, laughing and giggling, with Mum's patient hands on their shoulders. The cool autumn air wafts towards me. Dad kisses me on the top of the head. He lingers when I look up and force a smile across my face. A smile that matches his own.
