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 don't know Calla. I don't know anything about any canals Owen used to go to."
I cross the street, dashing past the cars idling in traffic as I walk down the busy street. Behind the rows of pubs and restaurants, the trembling lights of the Lazarus Heights towers pierce the early evening gloom. My phone is pressed against my ear, heating the flesh, reminding me how cold the rest of my body is.
"What about London? Didn't you say he had a friend there?"
Raj snorts, and I can hear a frying pan sizzling and the din of a busy kitchen behind him.
"Callum, but I tried him. Look... Calla, I don't have a clue. I don't. I've tried everywhere. Nobody knows where he is. And if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm guessing you won't. And if he hasn't told you by now, he isn't going to."
"There has to be somewhere. I'm coming over. We're going to find him, Raj."
"I'm not home. And I'm not telling you..."
"You're at the restaurant. I'm on my way." He groans down the phone but says nothing more. I hang up and slip my phone back into my pocket. I exhale unhappily and steam swirls before my lips. Slicing through the thick crowd, my feet slapping against the pavement.
I need to find Owen.
It's like a heartbeat, a pulsing thought louder and clearer than all others. There is just too much, too many lies, too many secrets to unpack. Damien had died over two weeks ago, and I wasn't any closer to learning who'd killed him. I'd learned so much, but also nothing at all. There was one person still missing, one voice still unheard, and he was the person I needed to talk to most.
In truth, I hadn't wanted to speak to Owen. Not really. That was why I'd focused so hard on finding out what had happened to Damien instead of finding Owen. I was angry, so damn angry, and had been for so long that I hadn't wanted to face him. My anger was a wild thing, its roots deep in my heart and wrapped around my bones - I couldn't separate myself from it. But buried with the anger, something else burned. And I couldn't separate myself from that either.
I walk across the bustling street that runs along the Heights. The busy newsagents with their flashing lights, the packed takeaways with people ambling outside eating chips and the noisy laughter coming from smokers outside of pubs. Raj was a little further down, helping in the restaurant his parents owned. Owen took me there once. He'd slung his arm around my shoulder, his lips against my hair as Raj and TJ had bickered and told stories. I liked the warm way Raj's parents fussed over their son and made sure Owen had seconds, worried he couldn't feed himself.
In my hand was the Polaroid of the canal, along with a few more photos Owen had taken of the places he went to, the places he thought I might like to see. They were important to him, and yet I'd never pressed him on where they were or why they mattered. Regret was carving out my chest, leaving a shallow pool of shame in the hole.
