Discarded by M. Hunter (the reading list .txt) 📕

a vixen,’ Chez gushed, grabbing the bottle and shaking it vigorously. ‘You know, you remind me of my wee sister Kylie, do you know that? She has brown hair like yours, and the most piercing green eyes.’

He took her left hand in his and held it gently as he began to apply the varnish to the nail. She’d always wanted to have her nails painted professionally, but her mum had called it a frivolous expense when she was just as capable of doing it herself. She imagined this must have been what it felt like. He was so gentle and delicate in the application that she knew instantly hers weren’t the first nails he’d painted in this way, and suddenly the image of the word RUN, which had been scrawled in the colouring book, flashed to the front of her mind. Snatching her hand back, she eyed the caravan door once more.

‘What is it?’ he asked, following her gaze to the door.

‘My parents will be worried,’ she eventually confided. ‘They don’t know where I am. If I could just phone them, and—’

‘Grey will have phoned them by now, to be sure,’ he interrupted.

‘Grey?’

‘Ah, that’s what I call him, the man who brought you here. He’s nearly always dressed in a grey suit, so I call him Grey. I’m guessing you haven’t met Mr Brown yet?’

She shook her head.

‘It figures; probably best to steer clear of Mr Brown until you’re settled. He has a bit of a temper if you rub him up the wrong way.’

The man who’d taken her – Grey – had said he’d messaged her parents, and she hadn’t believed him, but now she wasn’t so certain. The way Chez was behaving seemed so fearless, and she couldn’t sense any worry or anxiety in his tone or mannerisms.

‘What is this place?’ she asked, moving one foot from beneath the table, ready to throw some of the bottles at Chez as she made her bolt for the door.

He screwed the top back on the bottle of polish, and patiently laid it back on the table. ‘Have you ever been at home and thought, why do they always treat me like some dumb kid?’

She nodded at the question, though this afternoon’s experience suggested her parents had been right to be cautious.

‘Well, this here is a very special place. How old would you say I was?’

She shrugged, not wishing to offend him by guessing too old, nor too young.

‘I’m fifteen, and I’ve been with them for four years. In all that time, they’ve never once treated me like some dumb kid. Here, I am free to be who I want to be, do whatever I want. It’s a place where we get treated as adults.’

That still hadn’t answered her question, and so she tried again. ‘But what is this place? I didn’t ask to come here.’

His smile returned. ‘No, you were chosen to be here. That’s how it works. You’re going to be a model and film actress. You don’t realise just how lucky we are to be here. Just relax and trust me, okay?’

She’d heard rumours at school about Misty Reynolds, two years above her, whose mum had been approached while they’d been out shopping in town. The man was a talent scout for a modelling agency, and Misty had been signed up to appear in television commercials. Was it possible that was what had happened here too? Had Grey spoken to her parents as Chez had said, and they’d agreed for her to start a modelling career?

She tucked her foot back beneath the table and passed Chez her other hand, nodding at the black polish again.

Chapter Eight Now

Weymouth, Dorset

I remain at the shelter until the food rush is over, but Freddie says very little during the time. As I hug him when it’s time to leave, he doesn’t shirk the embrace, but nor does he squeeze tightly, which is his usual way with me. It feels like I’m hugging a tree – getting nothing in return.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I ask for the umpteenth time, looking for the tiny chink in his armour.

‘I told you, I’m fine.’

He’s totally flat; no effervescence or ‘Freddie spirit’, as I like to think of it. In fairness, it’s probably been quite an emotional day for him too, having been released from prison, and then learning the remains of a body were discovered on the site of the fire, but I can’t help blaming myself for his current state.

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ I try brightly. ‘Do you fancy going somewhere, or doing anything? A walk along the beach, or for a coffee somewhere, or just hanging out at my place? I’ve got a book signing in town to attend first thing, but that should be done by twelve…’

I desperately want him to shout at me, and release the tension in the room; either that or to tell me we can get over this hurdle. But he simply shrugs and tells me he doesn’t know what his plans are for tomorrow yet, but he’ll call me.

I don’t push him any more but hug him again, with no response, and head out into the cool chill of the night. The sky is pitch black now, and the moon must be hidden by a cloud somewhere. The streetlights do little to brighten the slippery paving slabs, and so I eventually resort to pulling out my phone and using the torch to light my way. The shelter is only a ten-minute walk from my flat and I know the route like the back of my hand, but given everything running through my mind – Freddie, Jack, Anna – I don’t think I’ve ever felt so vulnerable. Every rustle of a discarded carrier bag, every cat scurrying for dinner, and every gust of wind has me looking over my shoulder for some evil spirit about to strike out at me. There’s nobody watching or following me, but my shoulders don’t relax until I see the