by Sofia Daniel
I stepped inside, bristling at not being able to get my own cell.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the woman raised her head and stared at me through mascara-smeared eyes. “I’m in for soliciting.” She scratched her arms, apparently suffering the early stages of withdrawal. “What are you in for?”
Some of the girls at the Richley Juvenile Detention Center had talked about undercover police hanging out in cells to gather ‘intelligence’ on those arrested for crimes difficult to crack.
My gaze raked down the woman’s outfit. The circles under her eyes looked like they’d been applied with an angled shadow brush, and no amount of pale foundation could disguise her perfect skin. She was too healthy and robust to rock the drug-addicted hooker look. Friday-night clubber might have worked better but I wasn’t about to give her pointers.
“A school prank gone wrong.” I leaned against the wall.
“What happened?”
I told her the truth.
She leaned forward, listening to me with a level of concentration unprecedented for a woman who needed to sleep with men to get her next fix of drugs. Not a single raised blood vessel marred the whites of her eyes, and not a scrap of tobacco stained her teeth. Miraculous.
“What are you in for again?” I said, trying to sound interested.
“My stepfather put me on the game.” She shook her head. “Do you live with yours?”
I pursed my lips. Nice way to change the subject and get her talking about Billy Hancock. “No, I’m at a boarding school.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, right. You said.”
She tried chatting about her rich clients and how the wealthy deserved to be robbed, but I closed my eyes and tuned her out. Maybe she had run out of things to ask.
The door opened. “Kitty Bordel?” said the policewoman. “Your brief has arrived.”
She stood and teetered to the door on shiny, new stilettos. “Good luck.”
“Yeah.” I gave her a nod. “Don’t let your stepfather prostitute you. Mine’s an utter bastard.”
A mix of disappointment and frustration flickered across her features. Maybe the next undercover cop they sent in would fare better.
My gaze flicked to the clock. The police could only hold me for thirty-six hours before having to let me go. I wasn’t sure if the timer started at the moment of arrest or if it started after they’d signed me in. Shit. I clenched my fists. Why hadn’t I researched this better?
I lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. Elizabeth had probably spent all that time away from the academy planning my downfall. Who else but her would have contacted Sammy and Billy to ambush me at the fashion show? Mother must have known about the gangsters’ trip to Glasgow. Why hadn’t she warned me? I would have dropped out of the fashion show if I’d known it was a trap.
The lights turned out, and I closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep. It wasn’t like I had any other options.
That night, every dream featured dogs. Dogs pinning me to the bed and ripping out my throat, dogs leaping up at my dangling body, dogs chasing me out of my dream. I jolted awake in a cold sweat, my heart clattering, my damp eyes staring into the dark. Thanks to that bunch of bastards, I now had a slew of fresh, traumatic memories to add to the old.
Hours later, keys jangled outside and the door swung open. A female officer poked her head inside. “Delilah Hancock?” She held a tray containing a mug of tea and a stack of toast in both hands with what looked like my school uniform wedged under an arm. “Your solicitor and guardian have arrived.”
“Thanks.” Let’s hope this person was better than the mute assigned to me in Richley.
I pulled on my uniform, leaving the tea and toast untouched. The trepidation roiling in my stomach wouldn’t allow me to keep anything down for long. Sucking in a deep breath, I placed my hands on my belly and closed my eyes. If I could get away with stabbing a man with my fingerprints all over the weapon and his blood on my clothes, I would leave here exonerated of all accusations. This time, I was completely innocent.
Ten minutes later, the policewoman walked me out of the custody suite, through a set of heavy, metal doors and into the same suite of interview rooms as the night before. She paused at one of the doors and gestured at me to enter. “They’re waiting for you inside.”
“Thanks.”
I stood at the door, my heart dropping at the furious, sapphire-blue eyes of Mr. Burgh.
Chapter 3
Mr. Burgh stood. My stomach fluttered, and I squirmed under his glower. It was an electric-blue mix of disappointment and fury. The kind of look a teacher would make after seeing their favorite student get themselves into trouble.
Except this was worse.
From a certain angle, all the facts pointed toward my guilt—the cocaine-dealing stepfather, my own cannabis-growing past, and the lewd acts I’d committed with Maxwell Orlando. Not to mention Mother’s scandalous past. The old man probably thought he’d brought in a trojan horse by rescuing me from my enemies in Richley.
The walk across the interview room felt like a death-march as each heavy footstep brought me closer to his wrath. And closer to the assessing eyes of Detective Chief Inspector Cromar. He wore the same Aran sweater from the day before, and I suppressed the urge to curl my lip.
Next to Mr. Burgh sat a prim-looking woman in her thirties who looked a cut above the usual duty solicitor. She wore a tailored, tweed-suit with pearl earrings and her hair swept up in a tight, Professor McGonagall-style bun. The book version, not the one played by Maggie Smith.
“For the purposes of the interview, Delilah Hancock has walked in with Detective Constable McPhie,” said DCI Cromar.
Holding back the desire to blow a raspberry into the recording, I sat next to Mr. Burgh and stared at my hands. The heat of his anger burned the side of my face like a pair of lasers.
All my words, all my excuses, all my explanations died in my throat. What was I going to say to my grandfather and headmaster? That it wasn’t me? A soft snort huffed out of my nostrils. Trite words uttered by nearly everyone who ever got arrested.
“You find this funny?” Mr. Burgh’s voice was as hard as steel.
My heart sank. That would teach me to wallow in self-pity. “No, sir.”
“This is no laughing matter.” He sounded like he was building up to a rant.
“If I may?” asked DCI Cromar.
I raised my head. Detective Constable McPhie slid into the seat opposite. The man was about five or six years older than me with lank, blond hair, pink cheeks, and hazel eyes brimming with a teachers-pet level of enthusiasm.
After the detective chief inspector repeated the standard caution that anything I said could be used against me in court, he asked, “How long have you been supplying cocaine to the students of Templar Academy?”
Mr. Burgh inhaled through his teeth, and the solicitor placed a hand on his wrist. My shoulders bunched up around my ears. This was the kind of asshole question meant to have me gibbering panicked denials and desperate to make a deal to snitch on anyone to get my freedom.
I leaned forward and stared into the detective’s smug face. He’d made a mistake by hauling me into an interview the night before for that bizarre little chat. It had revealed that he was more interested in Billy Hancock than in me, and he’d also told me how Elizabeth had achieved the feat of getting me arrested. Another mistake the police had made was to leave me overnight to piece everything together.
“Cocaine?” I tilted my head to the side. “Where on earth would you get such an idea?”
“The police raided your bedroom at Templar Academy and found a block of—”
“Are my fingerprints on this block?”
DCI Cromar froze.
The stirrings of triumph soothed the fluttering of my stomach, and I straightened. “Well, detective? Would you like to reply to my question? Did you find my fingerprints anywhere on the item that was planted in my room?”
Detective Constable McPhie piped u
p. “A forensics-savvy criminal would know to use gloves when—”
“Answer my client’s question,” the solicitor snapped.
“No.” DCI Cromar glanced down at his pile of documents. “Miss Hancock’s fingerprints were not on the block.”
I rested my forearms on the table and leaned forward. “What other evidence do you have that the block belongs to me and wasn’t planted by someone else?”
The two detectives exchanged helpless glances.
I turned to Mr. Burgh, hoping he could see that my arrest had been a set-up, but the man remained stony-faced.
The solicitor cleared her throat. “If you have no evidence against my client, I suggest you release her immediately and expunge her fingerprints from your records.”
Nobody spoke for several moments. Folding my arms, I sat back in my seat and waited for these bungling cops to admit defeat. Elizabeth had clearly wasted their time. The words danced on the tip of my tongue, but I held them back.
The police wouldn’t have sent out such a huge team on an anonymous tip-off—I had learned that years ago when I had tried to tell them about Billy Hancock’s cocaine haul. They just wouldn’t mobilize so many officers and dogs on the say-so of someone who wouldn’t leave their name and explain their connection with the criminal.
Elizabeth had used her familial connections—this Camden Liddell person—to arrange that raid. I knew this. She knew this. And most importantly of all, the police knew this, too.
“Tests indicate traces of cocaine on the outside of the block,” said DCI Cromar.
Mr. Burgh frowned. “What was inside?”
“Cooking flour,” replied the detective constable.
“Oh dear,” said the solicitor with a sigh. “You’ve wasted all these resources and arrested an innocent young girl because of a school prank.”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to suppress a smirk. Things were going well, but I wasn’t about to celebrate until I was safely out of the police station.
DCI Cromar leaned forward. “There’s another possibility that Miss Hancock intended to sell flour to students under the pretenses it was cocaine.”
“That’s far-fetched, even for you,” said the solicitor in a tone that implied that she knew the detective chief inspector but found him unimpressive.
With a scowl, DCI Cromar said, “For the purposes of the recording, Detective Constable McPhie is showing Miss Hancock exhibit AS-two, a roll of fifty-pound notes.”
The younger detective pushed forward an evidence bag containing all my money. My lips tightened along with my insides. That didn’t prove I’d done anything wrong.
“How do you explain this cash, Miss Hancock?” DCI Cromar flashed me a smile. “Proceeds from dealing cocaine?”
I clenched my teeth. “Money I’ve squirreled away in case of an emergency. I took it from my house in Richley in September.”
He opened a manilla folder. “From the house of Samuel Kettering, arrested for the cultivation of cannabis plants with the intent to supply.”
Rage surged through my veins. The bastard was about to say that this was Sammy’s drug money. Which it was. I’d had no part-time job and no other source of income except for Sammy, and now DCI Cromar would confiscate my money on the basis that it was the proceeds of crime. My hands curled into fists, and I longed to launch myself across the table and rake my nails over his smug face.
“You know we can’t return it unless you can prove the source of that money,” he said with a smirk.
“All my pay slips are in London,” I snapped.
DC McPhie pulled my money away, and DCI Cromar added, “We’ll release your cash when you’re ready to give us the information.”
Harsh, angry breaths heaved in and out of my lungs. I tried to slow my breathing, tried to act nonchalant, but it was impossible. The bastard had delivered a devastating threat. Spill my guts about Billy Hancock’s appearance in Glasgow or lose my only source of money.
My mouth opened and closed. If I told him the truth—that my stepfather had come to Scotland for revenge—he’d be in violation of his parole and get locked up for the rest of his sentence. And in a year’s time, I’d earn a bullet through the skull before he fed me to his dogs.
The edges of my vision turned red. This was Elizabeth’s fault. That wretched, deranged, petty-minded bitch. One day, if I ever got the chance, I would take everything she owned and see how she liked being impoverished.
“Since you have nothing on my client,” said the solicitor. “I insist you release her and remove her fingerprints from your database.”
“Fine,” said DCI Cromar with a sigh. “But we’ll be keeping our eye on you, Miss Hancock. You’ll be back here at the first sign of trouble.”
Mr. Burgh stood. “My granddaughter has clearly been the victim of a vicious prank. If you want to lash out at anyone, turn to the idiot who planted fake drugs in her room.” He placed a large hand on my shoulder. “Come along, Delilah.”
I couldn’t even smirk. Couldn’t even give the detectives a triumphant sneer. Because despite walking out without being charged, Elizabeth had won… for now.
And the fury burning in Mr. Burgh’s eyes told me I wasn’t completely out of trouble.
The three of us walked in silence through the dreary hallways, our footsteps thudding on the brown carpet tiles. DCI Cromar and DC McPhie lingered behind us like unwanted farts. We reached the door leading to the reception area of the police station, and the solicitor pressed the release button.
I was about to step into the public area when Mr. Burgh froze, a breath catching in the back of his throat. The old man looked like he had seen the ghost of Christmas past.
Chapter 4
The solicitor walked ahead into the spacious, white waiting room and turned around. “It was a pleasure meeting you both, Miss Hancock and Mr. Burgh.” She handed me a business card of heavy stock paper. “If you have any more problems, don’t hesitate to call Fraser and Finlay.”
“Thanks.” My gaze darted from the stunned old man to the people sitting around the rows of plastic chairs.
Kendrick and Orlando stood in the waiting room, both looking at me as though I was the answer to a puzzle.
A tight fist squeezed at my chest, and every memory of the day before flooded back. The escape through Glasgow on the back of a motorcycle, that epic kiss, and…
A lump formed in my throat.
That hadn’t even been Kendrick. The real Kendrick despised me and had allowed his brother to take up his identity to carry out the sickest, most convoluted revenge plan that didn’t even make sense.
Curling my lip, I turned my attention to the woman sitting about five seats away from the boys.
Mother perched at the edge of her plastic seat, clad in a burgundy, sheepskin coat. She had dyed her hair black, which brought out her pale complexion and the shadows under her eyes. Her hard glare fixed on Mr. Burgh as though she might be able to cleave him in half with her glower.
Fury seared through my heart, and I stormed across the room, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’d seen Mother hundreds of times in Richley High Street and had become accustomed to her pretending I was the dirt underneath her shoe. But I’d hoped she would have found blood thicker than cocaine. Or gin. Or whatever Billy Hancock supplied her with these days.
Stopping at Mother’s side, I hissed, “You knew they were coming for me and you couldn’t have sent me a warning?”
Her lips thinned, and a grimace crossed her delicate features. “Billy’s contact said you’d be in Glasgow. How was I supposed to know they’d be telling the truth?”
Mr. Burgh towered over us both. “What on earth is going on?”
Ignoring the twats leaning in to eavesdrop, I recounted the events of yesterday’s fashion show and how Elizabeth had smirked at me just before we had reached the row where my worst enemies had sat. “I’m sure Deloraine and Nevis can shed more light on this, as they were part of the plan.”
Orlando raised both ha
nds. “I didn’t know anything about a drug bust.”
Kendrick stared down at his lap. Apparently, he wasn’t as adept at lying as his best friend and twin. But he had no qualms about allowing his asshole brother to use his identity to screw with someone’s mind.
“I’ll deal with you two, later.” Mr. Burgh turned furious eyes to Mother. “You could have at least told me to keep Delilah away from Glasgow.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I know that now.”
“This is very disappointing, Abigail,” he said.
Mother’s head snapped up to Mr. Burgh’s. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m one of your students. I’ve done my best for this girl. I told you to hide her and what do you do? Let her gallivant to Glasgow on a school night!”
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “My textiles teacher took us all to an end-of-term fashion event.”
“You should have warned us that your husband would come to Scotland looking for Delilah,” added Mr. Burgh.
“I’m warning you now.” Mother folded her arms across her chest and straightened as though those words had set things right. “Billy asked me to wait here and find out where you’re staying. What should I tell him?”
“Does he know about the academy?” asked Mr. Burgh.
Mother shook her head. “Not a thing.”
“Tell him I take evening classes at the Edinburgh School of Fashion,” I said.
They had been in front of us in the fashion show, and I didn’t remember anyone announcing Templar Academy. Maybe it would work and the thugs from Richley would move onto another town.
Nobody spoke for a while. I turned around and found Mr. Burgh staring down at Mother for the longest time. It was as though he wanted to drink her in before she disappeared and never spoke to him again. I couldn’t blame the poor guy. This was probably the first time he had seen her since she had run away and gotten herself arrested in London.