I pushed my way into my flat. It was little more than a tiny room with a minimal kitchen on one side and a couch on the other. No table, chairs, or TV. The walls were the color of pigeon shit, and the window had a delightful set of iron bars over it.
Man, my life was lame.
I lived alone, eating ramen and trying to solve murders, but I never managed to save anyone before they got offed.
As I glanced around the dismal space, an unexpected wave of grief washed over me. I hadn’t particularly loved this place, but now that I might never come back…
I scrubbed away the stinging in my eyes and ran to the tiny bedroom, which was more of a closet, really, with a mattress shoved inside. Beneath the bed, I found the old backpack that I’d kept packed in anticipation of this moment.
My bug-out bag.
I grabbed it and stared down at the ratty nylon.
Corrigan didn’t understand my gift, but he believed in it. He knew I wasn’t the killer. But he also thought I was an idiot, risking my freedom with every murder I tried to solve.
I might be an idiot, but I wasn’t an unprepared idiot. I knew this time might come.
My bug-out bag was packed with my identification, all my spare money—which wasn’t a lot—clothes, and the few mementos of my past that I couldn’t bear to part with. I still didn’t even know my past—I had very few memories, in fact. But one day, I’d figure it out. Not today, though.
Today, it was time to run.
3
Carrow
I turned to head back out into the main room, my earlier sentimentality urging me to scavenge whatever I could. Yeah, my place was shitty, and the neighbors weren’t fond of me. Or anyone, actually. We were all dead broke and scrabbling to survive in London. But deep in my heart, I knew I’d never be back here. I had a few favorite books from Beatrix that I didn’t want to part with, and an old blanket that—
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as the mobile in my pocket buzzed. Only one person texted me.
Corrigan.
I pulled it out and flipped it open, quickly scanning the message.
Carrow Burton, return to the station. The police are looking for you, and things will go easier if you turn yourself in.
Shit. He wasn’t really telling me to turn myself in. But he was warning me in a way that wouldn’t cast suspicion on him if his texts were ever reviewed.
The cops were coming.
The faintest sound from outside caught my hearing.
They were here.
Screw the books. I’d rather avenge Beatrix.
I whirled around and scrambled over the bed, heading for the small window on the other side. Sweating, I eased it up as quietly as I could and slung my pack over my shoulders. It took a moment to fumble with the iron bars. This was the fire escape, and I could open the bars like a door, but it always made a squeaky noise.
The lock was horribly rusty, and when I pushed open the window, the metal made the familiar soft, terrible screech. It sounded louder than ever before. Every inch of me stiffened. Had the cops heard?
No. Get a move on.
Quickly, I scrambled out of the window. Was that the murmur of voices out in the hallway, or was I imagining things?
No, they were out there. I could hear them at the door.
Carefully, I closed the window behind me—they had no way to know I was definitely here. No point in leaving them a big blinking arrow indicating which way I’d run. I left the iron bars open because of the betraying squeak, but they weren’t visible unless someone stuck their head out the window. Besides, loads of people in the building kept their bars open at the fire escape—it was the best place to smoke.
With a last, brief look back at my old home, I stared down at the alley. I was only one level up, and I could lower the ladder to get down. But that would make more noise.
I should just jump it.
“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” I whispered to myself.
Then I jumped, landing hard in a crouch. I couldn’t head toward the front street—there would definitely be cops out there. But the back street might be okay.
I hurried down the alley on swift, silent feet. The cold night air kept my head clear and my senses alert. As I neared the main road, I slowed and stuck close to the wall.
At the end, I paused and peeked around the corner.
Looked clear.
Even better, a drunken hen party was headed my way. Ten girls, all dressed in sparkly dresses and boas out to celebrate. The bride wore a crown and a sash that said Last Night A Free Woman.
“Don’t get married then, idiot,” I muttered, then cringed. I was being a total Bitter Betty, and these girls were just having fun.
If I were being honest, I was lonely and a bit jealous of their easy friendship. I missed Beatrix.
I joined them as they passed me, trying to blend with the crowd. It was the tail end of the night, closer to dawn than midnight, and they were probably headed home.
Though the hen party was too wasted to notice that I’d joined them, no one else would buy it. I didn’t fit in with my black jeans and battered black leather jacket. More like a dour cousin forced to celebrate with them, but it was better than nothing.
I huddled amongst them and let them carry me down the street, glancing back to see a cop car pull around to the back of the building.
They should have covered this exit before going into the front.
Thank God they hadn’t.
When the girls turned into a club that was blasting Bon Jovi, I felt my eyebrows rise. Apparently, I’d been wrong. The party girls were still partying, even at this insanely late hour.
I need to get more of a life.
I added it to my to-do list, putting it right after clearing my name of murder. Easy peasy.
I followed them into the packed club, where music blared and colored lights flashed. The whole place smelled of booze and sweat, and the crowd was heaving on the dance floor. My group surged toward the long bar at the back, and I split off, veering toward what I hoped was the rear exit.
Honestly, I’d rather follow the hen party to the bar. I’d have a quick shot of vodka—which I hated, though it definitely got the job done—and then I’d dance the night away and forget my current troubles. Getting lost in the oblivion of this place sounded a hell of a lot better than being on the run from the law.
But that wasn’t my life. And I was on the run.
“Better pick up the pace,” I muttered.
I pushed my way through the press of bodies, aiming for the far corner and a nondescript door.
I was almost there when I got caught between two drunk guys.
“Hey, pretty bird,” slurred one of them, his hands going immediately to my hips. He gripped me hard, pulling me toward him.
A streak of anger blasted through me.
“Don’t touch me.”
I kneed him in the balls, and he bent over with a grunt of pain.
“No fair!” shouted his friend, so drunk that his eyes were nearly crossed.
“Fair? This isn’t a freaking game, moron. And no one touches me without my permission.”
Especially when I was jumpy and trying to outrun the cops.
I hurried away, slipping into a hallway that led to the toilets. I strode into the women’s, ignoring the two girls drunkenly fixing their lipstick in the mirror.
I tossed my pack on the counter and dug through it for my hoodie. Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I pulled the hoodie on, then flipped the hood up. Last, I tugged the jacket on over the hoodie and zipped up my bag.