Page 40 of All the Forbidden Things

Did he not know who my brother is? Not that it should matter a fuck to the way I’ve just been treated.

Aaron stands and adds, “We absolutely are most definitely done here. Ms Wild will be returning to the UK tomorrow. Any further questions will need to be directed to my office. We’ll be in touch.”

I draw deep breaths in through my nose as I attempt to control the rage and indignation I feel.

“I’m sorry, Ms Wild …” he looks down at his notes then from me to my brother, and I observe the oh-shit-I’ve-fucked-up look of realisation cross his face as he joins the dots.

And that pisses me off even more. It shouldn’t matter who I am or who I’m related to. Who my brother is should bear zero relevance on my case, this interview, or how I’m treated. But it very obviously does.

“If I offended you in any way, Ms Wild, I apologise. I was just trying to confirm Mrs Bosworth’s statements.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “And if my surname was Jones and my brother wasn’t famous, would you still be apologising?”

“Of course—”

“You’re a fucking liar, Detective Foster. If you have a daughter, I hope she never has to go through what I did Saturday night, and if she does ever have reason to go to the police, I hope she’s interviewed by a cop who shows a little more compassion than you’ve just shown me.”

Billie

The rain hammers against mybedroom window as I sit with my back against my headboard and begin the process of setting up my new phone. I’ve been out of the hospital and home from America for over three weeks, but I’ve stayed off-line and avoided all social media in that time.

My phone was smashed during my assault, and my Mac only arrived with the rest of my stuff I’d left in the States on Friday. I’ve yet to unpack it, and except for a couple of medical appointments, I’ve yet to leave the house.

I feel safe here. Back in the place I’ve called home since the age of seven. Back with the people who know me better than I know myself sometimes. The smells, the sounds of sparrows chirping and blackbirds singing, the way the morning sun forces just a sliver of watery winter sunlight through the very slight gap between my drawn curtains, highlighting the dust motes dancing around my room. It’s all familiar, comforting, and right where I need to be. I’m not depressed or feeling reclusive; I’ve simply needed the time to process what’s happened. When I was a kid, I didn’t take the time to do that. I was seven and had no clue how to. So, I put it away. Compartmentalised my life into a before and after my parents were killed, and I carried on. That worked until puberty hit, hormones kicked in, and I suddenly hated the world and everyone in it.

I was a total bitch to my brother, Mel, and Makenzie—to anyone I came into contact with really. When I was eleven, I spent my first summer in the States with my aunt Deb and her husband. She and Seth run a stud farm, breeding horses and a boarding kennels where owners house their dogs while they take their holidays.

Despite my pre-teen arseholeness, I don’t think my brother and Melsentme away. I think it was more that they were worried about me and thought the trip would do me good. They were right, it did. For the entire summer, I threw myself into mucking out stables, feeding dogs, and generally helping out around the place in any way that I could.

It was exhausting and left me with no energy spare to be angry, so I was only left with time to think and process as best I could what had happened to my parents, and so I returned to England slightly more settled.

After that first summer, I returned to Deb and Seth’s ranch for almost every school holiday. I grew to love America and decided it was where I wanted to go to college. I studied hard, and by the time I left school, I’d gained the grades required to apply to some of the best universities in California.

I decided on UCLA and embarked on the next stage of my life knowing that my family was supporting the decision.

My phone vibrates with messages, tags, and alerts as I log into each of my social media accounts.

I don’t have many friends. I had a few during secondary school, but I was always wary that people only wanted to become friends with me because of who my brother is. Makenzie is a little bit like me in that way. Our circle is tight, and one of our mutual and few close friends, Daniel, initiates a Facebook call almost the instant I have the messenger app set up.

“I honestly don’t know why I’m wasting my breath with this call. Heaven knows, girl, you don’t deserve either my time or my energy.”

“Hey, Dan.”

“Hey, Dan? Hey. Fucking. Dan?Thatis all you have after ignoring my messages for the last however knows how long? I’ve worried myself into a fresh round of Botox to deal with the ridges in my forehead caused by frowning in fear, and the crow's feet caused by the sleepless nights spent worrying about you, and all I get in return isheyDan?”

“Why are you talking like you were raised in the Deep South of America when I know for a fact you’ve lived your entire life in Belsize Park?”

“I should hang up right now. Just tap that screen and end the call this very second.”

“But you love me, so you won’t, plus . . . you’re desperate to know what happened.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, and the only sound in my room is the rain hitting the window and the birds singing in the garden.

I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped out. “Dan?”

“Girl, I was shook. Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was at work and reports started coming in, saying you’d been involved in a fatal shooting. Girl, can you even imagine how that made me feel?”

“Shook?” I offer.