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PROLOGUE

S alvatore Forrestor

10 years old

My mum’s long, flowy red dress swishes in the wind while she walks around the garden. She holds her phone up to her ear and keeps talking, but I’ve been saying “Mum, Mum, Mum,” for a long time.

“How did this happen!” she shouts into the phone. “They should have kept those animals away from him! He wasn’t supposed to die.” Her cheeks are red and lots of tears drip down from her dark brown eyes. “I don’t want your fucking money, Loren! I want Arthur back.” She puts one hand over her mouth and cries, then after a little while, she says into the phone, “What about the others, are you paying them all off too? And what do I tell his son?”

“Mum.” I pat her arm so she’ll listen to me. “I wanna go to Justice’s house.” When she doesn’t answer me, I say “Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum,” lots and lots of times, but she just screams at me and tells me to go inside.