Page 107

‘Miss Smith, you are fucked up,’ says Furo, shaking his head.

I nod, sipping at the watery hot chocolate we get on Sundays.

I was charged with pretty much everything.

Murder, obvs, guilty AF.

Grand theft auto, no shit. Or only a little bit of shit because they don’t call it that here in the UK. (I was particularly tickled by that one but Mrs Dingle wasn’t best pleased.)

Arson, criminal conspiracy, reckless endangerment, attempted murder…

Apparently, having the restraint to not light that petrol wasn’t getting me off. Intention is everything and I took ‘substantial steps’.

I broke a lot of laws with Jenna. Telling her to go to Trevethan, not telling the police where she really was, not calling them once I’d found her: child endangerment.

Now that one hurt. Because it was true, and I’d never wanted to harm her.

And then there was the small matter of my dad’s house…

He lived in a detached bungalow. How was I to know the fire would spread next door? The old lady in there, Gladys – I had met her at bingo – had weak lungs and died of smoke inhalation.

Actually, I was sad about that one too. Her daughter had sent my lawyer a little sachet of Gladys’s ashes, the big weirdo.

But all in all, I think I did the right thing, didn’t I?

Gladys was very old. As far as collateral damage goes, it’s within the margin.

Jenna didn’t hurt herself very badly, and finally, her stupid, stupid mother had to take her seriously.

And now, the record has been set straight about my mother. Not that there were any records, for some reason, on the case of Beaufort-Bradley vs. Smith.

‘What about you? Why are you here?’ I ask Furo.

He drags a hand over his shaved head. ‘Drugs.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Lightweight.’

He laughs, but only a little.

What can you do when everything is stacked against you? He’s not like a lot of the boys inside, who tell themselves prison is for kids who are too cool for school. It’s their self-defence. Furo’s too smart not to feel the shame.

Maybe he’ll find a way to change his life once he gets out of here. Or a way to stop getting caught.

‘I found out who my visitor is,’ I say, studying the grainy dregs left in my plastic cup. I use my index finger to scrape them out and eat them.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘The princess herself. Frances Beaufort-Bradley.’