Page 55 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

THEN

Avoiding public transport, at least while still in Sutton Coldfield, was a must – I couldn’t afford to be traced that way.

Now, two days’ worth of hitching has left me grubby, and my face shows every bit of fear, guilt and exhaustion – my skin sallow, dark circles heavy under my eyes.

I stare at myself in the mirror of the service station toilets, loathing the person I see.

I splash water over myself, rub my face hard in a vain attempt to rid it of the evidence.

Nausea swells in my belly. I’ve had no food to speak of and I’ve already vomited twice, so there can’t be anything left to bring up.

A woman coming out of a toilet cubicle side-eyes me. She’s weighing me up; judging me. I should be used to it, but today irritation is quick to surface, and I glare at her.

‘What?’ I say, my voice harsh with aggression.

She opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it, and leaves, the door slamming behind her.

A knot of regret gripes in my gut. I shouldn’t have been so snappy; she was likely only concerned at seeing a dishevelled-looking girl alone in a service station toilet.

I look intensely at the closed door for a moment, willing her to come back through it and ask me if I’m all right.

When she doesn’t, I turn back to the mirror with a sigh.

Maybe I look older than fifteen , I think, touching my face.

Maybe I won’t need that fake ID after all.

Outside, I spot a group of people, touristy types by the look of them, about to board a coach.

I spot its destination lit up on the front.

It’s bound for Devon. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea.

I edge closer to the group, then mingle in with them as they jostle to get up the coach’s steps, my pulse skipping when the driver glances at me.

I wait for his barked demand of what do you think you’re doing?

but it doesn’t come. I find an empty seat near the back and quickly take it.

For the next ten minutes, sitting with my eyes averted from the other passengers, my nerves jangle and I fear people can actually hear my legs as they knock together.

Then, I feel the vibration of the engine under my feet and allow myself to relax back in the seat as we move off.

I’m finally heading for the coast.

Five hours later I glimpse the expanse of glistening water for the first time in real life and emotions overwhelm me.

The strongest, guilt, takes centre stage, along with regret for what I’ve done.

But as I gaze out of the grimy coach window at the distant horizon, a calmness settles within me, mirroring the silent ocean.

I can’t change what happened, but I can try to live a good life and make sure I give back as much as possible.

A sign for Torquay flashes by. I read up on this area before leaving – it’ll be a good starting point.

Plenty of touristy places offering seasonal work to see me through the first weeks and months, with luck.

I trudge from the coach station to the tourist information centre and get a list of nearby accommodation.

There’s a hostel – cheap and cheerful looking – that has a view of the sea, and it states that the rooms are single with a private bathroom.

I can’t remember the last time I had that.

A flurry of excitement is quashed by the stronger sense of trepidation, and the words flying through my mind: you don’t deserve this . I push them away.

I have no choice.

The building isn’t how it looks in the photo.

It’s tired-looking, dirty, with flaking paint that reminds me of where I lived before Finley Hall.

A swishing sensation deep in my belly stops me, and I grip the metal railings outside.

Is this the best place there is? It’s not as though I have a whole host of options.

Beggars can’t be choosers, as my mother would say when she slopped beans in a bowl for dinner, or dressed me in clothes she’d found on the steps of charity shops.

If I’m to survive on my own, I have to be brave.

With a huge intake of the sea air, I push the doors to the hostel open and walk inside, striding with fake confidence up to the reception.

The middle-aged man gives me a cheery greeting.

He has kind eyes – a honey-brown colour – that look knowingly at me as he asks my name.

I pause, with my purse containing the ID with the falsified date of birth in my hand, my knuckles white with anxiety.

I told Henry we’d planned to run away, that we’d secured everything we needed to ensure we weren’t found, but the IDs aren’t exactly high quality – just good enough to make ourselves sixteen, so that legally we were free to leave the home and gain our own accommodation.

We figured Miss Graves wouldn’t involve the police – it would look bad for them, and they wouldn’t want the attention for fear the police would dig further into Finley Hall.

Going all out with fake names was far too risky according to Dodgy Dave, the guy who hooked us up with his mate who only usually forged IDs to get underage kids into clubs.

Proper kosher-looking ones would cost more than we’d ever get our hands on.

These would be good enough, he’d assured us.

As an extra precaution, Henry had said he’d set fire to the files in Miss Graves’s office to make sure there was no record of Kirsty Briggs or Anna Lincoln.

Doing this alone, now, though, makes me edgy.

My hands shake violently as I reach into my purse, aware of the guy’s eyes on me.

I can almost hear him weighing up whether he should call the police or not, and my paranoia makes me fumble.

I pull out both the IDs and as I do, a scan photo comes with it.

My breath hitches as I look at the grey and white grainy image of the five-week-old foetus, and my surroundings melt away as the worst moments of my life come back to me.

Tears stream down my face. The journey has been an incredibly long one – the botched abortion thieving me of the chance to ever have children.

Maybe that was a good thing – it’s my deserved punishment for what I did.

I’ll try and tell myself it’s my choice – because let’s face it – who’d want to bring children into this world?

With my genes, no doubt I’d make a terrible mother anyway.

I can’t chance ruining another life. I want to run as far away from my own as I can.

It’s suddenly clear what I should do. I look down at the two IDs, putting the one saying Kirsty Briggs back in my purse. Then, with a smile, I hand the man Anna’s.

‘I’m Anna Lincoln,’ I tell him. It feels odd saying her name – it’s the first time I’ve uttered it since the other night, since Henry and I yelled it after she fell into the well.

But I’m sure I’ll get used to it.

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