Page 32 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

Haz

Noon sun makes me squint where it streams in through the kitchen window.

Slouched on a chair, I play with the salt and pepper pots, leg jiggling with impatience.

Tilda helms the hob, frying up bacon and eggs and a pot of bubbling beans.

Even got a little salad going. Could do without that but I’m not about to complain.

‘I am so turned on right now.’ I watch her sway to lo-fi in those tiny bed shorts. ‘Wife life.’

Her profile smiles, a hand coming up to brush hair behind her ear.

Her nails are tipped with black and she’s wearing that moth ring I bought her.

It’s turning her finger green, but she doesn’t give a shit.

Face fucking lit up when I gifted it. It was only a cheap thing, I told her as much, but she didn’t care.

Always the thought with her. Makes her easy.

I fist a hand thinking of all the fucks before who might have taken advantage of that.

There’s a shit-tonne of food. Think she forgot Elly’s at home this weekend and Nic’s off on some English trip.

She hadn’t wanted to go but Tilda persuaded her, said she’d be fine with me looking out for her.

Yeah she fucking will be. I smirk thinking how the fucker’d have to untie her from my bed before abducting her.

And that’s even if he got that close. I’d rearrange his face first.

Nic, I was more concerned about. They’re staying at the residence of some long-dead author, right out in bumfuck nowhere. If Blakely wasn’t rooming with her, I might have made her reconsider going. But fuck it, that cunt won’t have us cowed. We’ve got lives to lead.

Especially this weekend.

I check the time on my phone. As soon as brunch is done, me and Tilda are out of here.

She presents it with a flourish, nudging my knee as I sit up. ‘You are such a man spreader.’

‘Strap a dick to yourself and you will be too.’

‘Pass. And you know, guys don’t have a choice. You do.’

I shake my head, picking up my cutlery. ‘Scratch wife life. You’re a fucking mum.’ I point to the chair next to me with my knife. ‘Sit and eat. We’ve got shit on.’

‘We do? Care to elaborate?’

I grin. ‘Road trip, baby.’

Her eyebrows shoot up as she chews. ‘We’re getting off the island? You and me?’

‘You and me. Pack yourself an overnight bag.’

‘Shit. Almost forgot there’s a world outside of Hazelhurst.’ She smiles, clearly thrilled with the prospect.

‘Something I strive to do.’

‘Why’s that?’ When I only shrug, she asks, ‘So where we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

In truth, I wouldn’t be bringing her with me if not for the circumstances.

I watch her eat, feeling her legs swing under the table.

There’s a weird apprehension, right in the place my heart should be.

Tilda’s been begging to get inside, to know the creature within.

Well, here you go, baby. Today’s the day.

I only hope she’s not too much. I hope she realises how hard this is for me.

Because if she still wants me after this weekend, it’ll be a fucking miracle.

It all crowds in on me, the silence of the street, the birds in the perfectly pruned trees, the mix of old Victorian and modern-build houses.

How many of those fucks still live here?

I often wonder that, unable to help my eyes from skipping around the houses they used to party at.

I wonder if they know who I am, if they’re watching from their windows and remembering.

Tilda looks around curiously. Have to give her credit for not asking too much.

She can probably feel my weird energy, she’s good like that.

In tune with me, empathetic to whatever’s going on upstairs.

We’d been on the train an hour, another hour in a taxi after that.

I had it drop us off in the village so we could buy food for the weekend.

She snaps to attention when I turn onto a bricked driveway. I slide my hands into my pockets as I face her, watching her take in the white-painted house, the black front door, the trailing plants just starting to green on the walls.

She looks at me inquisitively.

‘My house,’ I say. ‘Where I grew up.’

Her face lights up with interest. She looks it over again. ‘Is anyone in?’

‘No. Who would there be?’

‘It’s just you in that?’

‘Barely even.’

Did I even visit at all last year? I can’t remember. The front garden looks alright so I’m assuming the gardener’s still doing his job. The house is like something I keep on a shelf. It belongs to me but it serves no purpose.

I turn back to see Tilda staring at me, one of those dopey smiles on her face.

‘What?’

She pitches forward, attaching our lips for a quick second. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

‘You’re only here because Nic’s psycho cousin’s after you.’

‘Okay.’ She heads to the door with a little skip. ‘Whatever you say, Harriet.’

She puts a hand on my hip as I fish for the keys, her thumb stroking soothingly. It’s a weird feeling. First time walking through this door with someone else in years. Even Nic’s never been here.

In the hallway, I kick off my shoes, a habit still ingrained in me. Tilda follows suit, her eager eyes lapping up everything she can see. Which is fuck all. Don’t even have a side table. No shoe rack. Just an old hook where I hang the keys.

She looks around gingerly, with peeks back to me like I’m about to tell her off. I give a permissive gesture and she enters the lounge, the large room shadowed by the thick border shrubs in the front garden.

‘There’s no furniture.’

‘There’s some.’ I kick the lonely armchair. ‘Like I said, I’m never really here.’

‘So why keep it?’

‘Dunno.’ I run a hand through my hair as I cast my eyes around.

‘First thing I bought with the money. When…they died, I lost the house. Obviously. I was a kid. I didn’t really think about it back then, didn’t care.

Then I saw it was on the market. Stumbled across it when I was looking for a gaff to rent for me and Nic.

She thought I was being a dumb fucking idiot—her exact words—but, I dunno, it was mine.

Not lived in it for years but the thought of some other fuck living here… ’

‘Understandable,’ Tilda says, in a tone that says she doesn’t understand at all. Makes two of us. ‘I’m sure it holds lots of memories.’

‘Yeah. Shite ones.’

‘Wanna tell me them?’

I glance at the time on my phone. ‘Can’t. I’ve got an appointment.’

‘What kind?’

‘Lawyer. Something to do with a charity my parents’ money goes to. You can stay here. I won’t be long. It’s just in the village.’

‘Okay.’

Yeah, didn’t think she’d protest to that. With me out the way, she can snoop to her heart’s content. Won’t find anything though. Nothing but ghosts, and even they’re quiet these days.

Tilda

I hold in a flinch as the front door slams. The hallway hums with quiet, that heaviness that comes with lonely, empty houses.

I step back into the lounge. There really isn’t anything in here but that chair and a TV mounted on the wall.

A single box in the corner by the Wi-Fi router.

I lift the flaps, spotting a bunch of dusty DVDs.

I try not to think of Damien as I explore the downstairs rooms. Should have checked if Haz locked the door, but of course she would have.

He won’t come here anyway. I can feel in my bones that he’s far away.

Everything feels like it is, like I’m in some universe separate from my usual.

I need to get off that island more, even if for just a spin around the port city’s shops.

I’m sure Elly would come with. She’s usually up for anything.

It’s a nice house. Spacious. Made to look modern, with a huge extension to the kitchen with skylights and expansive windows looking out over a pretty, shrub-bordered lawn.

I figured Haz came from money. The way she was able to rent a flat, sans job, with Nic at college.

She’s part of Hazelhurst’s inner set, despite rejecting them.

Though how much of that is Nic’s influence?

Haz certainly doesn’t act rich. Far from.

Even this place doesn’t feel like her. Judging by how empty it is, she feels the same.

I pad up the stairs. The cream carpet is flat under my feet, but I’m imagining how soft it used to be, the high pile of it.

The landing wraps around, each door coming off it closed and painted black.

There’s a large potted plant in one corner, surprisingly alive considering she’s never here to water it.

I open all the doors and peek inside. It’s just barren.

One room holds a bed, the duvet free of its cover and bunched into a pile.

Guess that’s where we’ll be sleeping tonight.

A thrill goes through me as I wonder if tonight will be the night.

This feels like progress, major progress.

She’s letting me see a part of her she’s kept hidden all this time.

She says it’s a protection thing, but I know better.

It’s there in her gruff manner, the way she won’t meet my eyes for long.

She’s opening up and she’s uncomfortable.

I eye the hatch that leads to the attic. If there’s going to be any clue to her past, it’ll be up there, but I’m not about to attempt it. Creepy attics and this pervasive Damien paranoia don’t mix. I’ll just be asking for it.

I enter the bedroom instead, sliding open the built-in wardrobe.

There’re some clothes, mostly formal, the stuff she doesn’t need at Hazelhurst. There’s a box of documents at the bottom—her GCSE and A-level certificates, other legal documents surrounding her parents’ deaths.

Clara and David. I eye the innocuous names, wondering what the hell they did to make Haz this way.

Hopefully the most they did was die. I can’t bear to think they did anything worse when they were alive.

With everything I’ve learned about me and Nic and the adults who were supposed to protect us, I’ve about reached my limit.