A Good Neighbour

Netta Newbound

Copyright © 2026 by Netta Newbound.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

www.nettanewbound.co.uk

Junction Publishing UK

Book Cover by Netta.

AGN/Netta Newbound 2026

I have always been blessed by wonderful neighbours wherever I have lived in the world – this book is dedicated to each and every one of you. Jules, Sandra, Betty, Elaine, Steve and Val.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue

Also by Netta

Chapter One

Lucy

Ihad been dreaming of chocolate. Not just a bar or two, but mountains of it. Towering stacks wrapped in glossy paper. Thick slabs broken into perfect squares. A fountain in the middle of it all, dark and gleaming, chocolate cascading in slow, silky ribbons. The smell was rich enough to make me dizzy—sweet, warm, and tempting. I leant closer, already tasting it. My tongue brushed my top lip.

“Lucy, wake up.”

The voice pulled me out of the dream so suddenly that it felt cruel. “Go away,” I muttered, still half-lost in the scent of cocoa, my mouth watering with disappointment.

“Lucy!” Daisy grabbed my shoulder harder this time. “It’s happening again.” The fear in her voice cut through the last of the haze.

My eyes flew open. I pushed myself upright, the duvet slipping to my waist, leaving only the thin cotton of my nightdress between me and the bitter chill of the December air. Pale light from the streetlamp shone through the gap in the curtains, just enough for me to see Daisy properly.

She looked terrified. All the colour had drained from her face, leaving her skin almost grey, and her eyes were wide and fixed on me, as though she already knew something awful was waiting downstairs.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Listen.”

I held my breath. At first, I heard nothing. Then it came. Faint, but unmistakable. Raised voices. A man's voice I didn't recognise was arguing with our mum.

My stomach tightened. “Who’s here?”

Daisy shook her head. “I don’t know. Mum came home about an hour ago, and I could tell she wasn’t alone. She was giggling.” Daisy swallowed. “Then I got up to go to the bathroom and heard them shouting. It’s happening again, Lucy. I know it is.”

Her words hung over the room like a cloud. It’s happening again.

I knew what she was talking about, and I didn’t want to think about the last time, but the memory came anyway. Mum screaming. Dad was yelling back. A crash. Then total silence that felt so wrong.

And the next morning—the smell. Even now, nearly two years later, I can still remember it. Thick and metallic. It had hung in the air downstairs and clung to the curtains, the sofa, and my skin. Back then, I hadn’t known what it was. Now I did. It was blood.

Mum had made us lie to the police.

She had sat Daisy and me down at the kitchen table, her face pale and her eyes red, and she told us exactly what to say. That Dad had beaten her. Not just her, but us too. He had a violent temper. He frightened us. He would often hurt us all.

Every word of it had been a lie.

Dad hadn’t been perfect. He drank too much sometimes. He could lose his temper. But I had never seen him hit Daisy, and he had never laid a hand on me. If anyone ruled that house through fear, it had been Mum. Mum with her wild moods, her threats, the slaps that came out of nowhere and punishments that lasted for days. Our mother could make a plate of food disappear from in front of us as easily as she could make us feel small.

“It won’t be like that again,” I whispered. But even as I said it, my stomach turned. Because I didn’t believe it. Last time, Mum had stabbed Dad in the stomach. She had admitted that much to me days later in a slurred whisper, though by then it hadn’t mattered. She had told the police a different version—that he had attacked her so badly she’d blacked out. She said she had been too injured to call for help. Too frightened and too weak.

What she hadn’t told them was that she had left him there, still breathing, according to her—left him bleeding on the sofa while she stumbled upstairs in a drunken haze and went to bed. And somehow, with enough tears, enough lies, and Daisy and me repeating the story she had forced on us, she had got away with it.

Self-defence, the inquest had ruled. I had never forgotten those words.

Dad hadn’t been an angel, but he hadn’t deserved to die like that. Mum had made sure we understood what would happen if we told the truth. We’d be taken away. Put into care. Split up. Sent to different families. We might never see each other again. I had believed her then, and part of me still did. I was terrified that if the truth about what had really happened ever came out, the police would come for all of us. Mum could go to prison. Daisy and I might be questioned, maybe even blamed, or taken into care for lying. Everything we had left could be destroyed in an instant.

The front door was suddenly pulled open so hard that it slammed into the wall behind it—the sound ripped through the house.

We both jumped.

I scrambled out of bed and hurried to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer outside.

A man was already crossing the pavement at speed. He was wiry, dressed in dark clothes, with a white baseball cap pulled low over his face. He yanked open the door of a blue car, climbed inside, and, a second later, the engine roared to life. The car sped away into the darkness.

I let the curtain fall back into place. “He’s gone.” I turned back to look at Daisy, who was still standing in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself as though she were trying to hold herself together. “Do you want to get into bed with me?”

She looked up. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” I lifted the duvet and forced a small smile. “So long as you don’t snore.”

For a second, she smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The fear was still there, alive inside them.

I climbed back into bed beside my sister and listened to the silence settling over the house, knowing that silence could mean almost anything.

But in our house, it usually meant something bad had already happened, but I was too terrified to investigate.

Chapter Two

Lucy

Istayed next to Daisy all night, feeling every time she moved while my own thoughts kept turning over in my head. I’d told her nothing bad had happened, but the shouting downstairs had rattled me more than I let on. I finally fell asleep as it was going light.

“I’m starving.” Daisy’s voice yanked me out of another blissful dream.

I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head. “Shh. Go and get some breakfast, then.”

“I can’t.”

I pushed the duvet down and blinked at her. “Why not?”

“I’m scared.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “We saw the man leave. It’ll be fine.”

“Please, Luce. Come downstairs with me.”

“But it’s school holidays. I never get up this early during the holidays.” I let out a dramatic sigh, then swung my legs out of bed and shoved my feet into the fluffy blue slippers that our next-door neighbour, George, had given me for Christmas. “Fine. But then I’m coming straight back to bed. No arguing.”

I checked Mum’s bedroom first. It was empty. The bed was as messy as always because Mum never made it. She said there was no point because it would be messed up again a few hours later. The truth was, she didn’t care about anything except her next drink.

Daisy clung to my arm as we went downstairs, one cautious step at a time.

I expected to find Mum sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette with a glass in her other hand, or passed out on the sofa with the television still on. But the house felt wrong the second we reached the bottom of the stairs. It was too quiet.

She wasn't there.

A half-full vodka bottle stood on the coffee table. One glass sat on the kitchen worktop. Another had been smashed and dumped in the sink.

“Be careful,” I said, pointing to the jagged pieces mixed in with last night’s dirty plates.

Daisy stared around the room, her face pinched with worry. “See? I told you something wasn’t right. Where’s Mum?”

“How do I know?” I kept my voice light, though my stomach had started to knot. “But it’s nothing like last time, Daisy. She’s probably gone to work or something.”

“On a Sunday?”

Mum worked as a secretary in a solicitor’s office. She had never worked weekends, and she was supposed to be off until after the New Year, which was still a few days away. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud and send Daisy into a panic.

“I know,” I said. “But she mentioned the other day she might have to do a bit of overtime.”

Daisy frowned. “Did she?”

I nodded as though I was certain. “Mm-hm. I’ll text her later. Are you okay making your own breakfast?”

She drew herself up to her full height. “I’m ten, not a baby.”

“I was just asking.” I reached for the dustpan. “I’ll clean up the glass, then I’m going back to bed for a bit.”

I was worried about where Mum had gone. Of course I was. But I didn’t want to make a fuss yet. She was always disappearing when something or someone more interesting came along, leaving us to fend for ourselves without so much as a warning. But I was nearly sixteen. Old enough, apparently, to be left with all the responsibility and none of the choice.

After clearing up the broken glass, I went into the living room.

Daisy was curled up on the sofa, watching YouTube and eating a bowl of dry cereal. “There’s no milk,” she said with her mouth full.

I wasn’t surprised. If anything, she was lucky there was cereal.

The whole house was a tip, but that was nothing new. Mum didn't have a domestic bone in her body, and if I tried to clean it, she would yell and say I was getting under her feet, so I didn't bother anymore. I took the bottle and the abandoned glass into the kitchen, checked there weren’t any tiny shards left on the sides, and then headed upstairs again.

Before I drifted off, I sent Mum a text. Where are you? Daisy was frightened. At least let us know you’re alive.

It came out sharper than that in my head. It was more like a parent telling off a reckless teenager. I hated how she had twisted everything between us and hated how I was the one checking cupboards, cleaning up broken glass, and calming Daisy down, while Mum stumbled through life doing whatever the heck she pleased.

Sometimes, I longed to be looked after. For someone to put Daisy and me first. Back when Dad had still been alive, there had at least been the illusion of safety. The sense that someone older and steadier was holding everything together. After he died, that feeling died too.

There was hardly ever any food in the house. Most of what we ate came from the food bank. On payday, Mum might come home with a loaf of bread, a sack of potatoes, and maybe a few tins if she felt generous, but it never lasted. After that, we either made do or went hungry.

She was an alcoholic. A high-functioning one, maybe. She never drank before work. She kept her job. She turned up, answered phones, filed papers, and acted like a normal working woman. But the second she came home, the drinking started. One glass. Then another. Then the bottle. Every night, without fail, until she passed out.

And then there were the men. All sorts of men came to our door. They all seemed to know the same thing: turn up with a bottle of vodka, and Mum would let them in with a smile.

What happened after that, I tried not to think about. Not with Daisy and me just down the hall.

Apart from George next door, Ben was the only normal person who called in sometimes, and I had no clue what he saw in Mum. He was good-looking and funny. I prayed he would marry Mum when I was younger. We dreamed of having him as our dad, but that wasn't to be. In fact, I'd not seen him in months.

***

“She’s still not home, Luce.” Daisy startled me awake for the third time in less than twelve hours.

I cracked one eye open. “Okay. I’m sure she won’t be much longer.” Then I noticed she was getting dressed. “Where are you going?”

She had already stripped off her pyjamas and was pulling on fleece-lined leggings and a woollen jumper. “I’m going to Briana’s. Her auntie’s visiting, and they’re having a buffet.” She glanced over at me. “Do you want me to bring you some food back?”

Briana was Daisy’s friend from school. She lived on the posh estate down the road, in one of those big detached houses with clean windows, a warm kitchen, and parents who probably bought food before the cupboards were empty.

“Yeah,” I said, pushing myself up on one elbow. “But don’t get caught. They already think they’re better than us. We don’t need them knowing we’ve got no food in as well.”

“They wouldn’t care,” Daisy said. “They always make too much. Briana’s mum sent a massive Tupperware box home with me last time. She said it would only go in the bin otherwise.”

“Smug bitch.”

Daisy frowned. “No, she’s not. She’s nice.”

I shrugged. “Whatever. Just put your coat on and wear your good shoes. It’s freezing.”

The second I heard the front door slam behind her, the house felt even emptier.

I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my onesie and made the beds in the pathetic hope that if the house looked normal, then things might somehow become normal too.

Afterwards, I went downstairs and washed the dishes.

Mum still hadn’t replied to my text. She hadn’t even read it.

My stomach growled hard enough to hurt, and I found myself hoping Daisy would manage to bring something back. Otherwise, dinner would probably be the same as last night—stale toast and baked beans, if we were lucky.

Unless, of course, Mum breezed through the door full of excuses and false smiles, carrying a few bags of shopping as though that made up for everything.

Deep down, I knew that what was bothering me wasn’t the cold, greasy water on my hands as I stood at the sink. It was a feeling that grew heavier with every hour Mum stayed away. The feeling that whatever had happened last night wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.

Chapter Three

Lucy

After I’d cleaned the house, I shoved our school uniforms into the washing machine, then hung them over the cold radiators and prayed for them to dry before that damp, sour smell set in. It happened often enough. I washed a pair of Mum’s black work trousers and a couple of her blouses too. I didn’t know why I bothered. Habit, probably. Or maybe some stupid part of me still thought that if I kept things ticking over, everything else might somehow hold together.

Mid-morning, there was someone banging at the back door. I hoped it was Mum finally arriving home, but no such luck. Instead, it was a deadbeat guy I had seen hanging about a few times. He was always either drunk, drugged, or both. He hardly had any teeth in his head and a ruddy and grimy complexion.

"Mum's not here," I snapped, blocking him from entering.

"When will she be back?"

"What am I, her keeper?" I squared my shoulders and attempted to appear tough so it would put him off from barging his way past me, but I was shaking inside.

"Alright, keep yer 'air on. Just tell 'er I came fer me stuff."

I shut the door in his face.

By two o’clock, Mum still hadn’t replied to my text.

My WhatsApp calls rang and rang before they cut off. I tried again. Same thing.

That was when the bad feeling really started to settle in.

I thought about going to see George. He was our neighbour and Mum's closest friend. But I figured if she was just next door, she would've been back already for the half-full bottle of vodka if nothing else.

I thought about calling the police a few times. I stood there with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen and imagining how the conversation would go. But what if nothing had happened to her? What if she was just off on another bender, drunk in somebody else’s bed, and I ended up bringing police and social services crashing down on us for nothing?

That kind of trouble never landed on Mum. It landed on Daisy and me. So I didn’t call.

Outside, the cold had sharpened as the afternoon wore on. It was that particular kind of weather that looked almost clean, with the sky pale and brittle and the air stinging your face the second you stepped into it. The smell of woodsmoke drifted in from the surrounding houses, warm and earthy, making me think of families gathered in heated living rooms, mugs of tea in their hands, and dinners in the oven.

We didn’t have a wood burner. We barely had heating at all. The only warmth in our council house came from the radiators, and even then Mum refused to let us turn them on. Said we couldn’t afford it. What she meant, of course, was that every pound spent on gas or electricity was a pound she couldn’t pour down her throat.

I checked the prepayment meter and saw we were nearly out. It would need to be topped up by tomorrow at the latest.

A knock at the front door made me cry out. Every nerve in my body snapped to attention. The front door was rarely used. Anyone who knew us came around the back.

I froze, staring at the frosted glass, then caught a shape through the pane beside the door. I could tell it was a man. He was tall and broad. It definitely wasn't Mum.

Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath. What if it was the police? What if social services had found out? What would I say if they asked where Mum had gone?

My heart raced. I forced myself to stay still and think. I hadn’t told anyone she was missing, so there was no reason for anybody official to be at our door. I just needed to act normally. That was all.

I reached for the handle and opened the door.

“Oh, hello. Is Becky in?” The man leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, looking relaxed. I’d never seen him before—I would have remembered. He was clean-shaven, with thick, dark, wavy hair and blue eyes that caught me off guard. His face looked sharp, and he seemed alert and smart, not like the usual men that Mum brought home with rough hands, dead eyes, and stinking of booze. That made me even more uneasy. Men like him noticed things, had their own reasons for being there, and could tell when you were lying.

“No,” I said, forcing a polite smile. “Sorry. You’ve just missed her.”

“Really?” His expression didn’t change. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

I hoped he couldn’t hear how hard my heart was pounding. I looked him in the eye and tried to keep my face blank. “She didn’t say. She probably won’t be back until late.”

He stared at me a little too long. I couldn’t read his face or tell if he believed me. I had a sick feeling that he could see right through me. Then he smiled. His teeth were perfectly white—almost too perfect. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I bought her a gift.”

He lifted a carrier bag, and I saw the logo from the local off-licence. Of course, he was just like all the others.

“I can make sure she gets it,” I said.

He paused just long enough for me to notice, then handed me the bag. It felt heavier than I expected. “Tell her Jamie dropped by.”

“I will.” I smiled again, and as I set the bag down in the hall, it gave a soft clink.

He turned and walked away without another word, heading down the path towards the gate.

I waited until I heard the gate click shut behind him before I closed the door. Then I just stood there, unable to move for a moment. My whole body started to shake, first a little, then worse. My legs felt weak, like they might give out. I wanted to sit down and cry. I wanted Mum to walk in right then so I could yell at her for making me deal with another stranger, another lie, and another mess she’d left behind.

I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, shoved my arms into my coat and headed out the front door with the carrier bag in my hand. If Daisy got back before me, she knew where the spare key was hidden, and I wasn’t planning on being gone long.

The off-licence was busier than usual. New Year's Eve was only a few days away, and apparently, half the town had decided they needed lots more alcohol to get through it.

I joined the queue and kept my head down, the bag hanging at my side, my fingers curled tightly around the handles. My heart thudded harder as, one by one, the people in front of me left the store, each putting me one step closer to the counter. Not because I thought the plan wouldn’t work, but because I knew I only had one shot. I needed that money. Properly needed it. There was hardly anything in the fridge, and the electric meter was low enough to make me nervous.

By the time I got to the counter, I’d already practised what I was going to say at least ten times in my head.

“What can I get you?” the shopkeeper asked. He was older than I remembered from the last time I was there with Mum. He had thin grey hair and his lined face looked permanently suspicious.

I set the carrier bag on the counter between us. “I need a refund, please. The receipt’s in the bag.”

He frowned at me but opened the bag anyway. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

His head snapped up. “I can’t sell alcohol to you.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I said evenly. “I want a refund.”

“Get whoever bought it to bring it back, and I’ll consider it.”

“I bought it.”

A sharp gasp sounded behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know that some nosy cow in the queue had just decided exactly what kind of girl I was. Or was she shocked at the shopkeeper for selling it to me in the first place? I didn't know, nor did I care.

The shopkeeper gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

He pulled out the receipt and flattened it against the counter. I had already checked it twice before leaving the house. A litre bottle of vodka for twenty-four pounds and a bottle of bourbon for twenty-seven. Fifty-one pounds in total. Enough to put electricity on the meter and to buy some food to get us through another day or two.

I looked him straight in the eye and forced myself not to blink. “As you can see, they were paid for in cash a little over an hour ago. So either you refund me now, or I call the police and tell them you sold alcohol to a fifteen-year-old.”

For a second, the whole shop seemed to go still.

“Disgusting,” the woman behind me muttered. Then louder: “Absolutely disgusting.” It seems I had my answer as to why she had gasped. She stormed out in a cloud of judgement and cheap perfume, the door banging shut behind her.

I just raised my eyebrows and gave the shopkeeper a tiny shrug, as if to say, It's your call.

The colour drained from his face.

Without another word, he turned to the till, opened it and began counting out notes and coins with trembling fingers. Fifty-one pounds. He pushed the money across the counter at me as though he wanted to be rid of it as fast as possible. “Now get out,” he snapped. “And don’t come back.”

I scooped up the cash and slid it into my jeans' pocket. “Nice doing business with you.” Then I turned and walked out of the shop with something dangerously close to triumph buzzing through me.

It wasn’t just about getting the money. For once, I was the one in control. I looked someone in the eye, made a demand, and watched them give me exactly what I wanted. As I stepped out into the freezing air, my heart still racing, I realised how easy it had been.

Chapter Four

Lucy

Ihoped Mum would be back when I got home, but even if she was, I wasn’t going to tell her about the booze or the money. I did what I had to.

On my way back, I stopped at the supermarket and bought a sliced loaf, a bottle of milk and a tub of margarine. After that, I had forty-seven pounds and a few pennies left. I needed to make it last. Not just until tomorrow, but for as long as possible. Money always seemed to vanish in our house, especially if Mum got her hands on it.

The place was still empty when I let myself in.

Even though it was only just after three, and it was already dark outside. Winter always made the house feel smaller somehow, colder, and more shut in. I switched on a lamp, but its weak yellow light barely reached the corners of the room.

I tried calling Mum again, but it went straight to voicemail. A cold unease slid through me. I really had a bad feeling about this.

A few minutes later, the front door slammed just as I was upstairs changing back into my onesie.

“Mum?” I called, hurrying towards the landing and taking the stairs two at a time.

“It’s me.”

Relief hit first, hot and sudden, before I realised it was only Daisy who was stepping out of the kitchen.

She grinned at me. “I got loads of leftovers if you’re hungry. There was a really nice cheesecake, too. I managed to nick some before anyone else got there.”

My stomach growled so loudly it was embarrassing. I followed her straight into the kitchen.

A supermarket carrier bag sat on the side, bulging with food. Proper food. Pork pies, a selection of ham and egg sandwiches, mini spring rolls, mini samosas, sausage rolls, and quiche. The sight of it made tears prick my eyes. It was enough to keep us going for at least a couple of days, maybe longer if we were careful. Next to it sat a separate container with several thick slices of cheesecake, the creamy topping swirled over a biscuit base. It looked better than anything we’d had in the house for weeks.

“Have some,” Daisy said. “I’ve already had loads. I’m stuffed.”

I smiled but shook my head. “No, I bought a loaf, so I’ll have toast and save this lot for tea. No point wasting the good stuff. Who knows what time Mum will decide to come back? If she comes back at all.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Daisy’s expression changed immediately. “Have you heard from her?”

“Nope.” I pulled the loaf from my shopping bag and set it on the counter. “But what’s new? She disappears whenever it suits her.” That was true. But this time it felt different, and we both knew it. I reached for the butter knife because it gave me something to do with my hands. “Sometimes,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I think we’d be better off without her. Once I turn sixteen, I'll be able to look after you properly. Legally, I mean.”

Daisy’s face softened in that way it always did when we spoke of the future. “Maybe we could move out after your birthday,” she said quietly. “I’d love that.”

I glanced at her and forced a smile, though the idea felt as impossible as wishing for a new life altogether. “It would be nice. But I can’t see Mum allowing it. She’d lose the child benefit, wouldn’t she? That’d mean less money for booze.”

Daisy lowered her eyes for a second, then looked back at me. Her big brown eyes were shining now, full of tears she was trying not to let fall. “Will we ever be able to leave her?”

Her question hit me hard. For a moment, I couldn’t answer. I wanted to tell her yes, that we’d leave soon, that one day we’d have our own warm flat with food in the cupboards, clean bedding, and a front door no stranger would ever pass through. I wanted to promise her everything, but promises are risky when you can’t keep them. “Yes,” I said finally. The word sounded more certain than I felt. “Eventually. We just have to get by for now, Daisy. It’s a joke that she’s the adult here, since we’re the ones looking after everything. But that’s how it is. That’s the law. So for now, we keep our heads down and wait.”

Daisy nodded, but tears spilt over anyway.

I hated that she was only ten and already knew too much and that she looked to me for answers I didn’t have. I also hated that, even with the kitchen light on and the food spread out in front of us, the house still felt wrong. Like something had been disturbed and hadn’t settled back into place.

I put the knife down and pulled Daisy into a hug. She felt small and fragile in my arms. “We’ll get out one day,” I whispered into her hair, because I needed to believe it as much as she did.

And as I held her there in our freezing kitchen, surrounded by scavenged food, weak lights, and the silence of a house without an adult in it, I realised that I wasn’t just angry with Mum for being gone. I was worried she might not come back and what that would mean for us.

***

Later that night, Daisy and I curled up on the sofa and watched a Christmas movie. It was one of those shiny films where the family lived in a big, bright house full of warmth, laughter, and more food than they could ever eat. The parents were kind and always noticed when someone was sad, fixing everything with a hug and a mug of hot chocolate.

I remember staring at the screen like we were watching something from another world. Then I looked at our sad little Christmas tree, its bent branches weighed down by mismatched decorations, and made myself a promise. Next year would be different. It had to be.

By then, I’d be sixteen, and things would change. I’d have a bit more control, at least for myself. I still didn’t know how I could legally look after Daisy or if anyone would let me, but I knew I’d never leave without her. I didn’t have a plan yet, but I was sure of that. Once I was sixteen, I could leave school and get a job. Even if it was rubbish and didn’t pay much, it would be our money, not Mum’s. Maybe that would make life feel less like we were living in a state of emergency all the time.

Mum still hadn’t come home by the time we went up to bed.

Before I went upstairs after Daisy, I checked the electric meter again. We had enough for another day, maybe two if we were careful. Some weeks, we went without electricity for a while, the house falling into darkness and cold until Mum found money to top it up. But with the fridge fuller than it had been in ages, I didn’t want to risk it running out overnight and everything spoiling.

It felt strange not hearing from her for almost a day. The house felt different without her. There was no tension in the rooms, no need to stay on edge in case she started shouting over something small. I didn’t have to listen for the change in her voice that meant she’d gone from drunk to mean. I hadn’t realised how tiring it was to live like that until I no longer had to.

Daisy got into my bed again that night. Not just because she was scared this time. It was freezing, so it made more sense to pile both duvets on one bed and huddle together for warmth than to pretend we were fine in separate rooms. We lay in the dark, blankets pulled up, our breath warm under them while the rest of the room felt like ice.

During the night, I rolled over and saw Daisy was still awake. I knew she was still worrying about where our mum was.

“Lucy?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

Her voice was so quiet I almost missed it. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if she didn’t come back?”

I stared into the darkness for a moment before answering. “No,” I lied. “Because I know she’ll come back.”

Daisy was silent for so long I thought maybe she’d dropped off. Then she said, “Sometimes I wish it had been her who died, not Daddy.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Does that make me a bad person?”

Her words made me gasp. I was suddenly thirteen again, standing at the top of the stairs with my heart pounding and smelling blood in the air. “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

“Do you miss him?”

Every minute of every day, I thought. Every time I have to make a choice no fifteen-year-old should have to make. “All the time,” I said out loud.

“I do, too,” Daisy whispered. “Sometimes I forget what he looked like. I stare at his photo and then… I can’t remember anything else. Not really. I can’t remember how he smelt or what his voice sounded like.” Her voice shook on the last words, and I knew she was trying not to cry.

I didn’t know what to say. Some things can’t be fixed by saying it will all be okay, because we both knew that wasn’t true. So we lay there in silence.

I could hear the window rattling in the wind and, underneath it, the steady thud of my heart. Daisy thought I wasn’t scared. I knew she did. She looked at me like I had all the answers, like I was stronger and braver than her. But the truth was I was terrified. Not of Mum, not even of what might have happened to her. What scared me most was failing Daisy—not being able to feed her or keep her warm. Or some stranger deciding we couldn’t stay together and taking her away from me, just because I was still a child, too.

I reached for her hand beneath the duvet and gave it a squeeze.

She squeezed back immediately.

The simple pressure of her fingers in mine steadied something in me. Not completely, but enough. Enough for me to breathe a little deeper and for the panic to loosen its grip.

I snuggled back down into the pillow and pulled the duvet all the way up to my chin to stop myself from shivering.

In the darkness, with Daisy’s hand still in mine and the house quiet around us, I realised that whatever happened next, whether Mum came back tomorrow, the day after, or never, I was already doing what a mother should do. I would look after Daisy for as long as I needed to.

Chapter Five

Lucy

We were jolted awake the next morning by someone hammering on the back door.

For one panicked second, I had no idea where I was. Then the freezing room, the tangle of duvets and Daisy’s sleepy face beside mine all came back at once.

Mum always told her mates to use the back door. She was forever hiding from someone—debt collectors, neighbours, men she’d fallen out with, people from work—so she rarely answered the door. For that reason, I assumed it had to be somebody she knew.

I scrambled out of bed and hurried downstairs, still half asleep, tugging my dressing gown tightly around me as I went.

George, our next-door neighbour, was already putting the spare key in the lock when I opened the door. “Oh,” he said, looking faintly surprised. “You are home. Your mum said I could borrow your hoover. Mine blew up the other day.”

George was one of the few people Mum knew who didn’t make my skin crawl. He was friendly, harmless, and always smelled faintly of washing powder and cigarettes, which he disguised with chewing gum. If he noticed anything odd about me flinging the door open with my hair a mess and sleep still stuck in the corners of my eyes, he didn’t say.

“Help yourself,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.

He walked into the kitchen as if he belonged there, which, in a way, he almost did. George had been in and out of our house for years. He and Mum got on well, though I’d never quite understood why. Maybe because he didn’t ask too many questions, and he minded his own business.

“Is she still in bed?” he asked.

The question sent a little jolt through me. I didn’t know what to say. George was close enough to Mum that, if she didn’t show up soon, he was bound to realise that something was off. Still, I clung to the hope that she’d wander back any minute with some pathetic excuse and a face full of self-pity.

“I haven’t seen her this morning,” I said. Which, technically, wasn’t a lie.

George bent and pulled the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

I frowned. “Tonight?”

He glanced at me. “New Year’s Eve.”

The days had blurred together so much I’d almost forgotten what the date was. “Nah,” I said. “I’ll probably be looking after Daisy while Mum goes into town. You?”

He gave a snort as he lifted the vacuum cleaner. “I never go out at New Year. Can’t stand all those fake arses falling over themselves to act like they care when they can’t be bothered with me the rest of the year. I’d rather stay home on my own.” Then he nodded towards the stairs. “Tell your mum to pop in for a cuppa when she drags herself out of her pit.”

I forced a smile and opened the back door for him. “I will.”

He shuffled out.

I stood there until I heard his back door close. Then I shut the door and leant against it for a second. Where the hell was Mum? That same sick feeling stirred low in my stomach again. I needed her to come back soon, before people started asking questions. I had no idea how much longer I could keep fobbing everyone off without sounding suspicious.

“Who was it?” Daisy asked when I came back upstairs. She was sitting up in bed now, her hair all tangled round her face, the duvet clutched beneath her chin.

“George,” I said. “He’s borrowed the vacuum cleaner.”

“Is Mum home?”

“Nope.” I climbed back into the bed, burrowing gratefully into the warmth. “Shove up.”

Daisy moved over, and I reached for my library book from the bedside table. It was some YA dystopian romance about a girl trapped in a brutal future where everyone was sorted into factions and forced to fight for survival. Completely ridiculous, really. Far-fetched in all the usual ways. Still, it was a good distraction. Because no matter how bleak that girl’s world was, I could close the book whenever things got a little too heavy. I couldn’t do that with mine.

***

I must have drifted back to sleep, because the next thing I knew, it was eleven o’clock and Daisy wasn’t beside me. For a second, I panicked. Then I heard the television downstairs.

I let out a breath and pushed back the duvet. I still needed to get dressed and go out for a top-up card for the prepayment meter before we ran out completely. That was the problem with living the way we did—there was always some small disaster waiting if I didn’t keep on top of things.

Before I got dressed, I tried Mum’s phone again. Still nothing. It didn’t even ring anymore—it just went straight to voicemail. Her mobile was probably lying dead at the bottom of her handbag, buried beneath old receipts, broken cigarettes and whatever other rubbish she carried around with her.

I found Daisy curled up on the sofa watching television, a blanket tucked around her legs. “A man came round looking for Mum,” she said.

My whole body went tense. “Who?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Someone called Jamie. I’ve never seen him before.”

My stomach flipped. Jamie was the man who had brought the booze around yesterday. “What did you tell him?”

Daisy's head snapped up, and I immediately wished I’d sounded less sharp. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Nothing,” she said. “Just that she was out. Why?”

I looked away, pretending to straighten a cushion so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “You know what people around here are like. Gossip spreads fast, and everyone loves judging everyone else. The less anybody knows, the better.” I forced my voice to stay light. “Fancy some toast?”

“No thanks. I feel sick.”

I turned back to her at once and crouched beside the sofa, pressing the back of my hand to her forehead. “You’re not hot. Maybe you’re just tired.”

“No.” She pulled a face. “It was that cheesecake. It’s made my insides all squishy.”

I stared at her. “You had cheesecake for breakfast?”

She nodded without a trace of shame.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Then it serves you right, you little piglet. Did you save any for me?”

“No,” she said. “But trust me, I did you a favour. It was rank.”

I smiled and ruffled her mop of chestnut curls. For a second, she looked like any ordinary ten-year-old again, grumbling about an upset stomach after eating too much rubbish, and the sight of that nearly undid me.

“I’m going to get some electricity,” I said. “Will you be okay?”

Her expression changed at once. “On my own?”

“I’ll only be ten minutes.” I reached for my coat from the back of the chair. “But you can come with me if you want.”

“Ten minutes?”

I nodded. “You can time me if you like.”

She studied my face as though trying to work out whether I was lying. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “Hurry up then. That man said he was going to come back later."

I sighed before I could stop myself. Why wouldn’t the idiot take the hint and leave us alone?

“Has Mum called yet?” Daisy asked.

I shook my head. “No. I think her phone’s dead.” I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. “I’ll be back soon. And don’t answer the door to anyone.”

As I stepped out into the freezing morning air, I realised that I was starting to dread who might come looking for her next.

As soon as I stepped out of the house, I heard the front gate clang shut and I froze. Then, moving carefully, I crept down the path and peered around the front of the house and bumped straight into a man. A squeal escaped me as I stumbled backwards, my heart lurching into my throat.

“Hello again,” he said. “Sorry to startle you. I was looking for your mum.”

It was Jamie again. He looked even more out of place on our street than he had yesterday, like he belonged somewhere cleaner, quieter, somewhere with polished door knockers and neat gravel drives instead of cracked paving slabs and overflowing bins.

“She’s not come back yet,” I said quickly. “Probably drunk somewhere. I’ll tell her to call you.”

“It’s not a problem.” His tone was easy, almost amused. “I’ll pop in next time I’m passing.” He smiled then, and I hated that I noticed how much it changed his face. Properly noticed it. He had a nice face with all his own teeth. He was much nicer looking than the sort of men Mum usually had hanging around. He didn’t seem like the type to skulk in and out at all hours, reeking of cheap aftershave and booze, fiddling with his zip before he’d even properly left the house. He seemed different. A different class entirely. Better dressed. Better spoken. Younger too—at least ten years younger than Mum, at a guess. But Mum looked older than her thirty-six years. Worn out, too. I didn’t think it was just the drink doing that to her anymore.

“Whatever,” I muttered.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?” he asked.

I stared at him. “What’s it got to do with you?”

He laughed, and that irritated me even more. “Feisty, like your mum, I see. I was only making conversation.”

“For your information, I’m nothing like my mum.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. “And I’d prefer it if you kept your big nose out of my business.”

He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender. “That’s me told."

I folded my arms and said nothing.

“Oh well,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll be off. Happy New Year and all that jazz.”

“Whatever.” I stood there and watched him walk away, his shoes crunching lightly over the grit on the path. A second later, I heard the beep of a car unlocking. Then he got in and drove off, and only once he’d turned the corner did I finally let myself breathe properly again.

I hurried to the corner shop and bought a ten-pound top-up card for the meter. That left thirty-seven pounds. Thirty-seven pounds to keep us fed and warm and out of trouble.

Mum was due to be paid on Wednesday, though that didn’t comfort me in the slightest. If she still hadn’t come home by then, there was every chance she’d blow the lot before we ever saw a penny of it. That was the thing with Mum—money never meant food or heating or school shoes. It meant vodka and cigarettes. She spent it on whatever or whoever she fancied, rather than on her daughters.

As I walked back, the cold biting at my face, I found myself thinking the same thought I always tried to push away. Would Daisy be better off in care? The question made me feel sick. Because, really, what was the alternative? A freezing house. Empty cupboards. A mother who vanished for days. A sister who was only fifteen and pretending she knew what she was doing.

Care might mean a warm bed every night. Proper meals. Clean clothes that didn’t smell damp from drying on cold radiators. Maybe even wonderful foster parents. The sort who remembered birthdays, bought toothpaste before it ran out, and asked how school had been. Maybe Daisy would thrive somewhere like that. Maybe she would finally get to be a child. But the thought of losing her hit me like a physical pain. Because, selfish or not, if they did take Daisy away from me, I would have nothing left. Nothing at all.

Chapter Six

Lucy

“You were ages,” Daisy complained the second I walked through the door.

“I wasn’t.” I closed the door and locked it. “I didn’t leave right away because that man came back. I had to make sure he was gone before I left you alone.” I took off my coat and looked at her. “Are you hungry?”

She made a face. “I still feel a bit rough from that cheesecake. But what are you having?”

“Toast.” I walked into the kitchen. “There’s still plenty of buffet food left, but I thought we should save it for our main meal, if that’s okay.”

She nodded and trailed in after me, quieter than usual.

We each had a couple of slices of toast. When we finished, I checked the meter to see if it was topped up. It was. Eleven pounds and twelve pence left.

That should last us a few days if we’re careful. We wouldn’t use the heating or cooker unless we had to, and we wouldn't turn on lights if the TV was enough. Mum taught me how to live this way, but not for any good reason. It wasn’t about being sensible or making ends meet. It was just to make sure there was always enough money left for alcohol.

One of the best tricks we’d learnt was simply to go to bed early.

If we were at home in the evening, which I always was, Daisy and I would snuggle under the duvet with a library book instead of sitting downstairs using electricity we could not afford. The bedside lamp had a low-watt bulb that barely showed on the meter. I was probably the only fifteen-year-old who spent most nights in bed reading while everyone else was out. But I didn’t hang out with anyone from school. I couldn’t. The shame was too much. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone seeing our house or how Mum was always drunk. It was easier to stay on my own.

The sound of fireworks at midnight made me jump. For a moment, I forgot what night it was. New Year’s Eve had passed by almost unnoticed, like it belonged to everyone else but us.

Daisy had fallen asleep ages earlier, curled beside me, one arm flung across the duvet, snoring softly through parted lips.

I turned my head and looked at her in the dim lamplight. “Happy New Year, sis,” I whispered.

She didn’t stir.

My thoughts went back to Mum, like they always did. I half expected her to come back at some point, even if it was just to change her clothes before heading out again. That would have been typical—come in, ignore us, put on more makeup, grab another coat, and leave before I could ask where she’d been. But she hadn’t come back. The longer she was gone, the less it felt like one of her usual disappearances, and the harder it was to pretend things were normal.

Laughter drifted in from the street outside as one of the neighbours’ parties spilt outdoors. I could hear music too, muffled but cheerful, and the shrieks of drunken people greeting the new year like life had suddenly become something worth celebrating.

It made me smile a little. Not because I wanted to be out there, really. But for a moment, I remembered there was a world outside our four walls. A world where people danced in kitchens, kissed at midnight, and drank because they were happy, not because they were broken. A world where homes felt warm, safe, and normal.

I pulled the duvet higher around me and opened my book again, letting the words blur for a moment before they settled into focus.

The fireworks kept going outside. Inside, the house stayed quiet. With every hour, the silence felt less peaceful and more like a problem.

***

I woke early the next morning.

New year. New start.

The thought came to me before I even opened my eyes, and after that, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there for a moment, staring at the grey light coming through the curtains, and decided I would clean the house from top to bottom.

If anyone told social services that Mum was missing, I wanted the house to look spotless. I didn’t know if they’d show up without warning or if someone would call first, but I wasn’t taking any chances. They could judge us for a lot, but I wasn’t going to give them more reasons by letting them see the house messy.

Daisy was still asleep, curled up in the duvet with one hand under her cheek. For a moment, she looked younger than ten, like a child who should have been in a warm, safe home instead of this cold one.

I slipped quietly out of bed and decided to leave the bedrooms for last. There was no point waking her when she’d already had enough to deal with. I pulled the bedroom door closed and went downstairs.

Once I started cleaning, I didn’t stop.

I scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled. Wiped every counter twice. Washed the sink until the metal shone. Then I polished every surface I could find, buffed the mirrors, and mopped the tiled floor until the whole room smelt sharply of the bottle of cheap bleach I'd found under the sink.

For a little while, cleaning soothed me.

When I opened the cupboard under the stairs to get the vacuum cleaner, it was empty. I stared for a second, confused, then remembered George had borrowed it.

I checked the time and hesitated. It felt too early to knock, but George was usually up early. Then again, it was New Year’s Day. Maybe he’d stayed up late for once, drinking cheap lager in someone’s front room and pretending to have fun like everyone else.

I stood there for a moment, weighing it up, then decided to chance it.

Outside, the January air was damp and miserable. A fine drizzle hung in the air, too light to be real rain but enough to settle on your skin and make everything feel clammy.

I stepped out of the back door and crossed the path to George’s place.

There was a gate in the fence between our gardens, put in long before we moved there, and it was one of the few good things about our house. Mum and George were best friends, or as close as Mum ever got to anyone. They talked almost every day, leaning over mugs of tea or standing in each other’s kitchens, smoking and complaining about life. George hardly drank, not like Mum, but he still seemed to understand her better than most.

He was single too. Mum always said he batted for the other side, which I guessed meant he was gay. I’d never seen him with anyone, man or woman, but George was private in a way Mum never was.

I peered through his kitchen window but couldn’t see any sign of movement inside. There was no light on. So I tapped lightly on one of the small square panes.

“Lucy-Loo! Happy New Year!”

I almost jumped out of my skin. George’s voice boomed from above, and I stumbled back, looking up to see him leaning out of the bedroom window in a vest, his hair flat on one side from sleep. I put my hand on my chest and laughed, more from relief than anything else. “Oh, my God. Happy New Year.”

He grinned down at me. “What are you doing peeking in through my kitchen window like a burglar?”

“I wondered if you’d finished with the vacuum cleaner.”

“Of course, love. Let me get dressed, and I’ll bring it over.” Then he gave me a knowing look. “Is your mum cracking the whip?”

My smile felt tight on my face. “Something like that.”

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Give me five minutes.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

I turned and headed back across the path, the drizzle catching in my hair, my slippers already damp around the edges.

For a moment, I wished life really was that simple. Wake up, clean the house, and chat with the neighbours. But as I stepped back into our cold, quiet house, I realised that every normal moment now felt like acting. I was getting tired of pretending everything was okay.

Chapter Seven

Lucy

When I got back inside, I could hear Daisy moving around upstairs.

I opened the fridge and took out four halves of egg-and-cress sandwiches. The bread felt a bit past its best, soft in that slightly damp way that meant it only had another day in it, but it was still edible. I laid the sandwiches on two chipped side plates, filled a couple of glasses with tap water and set everything out on the drop-leaf kitchen table as neatly as I could.

“Daisy,” I called up the stairs. “Breakfast.”

A second later, the toilet flushed. Then she came trudging downstairs and into the kitchen, still half asleep, her hair a mess around her face.

“Happy New Year.” I lifted my glass towards her.

She gave me a small smile, sat down opposite me and clinked her glass against mine. “Happy New Year.”

“We’ve got enough buffet food left for today,” I said, taking a bite of a sandwich, “but after that we’ll need to sort something out for tomorrow and the rest of the week.”

Daisy looked down at her plate. “Hopefully Mum will be back by then?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m sure she will be.” The lie came too easily now.

A knock sounded at the back door, and Daisy gasped so sharply she knocked her knee against the table. She jumped to her feet, fear spreading across her face in an instant.

“It’s okay,” I said at once. “It’ll just be George. I asked him to bring the vacuum cleaner back.”

“I’m going back to bed. It’s freezing.”

Before I could answer, she darted past me and hurried upstairs.

I crossed to the door and pulled it open. Then it was my turn to freeze. Jamie was standing there with his back to me. He turned slowly at the sound of the door and smiled. “Happy New Year, Lucy.” His voice was easy, as though we were old friends and not two people who shouldn’t have had any reason to know each other at all. “Did your mum make it home yet?”

My heart gave a sharp, ugly thud against my ribs. “She did.” The lie came to me before I could think better of it. “But she went out again.”

Jamie didn’t answer straight away. For a few seconds, he just stood there staring at the ground as if weighing something up. Then he lifted his head and looked past me, his gaze travelling over my shoulder and into the house.

My pulse started to hammer. I could smell the faint trace of aftershave on him. See the dark rain splashes on his boots. Notice the way his baseball cap shadowed his eyes just enough to make him harder to read.

Then he tilted his head slightly and lowered his voice. “Does she often leave you and your little sister home alone?”

“They’re not alone.” George’s voice cut through the moment so suddenly that I could have cried with relief. He came through the gate carrying the vacuum cleaner, and I had never been so glad to see another human being in my life.

Jamie turned to look at him. “And you are?”

George placed the vacuum cleaner just inside the kitchen door, then straightened to face Jamie properly. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone calm but edged now, “but what business is that of yours?”

Jamie looked taken aback for a second. His expression tightened, and he drew in a short breath through his nose before turning back to me.

I refused to look away. I stared right back at him—at the dark hair curling from beneath the cap, the too-blue eyes fixed on me, the face that was handsome in a way that made him more unsettling, not less. I kept my chin up and my expression blank, even though my insides felt as though they were folding in on themselves.

“I was looking for Becky,” he said. “I’m a friend of hers. I was just making sure the girls were being looked after, that’s all.”

George didn’t miss a beat. “I can assure you the girls are fine,” he said. “Becky knows I’m right next door if they need anything, so there’s no need for you to worry.” He paused, then added, “Comprende?”

I held my breath, totally shocked. George wasn’t a big man. Not tall, not broad, not physically intimidating in the slightest. But somehow, standing there in the drizzle with that calm, steady look on his face, he seemed to grow. There was something unshakeable about him suddenly—something solid and commanding that I hadn’t seen in him before.

Jamie saw it too. His mouth tightened into a scowl before he looked back at me one last time. “Oh well. I’ll be off then. Just let your mum know I’m looking for her when she turns up. She knows what it’s about.”

“I will,” I said.

George stepped over the threshold and put an arm around my shoulders. “We will,” he corrected, his eyes still fixed on Jamie.

Neither of us moved until Jamie finally turned and walked away. George watched him all the way down the path and out through the gate. Only when he was gone did he shut the door.

Then, with ridiculous drama, he staggered across the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, his hand placed above his heart like it might give out on him.

The tension broke so suddenly I almost laughed. But one thought was beating against the inside of my skull louder than ever—what the heck had Mum got herself into? “Thanks for that, George. He’s been round loads over the past few days, and he was starting to do my head in.”

George leaned back in the chair and gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “Well, hopefully he’ll back off now. Who is he, anyway?”

I shrugged. "Jamie, something. He never said his surname. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Hmm.” George tilted his head, still looking thoughtful. “Well, I’ll say this for Becky—her taste in men appears to be improving. He’s absolutely delicious.” He lowered his voice theatrically. “Though I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “That’s what I thought.” I paused. "But… I'm not being awful, but what does he see in her? She’s hardly his type, is she?”

George pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, as though seriously weighing up the question. “You’ve got a point there, Lucy-Loo,” he said slowly. “A very good point, indeed.” His gaze flicked back to me, and some of the humour drained from his face. “And I’m guessing from what you said your mum hasn’t been home for a while?”

I shook my head. “No.” The word came out flatter than I intended. “She’s not replying to my messages either.”

George sighed then, and suddenly he looked older. Tired around the eyes. “You look pale,” he said. “Have you and Daisy eaten?”

I nodded. “Yeah. And I topped up the meter, so we’re okay for now.” I hated admitting any kind of need, even to him, but I carried on. “I’ll have to sort more food later for the rest of the week, though. I just hope she shows her face soon.”

George’s expression softened. “Well, I meant what I said. I’m only through the gate if you need me.” He pointed towards the hallway. “Do you have my number?”

I realised then that I didn’t. I'd never needed it before. “No.”

“Go and get your phone, then. I’ll give it to you.” His tone turned practical and brisk. “The last thing you want is the authorities poking around because no one knows where Becky is.”

That made my stomach tighten, because the truth was I didn’t expect Mum back any time soon. I hadn’t wanted to admit that to myself before, but standing there with George in our kitchen, the vacuum cleaner dumped by the door and Jamie’s presence still clinging to the air like a bad smell, I felt it more than ever. Something was wrong. Really wrong. I just couldn’t work out what. I glanced towards the stairs, making sure Daisy was still out of earshot.

“When was the last time you spoke to Mum?” I asked quietly.

George frowned, thinking. “Oh, gosh. A few days ago, I suppose.” He shrugged. “But you know what she’s like. She’s probably off having the time of her life somewhere. She’ll come crashing back down to earth soon enough, and then she’ll be back here begging for forgiveness and wanting everyone to feel sorry for her.”

I looked at him and said nothing. I didn’t know what version of Mum he carried around in his head, but it wasn’t the one I knew. Becky might have complained to him. Might have played the victim. She might have even cried over a cup of tea and pretended she was trying her best. But she had never once begged for my forgiveness or apologised. Not properly, anyway. And I didn’t expect her to start now. Still, I was grateful that George was there. Grateful he cared enough to notice something was wrong. Because if more people came snooping around asking questions, it would help if they believed an adult was keeping an eye on us.

I got my phone, and George put his number in.

"Do you have credit?"

I nodded. "Mum's phone is on a contract, and she was able to get an extra SIM for next to nothing. The only good thing she's ever done for me."

"Then keep it on you at all times, and call me if you need anything at all."

"Thanks, George, I will."

Chapter Eight

Lucy

“What was all that about?” Daisy asked when I went upstairs a little later with the vacuum cleaner.

I set it down by the wall and tried to sound casual. “That Jamie guy came round again, but George put him in his place. Hopefully, he’ll take the hint now.”

Daisy was sitting cross-legged on the bed, pulling at a loose thread on the duvet. “Has George heard from Mum?”

“No.” I shook my head. “But he said we can call on him if we need anything. And that if anyone asks, he’ll say he’s looking after us.”

She frowned. “But who is looking after us?”

I gave a short laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in it. “Me. I always look after you, don’t I? Whether Mum’s here or not.”

“Yeah, but…” She trailed off, and I knew what she meant even if she didn’t say it. You’re not meant to be the one doing it. You’re only a kid, too.

I didn’t let her finish. “But nothing. We’re not back at school for another week, so let’s just enjoy ourselves if we can. No point sitting around worrying. That’s probably not what Mum’s doing.”

“When’s she due back at work?”

“Not until next Monday.” I shrugged. “Knowing her, we probably won’t see her until then.” Even as I said it, something twisted inside me. Because I didn’t believe that either.

Daisy looked down at her hands for a moment, then asked quietly, “Do you ever wish we had a normal family? Like Briana’s?”

The question caught me off guard. I sat on the edge of the bed. “They’ll have their own problems—most families do, I swear. I know our situation isn’t the best, but at least we get to do what we like. I bet Briana doesn’t get to stay up late, watch scary films, and eat ice cream for dinner.”

Daisy gave me a flat look. “Neither do we. I can’t remember the last time we had ice cream.”

That made me smile despite myself. “Well, we will tonight as a New Year’s treat.”

“Really?” Her whole face changed in an instant. Her brown eyes lit up, making her pale face look younger. It always startled me how alike we were when she smiled properly. Neither of us looked anything like Mum with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Dad used to say we took after his sister Maria, who’d died in a car crash before I was born.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got a little bit of money put aside, and we’re allowed to splash out once in a while, aren’t we?”

“Yay!” she said, with a little laugh.

I smiled back, though, privately, I had no idea where I was going to find ice cream on New Year’s Day, of all days. Still, I would try. It would be worth spending the money if it gave Daisy even five minutes of happiness. In the back of my mind, I was already hoping the food bank would be open again tomorrow. If so, we’d probably get through the week without starving.

Once Daisy settled back down, I cleaned our bedroom, then went into Mum’s room to strip her bed.

The smell in there was stale and faintly sour, like old perfume mixed with cigarettes and something chemical I couldn’t quite place. I tried not to breathe too deeply as I grabbed the duvet and yanked it towards me.

Something hit the floor with a clunk.

I froze, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. Then I crouched and pulled the bed away from the wall.

Mum’s mobile phone had slid underneath. I just stared at it. No wonder she hadn’t answered any of my messages. She hadn’t even taken it with her.

My stomach dropped. This was so not like her. Mum was careless about most things, but not her phone. She was always on it—texting, scrolling, taking calls, and arranging things she never explained to us.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, as if that might somehow tell me something. The screen was black. Dead.

I didn’t want Daisy seeing it and panicking even more, so I plugged it into the charger in Mum’s room and left it on the bedside table, trying to act as though I wasn’t suddenly much more frightened than I had been a minute ago. Then I finished making the bed, smoothing the duvet flat with shaky hands.

Later, when Daisy wasn’t around, I’d go through the missed calls and messages and see if I could work out where she could have gone.

“Where the hell are you?” I said out loud. It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times already. But this time, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know the answer.

***

Daisy went to Briana’s again, which gave me the perfect chance to go out in search of ice cream without her suspecting a thing.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to go far. The corner shop was open, and after a few minutes of standing in front of the freezer trying to decide which one looked most worth the money, I chose a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Banoffee Pie. It felt outrageously expensive at almost four pounds, and I winced as I handed over the cash, knowing it left me with thirty-three pounds and some loose change to see us through. But Daisy was worth every penny.

She got back just as it was starting to go dark—her cheeks were pink from the cold. For a while, things felt almost normal. We sat together and gave each other manicures at the kitchen table, laughing when I smudged her thumbnail and when she painted way outside the lines on my little finger. It was exactly what we both needed.

Afterwards, we finished off the buffet food, picking at the leftovers until there was almost nothing left.

Then, when she thought the evening was winding down, I pulled the tub of ice cream from the freezer.

Her whole face lit up.

“No way!”

I grinned. “Way.”

She squealed and shot off to get two spoons before I could say another word.

Watching her like that did something to my heart. It was such a small thing, really. Just ice cream. Just a cheap treat. But in our house, small things could feel enormous.

The kitchen was freezing, though, and the thought of eating ice cream down there made me shiver.

“Come on,” I said, tucking the tub under my arm. “Let’s take it upstairs.”

So we went up to our room and climbed under my duvet together, shoulders pressed close, both of us burrowed into the warmth while our breath turned the air beneath the covers soft and close. Then we sat there in the half-dark, sharing the tub between us, taking turns with the spoons.

The ice cream had thick swirls of caramel and soft pieces of toffee that melted on my tongue. Daisy kept moaning every time she took a bite, closing her eyes as though she were eating in some fancy restaurant instead of sitting in a freezing bedroom with smudged nail varnish on her fingers.

For a little while, I let myself forget everything else—Mum, Jamie, and the puzzle of the phone. I shut it all out, including the fact that the money was ticking down faster than I'd hoped it would.

For that one hour, tucked up under the duvet with Daisy giggling beside me and the tub balanced between us, it almost felt like we were just two ordinary sisters spending the end of the holidays together.

But even then, underneath the laughter, something still bothered me. The more time passed without Mum coming home, the harder it was to pretend this was one of her usual disappearances. And the more I caught myself enjoying the peace without her, the more guilty I felt.

Chapter Nine

Lucy

The next day, I called in at the food bank.

People had clearly been extra generous because of Christmas, and for once the volunteers didn’t look apologetic as they packed things into Mum’s old pull-along shopping trolley. They filled it to the brim with bread, tins, pasta, soup and cereal. There were also a few bits of fruit that were beginning to soften but were still perfectly edible. And tucked in among the usual staples were things that felt almost luxurious to us—a packet of mince pies and a small box of Quality Street.

By the time I left, the trolley was so full it rattled and bumped behind me, and I felt almost light-headed with relief.

It was more than enough to keep me and Daisy going for the rest of the week. Maybe longer, if we were careful.

For the first time in days, I felt things were finally going our way. I grinned as I imagined Daisy’s face when she spotted the mince pies and saw all the other goodies I'd managed to score.

I was so focused on getting home that when I turned onto our street and saw Jamie, my stomach dropped so hard it felt like I’d missed a step.

For one horrible second, I couldn’t tell whether his being there was a coincidence, whether he had been waiting for me, or whether he lived nearby and I’d simply been unlucky enough to bump into him. But something about the way he looked at me made me think it wasn’t by chance at all.

I lowered my head and tried to walk past him. No such luck. He fell into step beside me without asking, matching my pace exactly, as if escorting me home was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is your mum back yet?” His tone was calm, but there was something underneath it now. Something sharper.

“She’s gone away for a few days,” I said. The lie flowed off my tongue.

His smile vanished at once, leaving his face colder than I’d seen it before. “She’s left you and your sister alone again?”

“No,” I snapped. “We’re not alone. George is looking after us. You already know that.”

“Oh, yes. George.” He said it with such obvious contempt that I turned to look at him properly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, and just like that, the smile came back. As if the scowl had never been there in the first place. “Oh, nothing.” He glanced at me sideways. “When is she due back? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure. She’s not back at work until next Monday, so probably not until then.”

I prayed that my lie would put him off. Give us a few days’ breathing space. Stop him from hovering around the house like some self-appointed debt collector.

“If she gets in touch, tell her to return my calls.”

"I already told you I would."

It suddenly occurred to me that I had completely forgotten about checking Mum’s phone. I'd left it on charge in her room.

As I got to the gate, I pushed it open, then closed it firmly between us, leaving him on the pavement while I hauled the trolley up the garden path and round to the back door.

Only when I was inside with the lock turned did I let out the breath I’d been holding.

I unpacked the food straight away, stacking tins in the cupboard, putting bread in the bread bin, and arranging the mince pies and chocolates on the side for Daisy to discover. The amount they’d given us was enough to make me feel almost giddy. It felt like proof that somehow, in spite of everything, we were going to be okay.

As I lined things up in the cupboard, I found myself thinking maybe someone was looking out for us after all. Maybe it was Dad. I liked the idea of him looking down on us and nudging things just enough to help, sending a well-stocked food bank at the right time. and a neighbour like George. Not to mention a few extra days of electricity. It was childish, maybe, but I didn’t care. I needed to believe someone was on our side.

Once everything was put away, I went upstairs and closed Mum’s bedroom door behind me.

Her phone was fully charged now.

I sat on the edge of the bed and unlocked it, my hands suddenly clumsy.

There had been forty-eight missed calls. Forty-eight.

Fifteen of them were from me, four from George, two from an unknown number, and one from Ben. The other twenty-six were from someone saved in her phone as just J. I didn’t need to be told who that was. It had to be Jamie.

My mouth went dry.

I opened her messages next. There were loads. Most of them said the same kind of thing.

Where are you?

Call me back.

Get in touch.

But the messages from J were different.

I could feel the blood draining from my face.

They started off impatient. Then annoyed. Then angry. Properly angry.

And then the wording changed.

He wanted what she owed him, or else.

I stared at those two words for a long time. My fingers had gone numb around the phone. Or else what?

***

There was nothing else on Mum’s phone to tell me where the hell she had gone. But I did find something else. Her bank card was tucked inside the back of her phone case.

I just stared at it for a second, my mind racing.

If she didn’t have her phone or her card, then how was she paying for anything? Mum never went anywhere without some way of getting money. Drink and cigarettes didn’t magically appear. Men might buy her the odd bottle, but not enough to keep her going for days.

Unless she’d already drained her account, that is, which wasn't unheard of. That thought made me feel sick.

I knew roughly when her money went in. She got a small wage from work on a Wednesday, then Universal Credit once a month, plus Child Benefit for Daisy and me. The rent was paid directly to the landlord, thank God, so at least I didn't have to lie awake worrying that we would be thrown out. But everything else—food, electricity, whatever scraps of daily life we managed to cling to—came from whatever was left.

And there was never much left.

Even with her phone unlocked in my hand, I couldn’t get into her banking app because I didn’t know the password. So I had no clue how much she had in there. Ten pounds? Fifty? Nothing? I’d have to take a chance.

As far as Mum knew, we were sitting in a freezing house with barely enough electricity, no food, and no proper money, while she was off wherever she was. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

I took the card, shoved it into my pocket and marched out of the house before I could talk myself out of it.

By the time I reached the shop, I felt sick. I ordered a twenty-pound top-up for the electricity and handed over the card like I did this every day of my life. The shopkeeper barely looked at me, but my stomach still turned over and over while I waited for the payment to go through. For one awful second, I was certain it would be declined, and my nails dug into the palms of my hands. Then the machine beeped. Approved.

Relief shot through me so hard it almost made my knees weak.

And once that first payment had worked, something in me shifted. A sense of boldness. Or maybe desperation. They probably looked the same, to be fair. Before I could stop myself, I kept going. I bought another tub of ice cream for Daisy and me, an extra loaf to stick in the freezer, a four-pint bottle of milk, a carton of eggs, and a few tins of beans. Not luxuries. Not really. This was just enough to make sure that if Mum somehow managed to access her account and drain every last penny, Daisy and I would still have something.

I carried the bags home, feeling strangely triumphant. Mum would go crazy if she found out. She’d scream that I’d stolen from her, that I’d had no right, and that I was an ungrateful little bitch who thought she knew everything. But I’d deal with that when it came. Because this wasn’t her money, not really. Not if she had been willing to leave us cold and hungry while she vanished without a word.

I had been resourceful enough these last few days to get my hands on money and food where I could, but Mum didn’t know that. As far as she was concerned, we had nothing. And what made me properly livid was knowing she hadn’t once stopped to think about that.

By the time I got back to the house, my fingers were numb from the cold, and the carrier bags had cut red grooves into my skin. I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at what I’d bought, and felt something harden inside me. Because every hour Mum stayed gone was proving something I had always known deep down but never wanted to say out loud. If Daisy and I were going to survive, it would be because of me.

Chapter Ten

Lucy

By the time Daisy got home, I had already put all the shopping away and made a pasta bake for tea.

It wasn’t anything fancy. We didn’t have garlic bread to go with it, or salad, or any of the little extras that made a meal feel complete. It was just the pasta bake, hot and bubbling in the dish, with plenty of sliced bread on the side in case we were still hungry afterwards. Even so, I felt ridiculously pleased with myself.

Dad had loved pasta bake with garlic bread.

The thought caught somewhere deep inside me. Back when he was alive, meals had felt different. Like food was a necessity, not something to be stretched and counted and worried over.

Still, when I looked at what I’d managed to put together, I felt something close to pride.

Daisy’s face was a picture when she spotted the chocolates and mince pies on the side. Her eyes widened. “Where did they come from?”

“The food bank,” I said, trying to sound casual, though her reaction thrilled me more than I wanted to admit. “I think people were generous because of Christmas.”

She picked up the box of Quality Street as though it was something valuable and looked at the mince pies next, smiling properly now, the sort of smile I hadn’t seen from her lately. “Can we have some later?”

“Of course.”

She checked the fridge, then the food cupboard, taking in the bread, milk, eggs and tins, and when she turned back to me, there was something almost disbelieving in her expression. “Did she come home?” she asked.

“No. Not yet. But we’re fine, aren’t we?”

Daisy nodded slowly. “More than fine.”

And the thing was, she was right. For the first time in what felt like forever, the cupboards weren’t bare. The fridge wasn’t nearly empty, the meter had credit, and tea was in the oven. There were chocolates on the side, mince pies for afters, and Daisy looked safe and fed and happy for once.

We hadn’t been this fine since before Dad died. The thought hit me hard enough that I had to turn away for a second and pretend I was checking the pasta. It shouldn’t have taken Mum disappearing for the house to feel calmer, for us to eat properly, and for Daisy to smile more. We were able to stop listening for the sounds of shouting, breaking glass, or the front door slamming at some stupid hour with yet another stranger outside or, worse still, inside.

I might only be fifteen, but I was more responsible than Mum had ever been, and that was the truth. Daisy was far safer without her.

Even so, I couldn’t quite shake the thought that something might have happened to Mum. Not because she would never have left us that long. She would. She already had in the past. But she would never have left her phone behind. Or her bank card. Or half a bottle of vodka. That was the part that kept needling at me, even when I tried to ignore it.

Still, I couldn’t afford to let myself dwell on it for too long. Worrying didn’t keep the lights on, fill the cupboards, or stop Daisy from asking questions I couldn’t answer.

I had Mum’s bank card now, and for the moment, that was enough. I still had no idea how much money was in her account. The only way to find out would have been to go all the way into town and check at a cash machine, and I wasn’t keen to do that unless I had to. If she still didn’t come home soon, though, I knew I would have no choice.

***

George popped in the next morning to check on us, as if he just happened to be passing. I knew he was checking that we were fed, warm enough, and coping. I was grateful for it, even if I’d never have admitted that out loud.

I told him I’d found Mum’s phone and her bank card. Part of me expected his face to change and for him to tell me that enough was enough and that we had to call the police. But instead, he seemed almost relieved.

“Well,” he said, letting out a breath as he sank into the chair opposite me, “at least you’ve got a way to feed yourself and our Daisy until she gets back.”

Our Daisy.

The way he said it made something ache quietly inside me. Not in a bad way. Just in that strange way it did when somebody spoke about us as though we mattered.

“Do you think she’s all right?” I asked.

George gave me a long look, then leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure she is. You know what your mum’s like. She's a free spirit.”

I nearly laughed at that. That was one way of putting it.

“Love her or hate her,” he went on, “there’s no changing that about her.”

I looked down at my hands. A free spirit. That wasn’t how I would have described Mum. Selfish, yes. She could be chaotic, careless, and cruel depending on her mood. But not free. There was nothing free about being ruled by drink and bad choices and whatever hole she was constantly trying to crawl out of. Still, I let him carry on.

“I worry for you girls sometimes. I won’t lie about that. But you seem to have everything under control.” He gave me a small smile. “And I’m just next door if you need anything. Anything at all.”

I felt tears prick my eyes because he was right. I did have things under control. Or at least I was doing a decent enough impression of it. I was doing all the things a mother should have been doing. And yet one kind word from George had me blinking too hard and looking away, as though if I met his eyes for too long, he’d see how frightened I really was. “Thanks.” It came out quieter than I intended.

George stayed for a few more minutes and talked about the weather, the neighbours, and some drama with his landlord. He was trying to keep things normal. Trying to keep me calm. I knew that.

But the second he left and the door clicked shut behind him, the silence crept back in.

And with it came the same thought that had been circling for days now.

If Mum was fine, then where the hell was she?

And why had nobody heard from her?

***

That night, just after I’d climbed into bed beside Daisy, someone started banging on the back door.

Not just knocking. Hammering. The sound tore through the house, loud and sudden, and Daisy jerked beside me with a gasp so sharp it was almost a sob.

“Come on, girl. Let me in. It’s bloody freezing out here,” a woman’s voice slurred from outside.

I knew that voice. It was Mum's friend, Irene.

Daisy’s fingers clutched at the duvet. “Lucy…”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” I pushed the covers back and got out of bed, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “I’ll get rid of her.”

My heart was already racing as I hurried downstairs.

When I pulled the door open, Irene was practically swaying on the step. “About bloody time,” she snapped. She had a bottle of cider tucked under one arm, and she was so drunk she could barely stand straight. Her stringy hair was plastered to her head by the damp, and the smell coming off her hit me at once—booze, stale sweat, cigarettes, and something stronger—piss. It turned my stomach.

She lurched forwards, trying to push past me into the kitchen like she owned the place.

I stood my ground. “Mum’s not here.”

Irene blinked at me. “Wha’? Where is she?” She slurred and squinted at my face as though trying to make me come into focus.

“She’s gone away for a bit,” I said. “You need to leave.”

“She’s not here?” Irene repeated the words more slowly this time, as if they were too hard to understand.

“Nope.” I tightened my grip on the edge of the door. “Now you need to go. Daisy’s in bed asleep.”

For a second, she just stood there swaying, one hand on the wall to steady herself, her little piggy eyes fixed on me as though trying to work out if I was lying.

Then, before she could decide to force her way in after all, I shut the door in her face. The bang echoed through the kitchen.

I stood there with my hand still on the handle, listening. For one awful moment, I thought she might start up again, banging and shouting and waking half the street. But after a bit of muttering and a clatter that sounded like her nearly losing her footing, I heard the gate rattle. Then nothing.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and leant against the door for a second, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding myself together.

Another deadbeat looking for Mum. Another one with no idea where she was. I locked the door and then headed back upstairs.

Daisy was sitting up in bed waiting for me, her eyes wide in the darkness. “Who was it?”

“Irene,” I said, climbing back under the duvet. “She was drunk. I told her Mum wasn’t here and shut the door.”

Daisy wrinkled her nose. “I hate her.”

“I know.” I pulled the duvet up over us both. “She’s gone now.”

Daisy lay back down, but I could feel the tension still humming through her body.

Chapter Eleven

The days that followed were the nicest I’d had in a long time. It felt awful admitting that, even to myself. The idea that Mum’s disappearance had brought any kind of relief was terrible. But there was something to be said for opening a cupboard and finding food in there. For checking the meter and seeing credit instead of that constant creeping dread. For knowing Daisy could ask for something to eat, and I wouldn’t have to pretend I wasn’t hungry, too.

The whole house felt different. Not warmer exactly, because it was still freezing most of the time, but steadier. Calmer. There was no shouting, no drunken stomping up the stairs, no slamming doors or sudden mood swings to tiptoe around. Even Daisy seemed lighter somehow. She laughed more. Slept better. The pinched, worried look she had worn for so long was beginning to soften. That alone made me feel both grateful and guilty.

George came in every day. Sometimes, it was only for five minutes, just long enough to check if we were all right and have a quick look around. Other times, he stayed for a cup of tea and a chat, keeping things casual, as if he didn’t want me to notice he was making sure we had enough food left or whether I looked like I was coping.

By the weekend, though, the fear I’d been managing to hold at bay started pressing harder.

“I’m getting worried,” I admitted to George, who was sitting at the table with me, both of us wrapped around mugs of tea that were doing very little to warm our hands. “What am I supposed to do if Mum’s not back in time for work on Monday?”

George looked at me steadily but didn’t interrupt.

“Surely if she doesn’t turn up, people will start reporting her missing. Work, neighbours, or someone from school. And then the authorities will start sniffing around.” Even saying the words made my stomach tighten.

Monday didn’t just mean Mum was back to work. It meant school for Daisy and me, too. We had to go back, but we needed to act as normally as possible. Keep going through the motions as though Mum being gone for over a week was just another ordinary part of life. Because in our world, in a way, it almost was.

George thought for a moment, then said, “If she’s still not back by Monday, we might be better off calling in sick for her. Use her phone so it looks right.”

I stared at him. “Would that work?”

“For a bit,” he said. “It’ll buy us some breathing space at least.”

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Not forever, obviously. Her boss would accept a vague illness for a few days without asking questions. Eventually, they’d want more. A doctor's note, maybe. But a few days mattered. A few days could be the difference between keeping everything held together and watching it all collapse.

“That’s actually a brilliant idea,” I said quietly.

George nodded. “I have been known to have them from time to time. But, seriously, just take one day at a time, Lucy-Loo. There's no point panicking before you have to.”

But of course, I was already panicking. Just quietly. Because every plan we made now seemed to rest on the same awful possibility, the one neither of us wanted to say out loud. That Mum might not come back by Monday. Or Tuesday. Or at all.

I still had thirty pounds in cash left from the off-licence, and there was plenty of food in the house, so for now, I didn’t need to panic about that side of things. If we were careful, Daisy and I would be fine for a while yet. We just needed to get ourselves back to school as usual and hope nobody started asking the sort of questions I couldn’t answer.

Not that Mum ever did anything to help us get there on a normal day. She never woke us up or checked if our uniforms were clean. She never made sure we had breakfast, a snack, or anything else, for that matter. Ever since Dad died, that had all fallen to me. I was the one who set the alarm, dragged us out of bed, found clean clothes, scraped together something to eat and got us out of the door on time. So it wasn’t the practical side that worried me.

Thankfully, we qualified for free school lunches—sometimes it was the only proper meal we would have in a day and the reason we struggled so much during school holidays.

It was the fact that Mum wasn’t there at all. If a teacher rang home, if someone asked where she was, or if the school wanted to speak to a parent, what then? That was the part that kept churning away inside me.

“I can keep hold of her phone if you like,” George suggested.

He said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment I just stared at him.

“If there are any calls while you’re at school,” he went on, “I can answer and steer the ship for a bit.”

The offer was so generous it caught me off guard. “Aren’t you worried about getting into trouble?”

George shook his head. “Your mother has left you in a complete pickle,” he said. “It’s the least I can do, love.” He gave me one of those steady looks of his, the kind that made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to. “Besides, she may still come back before Monday. But we need to plan for the worst-case scenario, don’t we?”

I nodded. Grateful that he was backing me up. But that wasn't my only worry.

Jamie hadn’t been back for a few days, which I took as a small mercy. Maybe George had frightened him off, or he’d got bored. Maybe he’d found Mum and realised there was no point in pestering us. I had no idea. I still didn’t know what she owed him. Money, obviously. But how much? And what exactly had he meant by 'or else'? That part still sat like a stone in my stomach whenever I let myself think about it. But there was nothing I could do except hope he stayed away and left us out of whatever mess that Mum had got herself tangled up in.

I could manage most things, but I had the growing feeling that whatever Jamie wanted from Mum was huge. And if he came back, I wasn’t sure keeping the house tidy and acting normal would protect us for very long.

***

By Sunday night, there was still no sign of Mum.

I told myself I wasn’t surprised, that this was exactly the kind of thing she would do—vanish when it suited her and leave us to fend for ourselves. Then she would reappear when she needed something. But deep down, in that quiet place I tried not to look at too closely, I knew something had happened to her, but what? I had tried to ignore it. When that hadn't worked, I had tried to explain it away. But by then, I couldn’t do either. Something was wrong. The question was, what was I going to do about it?

I wouldn’t be sixteen for another nine weeks. In a perfect world, we could wait until then, but that was too long. Maybe we could wait a little longer, a few more weeks. Would anyone believe we thought she might just come back with some wild story? Would the police believe we thought she was just off drinking? Even if we told them she’d done it before and we were scared to report her missing, would they find that acceptable? Probably not.

But the more I thought about waiting, the more frightened I became. Because what if she really was hurt somewhere? What if she was dead? What if every hour I stayed quiet was making things worse?

My thoughts chased each other round and round until I felt sick with them. If something had happened to her, the police needed to know. That much was obvious. But what would happen when they realised I had kept it quiet for days? Was hiding it a crime in itself? Could I get into trouble for that? Arrested, even?

The image sprang into my mind before I could stop it—me in the back of a police car, Daisy crying, someone leading her away while I shouted after her that it was all right when it very obviously wasn’t. I pressed my eyes shut and tried to breathe. Where would that leave Daisy? That was always the question underneath every other question. Not where would it leave Mum? Or what would people think of me? It was always Daisy. Always.

For one more night, we could still pretend we thought Mum was just away. That was all. Just away. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, decisions would have to be made.

And I knew that whatever choice I made next would shape everything that came after. If I called the police, I had no doubt Daisy would end up in care. Maybe not straight away. Maybe not that day. But eventually, once they saw the house, started asking questions, and realised how long Mum had really been gone, they would separate us. And if I didn’t call. If George and I kept lying and someone figured it out, then what would happen?

He could get in trouble for helping us. I could get in trouble for hiding it. And in the end, Daisy would still be taken. That was the part that terrified me. Either way, I would lose her.

I lay there in the darkness with Daisy asleep beside me, listening to the tiny sounds of her breathing and trying not to fall apart under the weight of it.

This wasn’t about waiting for Mum to come home anymore. It was about choosing which disaster we could survive with the least turmoil and minimal fallout.

Chapter Twelve

George

George stood at the bedroom window and watched Lucy and Daisy leave the house on their way to school. The sight of them laughing together, shoulders almost touching, eased something tight in his chest. Over the past few days, they had seemed lighter, happier. It felt like a small miracle.

He knew they had not been properly cared for since Conrad died, but there had never been an easy answer. If he had called social services, Becky would have cut him out of their lives without a second thought, and then he wouldn't have been able to watch over them at all. So he did what he could. He helped with money when he had it, even though he was hardly well off himself. Most weeks he turned up with bread, milk, potatoes, and whatever he could spare and watched Becky carry the bags inside as if she had paid for everything herself. He never challenged her. Pride didn't matter when the girls needed feeding.

The truth was, Becky had not been a good mother for a long time.

They had once been close, back when Conrad was alive, but his death had hollowed her out. Afterwards, she had fallen apart completely. Drink had taken hold first, then the drugs. Not one kind in particular, just whatever she could get her hands on. George had seen the signs and kept his mouth shut. Every instinct in him had screamed to intervene, but he knew how quickly she could turn vicious. One wrong move, one accusation, and she would shut the door on him for good. He could not risk losing access to the girls. So he had swallowed his anger, held his tongue, and waited.

Lucy and Daisy were what mattered now. Everything else came second. Still, he knew he had to move carefully. Lucy did not trust easily, and he could hardly blame her. A girl of fifteen should not have eyes like that, watchful and guarded, appearing much older than the rest of her face. She had seen too much. Daisy had that same look sometimes, that quiet, haunted awareness that made his heart ache.

But things could change. They would change. He would make sure of it.

Slowly, carefully, he would step into the space Becky had left behind. He would show them he could be relied on. He would prove, bit by bit, that he was safe.

Becky had confessed to him that she had killed Conrad.

Not that it had come as a shock. Everyone knew she was responsible for his death, even if the official story had dressed it up as self-defence. George had heard the whispers and seen the looks people exchanged when Conrad’s name came up. Still, hearing it from Becky’s own mouth had been something else entirely.

She had told him one night after far too much drink, slurring her words, her lipstick smudged, her eyes glassy and mean. She hadn't sounded frightened or remorseful. If anything, she had seemed positively pleased with herself. She said she had left Conrad where he fell and gone straight upstairs to bed. Told George it was the best night’s sleep she had ever had.

The memory of it still turned his stomach.

Conrad had not been an easy man. He had a temper and a sharp tongue, but George had never believed he deserved what Becky had done to him. There had always been something unhinged about her, something cold beneath the chaos, and once George saw it, he could never unsee it.

He checked his watch. Almost half eight.

Lucy had dropped Becky’s phone round earlier and asked if he would message the solicitors. He unlocked it using the code she had given him, then opened the message thread and typed.

Won’t be in today, Steve. I’ve come down with a rotten dose of flu. Will probably be off the rest of the week, too.

He pressed send.

A moment later, the message was shown as read. Then came the reply, a simple thumbs-up emoji.

That was easy enough. George set the phone down and drew in a slow breath. There was no more time to waste. Too much needed to be done before the girls came home.

He changed into his old gardening clothes, the faded jumper and worn trousers he usually pulled on for jobs around the house. Gardening had never come naturally to him, not the way it had to his mother. She could coax life out of anything. George had spent years trying to do the same, until eventually he gave up pretending he had her touch. These days he kept to a few pots near the patio and let the rest of the garden remain a neglected stretch of lawn.

But today was different.

Today, the garden had a purpose.

He headed downstairs, stepped out through the back door, and crossed to the wooden shed at the far end of the path. The air was cold enough to sting his face. Inside the shed, it smelt of damp timber and old soil. He found the pickaxe just inside the door, with a spade propped against the wall beside it. He wrapped his hands around both handles and braced himself. With weather this cold, the ground would be hard as stone.

Carrying the tools, he made his way to the very back of the garden, beneath the macrocarpa trees. The spot he had chosen was hidden from view, tucked behind the rickety old summer house left behind by the previous owners. It leaned slightly to one side now, half-rotten and useless, its cloudy windows filmed with grime.

At least now, it finally served a purpose. George thought.

He started with the spade, driving it into the ground again and again, but he had barely made any progress before the blade struck something solid. A thick root ran beneath the surface, stubborn and twisted, refusing to give way. George stopped for a moment, one hand braced against his hip, chest heaving as he stared down into the shallow hole.

This wasn't going to take hours—it would take days. The thought settled heavily in his mind, but he pushed it aside almost at once. There was no alternative or easier option waiting in the wings. And rushing it would only make things worse. This had to be done properly, carefully, with no mistakes. If he was going to do it, he had to see it through.

By lunchtime, his muscles were screaming at him. His throat felt dry as sandpaper, and his bladder was fit to burst. His back screamed, his shoulders throbbed, and his hands were already beginning to stiffen around the handle of the spade. He trudged back towards the house, moving far slower than he had when he came out, each step heavy with exhaustion.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he felt as though he had been battered from all sides.

He was not a weak man. He had spent years doing physical work for the local council, out in all weathers, repairing potholes and hauling equipment about like it weighed nothing. Hard labour had never frightened him. But this was different. This felt as though it might finish him off before he was even halfway done.

After a short rest and a sandwich eaten standing at the kitchen counter, George went back outside. His muscles had stiffened in the break, making the first few steps across the garden feel worse than before, but he kept going. He had maybe another couple of hours before the girls got home, and there was no way he could risk them seeing him back there.

He worked until just before three, chipping at the hard ground, hacking at roots, stopping only long enough to catch his breath. Progress was slow, and every inch he gained felt hard won. Sweat clung to his skin despite the chill in the air, and mud coated his boots, his hands, and the knees of his trousers. By the end of it, his arms felt weak and heavy, as though they no longer properly belonged to him.

When he finally stopped, the relief was almost enough to make him dizzy.

He carried the tools back to the shed and put them away carefully, making sure everything looked untouched. Then he went inside, locking the back door behind him, and headed straight for the shower. He needed to wash away the sweat, the dirt, and the smell of damp earth before the girls came home. He had told Lucy he would pop in when they got home from school to tell her how he got on with Becky's boss, and he needed to make sure there was nothing about him that might invite questions.

Chapter Thirteen

Half an hour later, George headed through the adjoining gate and tapped on the back door. His hair was still damp from the shower and was flattened against his scalp.

When Lucy opened the door, her face softened at the sight of him. “Oh, hi, George. Come on in.” She stepped aside to let him pass. “How did you get on?”

“Good,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Better than I thought, actually. I sent a text from Becky’s phone saying she’d come down with flu and wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week. They sent back a thumbs up.”

Lucy let out a breath. “That’s a relief. I’ve been stressing about it all day.”

“I told you it would be all right.” He smiled and glanced around. “Now then, are you putting the kettle on, or am I expected to perish from thirst in the middle of your kitchen?”

She laughed, the sound quick and genuine, and turned towards the sink to fill the kettle.

“Where’s Daisy?” he asked.

“At after-school club. She goes with her friend on Mondays, then they walk home together.”

“Oh, nice.” He nodded. “She’s growing up fast, isn’t she?”

“Too fast,” Lucy said, and there was something in her voice that made him glance at her properly.

She sounded older than fifteen—exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with school or homework or the usual teenage worries. It gave him a sharp twist of pity, though he kept it from his face. “How was school?” he asked. “Anyone ask questions?”

She shook her head as she set the kettle down on its stand. “No, nothing. But to be fair, they don’t often have anything to do with Mum. Not my school, at least. I don’t know about Daisy’s.”

They chatted while the tea brewed. Then they sat at the kitchen table with steaming mugs in their hands, and George found himself watching Lucy when she wasn’t looking. She kept glancing towards the window, trying desperately to hold everything together—he could see that much.

When he finally got to his feet, a bolt of pain seized across his lower back so sharply that he folded for a second and let out a groan before he could stop himself.

Lucy was on her feet at once. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, love.” He straightened slowly, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace. “Just old age catching up with me, that’s all.”

She looked unconvinced, but thankfully, she didn't press him. If she had, he wasn't sure what excuse he would have given. Instead, she walked him to the door.

“What are you having for tea?” he asked, pausing on the step.

“Baked potato with cheesy beans.” She smiled then, a little shyly, as if pleased with herself for managing it.

“That sounds lovely,” he said. “You put me to shame. I’m only having a tin of soup.”

Her expression changed at once. “I could make you some as well. I’ve got plenty.”

He gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. “No, don’t be silly. But thank you. That’s kind of you, though.”

Lucy lowered her eyes for a moment, and when she looked back up, there was colour rising in her cheeks.

“You’re a good girl, Lucy,” he said.

Her face turned pinker still, and she smiled in a way that made her look younger, almost carefree.

George smiled back. He was thrilled that she was beginning to trust him. Not that he had ever given her reason not to, but he hadn't pushed himself on her either until now.

***

The next morning, George was back outside almost as soon as the girls had gone to school.

Every part of him hurt. His shoulders felt locked tight, his back was in agony, and his arms were so heavy they seemed to drag at his sides. The effort of lifting the spade again made his muscles protest at once, but he gritted his teeth and carried on. He had come too far now to stop.

Hour by hour, he forced himself through it.

The ground was still rock hard, and each shovelful felt more impossible than the last. Sweat dampened his clothes despite the cold. His breathing was rough and laboured. More than once, he had to stop, hands braced on his thighs, just to steady himself before starting again. But he kept going, driven by the thought of finishing, of finally getting it done.

By just after two o’clock, it was finished.

George stood at the edge of the hole, breathing hard, staring down into it as if he could hardly believe it was finally done. Mud clung to his boots and streaked his trousers. His hands were filthy, his palms blistered, and his whole body felt hollowed out with exhaustion. But the worst of it was over. At least for now.

He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and looked towards the house, then beyond it, as though measuring the hours still left to get through. He couldn't do the next part yet. There was still a chance of being seen—too much that could go wrong in daylight. No, the next stage would have to wait.

He needed to hold his nerve until tonight.

***

He hadn't gone round to see the girls that evening, but he saw them arrive home together, hand in hand, both of them smiling so widely it caught at something deep inside him. The sight warmed him more than it should have. For a moment, standing at his window, he let himself believe they were all right.

Later, he popped a ready meal into the microwave and settled in front of the television with the tray balanced on his knees, letting the familiar noise of the soaps wash over him. He was only half paying attention when his phone rang. The sound made him jump. He glanced down and saw Lucy’s name flashing on the screen.

A sharp knot of panic tightened in his chest as he answered. “Lucy?”

“George.” Her voice was thin and breathless. Frightened. “He’s back. That Jamie guy, he’s back, and he keeps saying he’s coming inside. Please come. Quick.” The line went dead.

George was already moving. He didn't even stop to think. He shoved open the back door and hurried through the gate, ignoring the fierce protest from his back and shoulders. Every muscle in his body screamed, but adrenaline carried him forward.

By the time he reached Becky’s house, Jamie was hammering the heel of his hand against the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Oi!” George shouted, striding towards him.

Jamie spun round, startled by the force in his voice. He was younger and taller too, with that twitchy, restless look George had come to recognise. The kind of man who brought trouble with him and acted as though it had simply followed of its own accord. “Hey, man,” Jamie said, holding up his hands slightly. “I really need to see Becky. She’s got something of mine.”

“Tough,” George snapped. “Becky isn’t back, and I’m not having you turning up here and frightening those girls. You get away from this house now, or I’ll call the police.”

Jamie’s expression hardened. “When’s she coming back? Lucy told me her mum was due at work today, so I left it till now, but I need my stuff.”

George took another step towards him. “I don’t know when she’ll be back. What I do know is that you’re not coming here and throwing your weight around. Not with them in there.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “Next time you want to ask something, you come to me. You leave those girls alone. If you so much as bother them again, I won’t think twice about calling the police. Do you understand?”

Jamie stared at him for a moment, as if weighing up whether to push it further.

George held his ground. He was not a large man, and he knew that. Age had stooped him a little. Pain slowed him down. But there were moments when size meant nothing whatsoever. Moments when conviction mattered more, when fury sharpened into something powerful enough to make another man think twice. This was one of those moments. Because he would do whatever it took to protect those girls. He would stand in front of them. He would fight for them. He would sacrifice his life for them if necessary. God knew somebody had to.

He didn't fully understand why he felt so fiercely protective of the girls. They were not his responsibility, not in any official sense. Nobody would expect him to step in as much as he had. Yet none of that seemed to matter. The feeling sat deep in his bones, stubborn and immovable. All he knew was that he cared. And God help anyone who tried to hurt them.

Jamie backed away a few steps along the path, then stopped and turned back to face him. The aggression had not gone from him, but something else had crept in now, desperation perhaps. “Then will you help me, man?” he asked. “Becky’s got my gear. She was dealing for me, and she owes me six grand. If I can’t get the money, then I want the drugs back.”

There it was. Not quite a confession, but close enough.

George was not surprised. He had worked it out just before Christmas that Becky had been dealing for months, and he had given her a piece of his mind, though it had made little difference. Becky had only laughed in his face, as if the whole thing were a joke. George did not care what grown adults chose to do with their lives. Let them drink themselves stupid, ruin their health, and throw their money away. That was their business. But the moment innocent children were put at risk, he lost all patience.

“I haven’t the faintest idea where your gear is,” he said. “For all I know, Becky’s done a runner with the lot, money and drugs. She hasn’t told anyone where she’s gone, or when she’ll be back. I’m only trying to be a decent neighbour and keep those poor girls safe.”

Jamie dragged a hand over his mouth, agitated. “Can you get inside the house?”

George held his gaze. “Maybe.”

Jamie glanced towards the back door, lowering his voice. “Then let’s have a look while the kids are at school. Tomorrow, maybe. The last thing I want is to upset them, but come on, man, I need that money. Or the gear. Something. Because if I don’t get it sorted, people above me will come looking, and trust me, once that happens, I won’t have any say in it. And whatever influence you think you’ve got, it won’t mean a thing to the sort of people I’m talking about.”

George said nothing for a moment.

He didn't like the sound of it, not one bit. The threat was there. Even dressed up as a warning, he could hear it clearly enough. If Jamie didn't get what he wanted, others would come. Men far worse than him. Men who would not stop at banging on the back door and raising their voices. The image of Lucy and Daisy inside that house while strangers turned up looking for money or drugs made his jaw tighten. He couldn't allow that.

“All right,” he said at last. “Tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. The girls will be at school.”

Jamie nodded once, relief flashing briefly across his face. Then he turned and walked off down the path without another word.

George stayed where he was until the sound of his footsteps faded.

He didn't knock at the door for fear of frightening Daisy again. Instead, he decided to send a quick message to Lucy to tell her he'd gone for now.

By the time he finally went back inside, his mind was already racing ahead. He knew they would not find anything in the house. Whatever Becky had done, she had not been stupid enough to leave six thousand pounds’ worth of drugs lying around in a kitchen cupboard. But that hardly mattered now. What mattered was convincing Jamie of that. Convincing him there was nothing there, nothing to come back for, nothing worth dragging other men to the door over. He needed the matter finished once and for all. Because Lucy and Daisy had enough to fear already.

Chapter Fourteen

George didn't go to bed at his usual time that night.

Instead, he lay on the sofa with the television muttering to itself in the corner, barely taking in a word of it. His mind wouldn't settle. It kept circling the same thoughts, the same fears, the same sick sense that everything was beginning to tighten around him. He watched the clock inch forwards and felt each minute put more of a strain on his already stressed heart.

Just after midnight, he pushed himself up and made his way upstairs.

He stopped outside the spare bedroom and stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the door handle, his breath shallow in his throat. Then he drew in a deep, steadying breath and stepped inside.

The room was cluttered with his mother’s things, boxes, bags, and old furniture—keepsakes he'd brought back after she died because he couldn't bear to leave them behind. He hated coming in here. The sadness hit him every time, immediate and suffocating. His mother had been everything to him, his best friend, his guide, the one person who had always known how to pull him back from himself. No one had ever come close to taking her place.

What the judges had said about him had not been true. He would never have hurt her for financial gain. Why would he? It wasn't as if she were loaded. There was hardly anything left over once the funeral had been paid for.

The thought flashed through his mind, sharp and unwelcome, and he forced it away. He couldn't afford to go there now. He had come into the room for one reason only. Once it was done, he could shut the door on it all again.

In two strides, he reached the old bedding box. He remembered it from childhood, sitting at the foot of his parents’ bed, solid and familiar. Now it looked tired and shabby, the cream paint flaking away in strips to reveal a dull, ugly green beneath. He stared at it for a second, then lifted the lid. His stomach tightened. Not much longer now, he told himself. Soon it would be over.

As he bent to lift what was inside, pain tore through his back and shoulders. He bit down hard against it, gathering the blanket more tightly around the shape inside, trying not to breathe too deeply, trying not to let himself register the foul, sweet stink rising from it. Even through the folds of fabric, it was there, thick and unmistakable. He nearly dropped it twice before he made it downstairs.

By the time he reached the back door, he was shaking with the strain. Outside, the cold night air hit him at once, and he stood for a second on the step, dragging in deep breaths as though he could clear the smell from his lungs. The garden lay silent around him, the darkness broken only by the weak wash of moonlight across the grass.

Slowly and carefully, he crossed to the far end and slipped behind the summer house.

No one overlooked his garden apart from the girls, which was why he had waited until now. He couldn't risk movement at a window and one of them seeing something they should never have to see.

The task that followed felt endless. His body was already spent from the digging, and every movement now came with a fresh wave of pain. He was drenched in sweat despite the cold. His lungs burned, and his hands were slick and clumsy. Still, he forced himself to keep going, not letting himself think or stop for longer than a heartbeat.

By the time he was finished, the best part of an hour had passed.

The hole was filled in again, though the earth sat higher than he would have liked. George stood over it, his chest heaving, and stared down at the raised patch of ground with a grim, exhausted focus. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. No one ever went behind the summer house anyway, so it wasn't an issue—or that's what he told himself as he made his way back towards the house.

Even so, he didn't quite believe it—things had a way of creeping up on you and biting you in the arse.

However, once he was back inside the house, he forced himself into the spare room to remove all trace of what he'd been forced to do. He noticed a screwed-up bag of something at the bottom of the bedding box and almost cried when he realised it was a stash of drugs. Somebody was most definitely looking down on him.

***

Surprisingly, George had slept like a log. He hadn't even been awake in time to watch the girls leave for school the next morning.

By the time he dragged himself properly round, his head thick and his body aching from the night before, it was already dangerously close to eleven. Panic jolted through him at once. For one awful second he stood frozen in his kitchen, disorientated, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he moved.

He hurried next door and slipped inside Becky’s house using the spare key, his heart thudding hard enough to make him feel faint. He ran upstairs and crouched in the bathroom, forcing his stiff fingers to work quickly as he shoved the package behind the loose panel beneath the bath.

A knock sounded at the door.

George went still.

For a moment he remained crouched there, listening, his pulse pounding in his ears. Then he drew in a deep breath, eased himself upright, and made his way downstairs. He forced his steps to slow. Forced his breathing to steady itself. The last thing he could afford now was to look flustered.

When he opened the door, Jamie was standing there with his hands jammed into his pockets, his whole body humming with nervous energy. He looked worse than before, agitated and twitchy, his eyes darting past George into the house.

“Alright?” Jamie asked.

“Yes,” George said. “But I need to be clear about something. You do not make a mess in here. I don’t want the girls coming home and thinking someone’s been tearing through the place. They’ve got enough to worry about.”

Jamie gave a short nod. “Fine.”

George stepped aside to let him in. “Then be quick.”

He followed Jamie through the house, keeping close, watching every movement. Jamie didn't waste time. He seemed to know exactly the sort of places worth checking, pulling drawers out, feeling along the backs of cupboards, and getting down on his haunches to peer into gaps that George himself would never have thought to search. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to finding things that people wanted hidden.

It didn't take long.

Within minutes, Jamie was in the bathroom. He crouched, gripped the bath panel, and tugged it free with ease. A second later, he reached inside and pulled out the package.

“Thank Christ for that,” George said, letting out a breath that sounded almost convincing even to himself. “Is it all there?”

Jamie unwrapped it enough to check, his expression tightening in concentration. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. But close enough.”

George studied him carefully. “So that’s it, then? No more trouble for the girls?”

Jamie straightened, pushing the package inside his jacket. “Not from me.” He gave a small shrug. “But if Becky shows up again, I can’t promise there won’t be any fallout.”

“Fair enough,” George said. “She’s more than capable of dealing with the consequences of her actions.”

Jamie glanced at him once, then headed for the door. A moment later, he was gone, leaving the house as abruptly as he had entered it.

George stood in the hallway listening to his footsteps fade, then to the gate swinging shut, and then to the silence that followed.

He hoped, with a force that surprised even him, that it was the last time he would ever see Jamie. And at least he would be able to tell Lucy with certainty that he had been dealt with once and for all.

Chapter Fifteen

Lucy

Icould hardly believe it. Somehow, George had managed to sort things so Jamie wouldn't be coming back. After the way he'd terrified us last night, pounding on the door and threatening to break it down if we didn't let him in, it felt like a miracle. I had no idea what Jamie wanted, only that George had figured it out and dealt with it somehow. I didn't think it could have been money. George lived so frugally that it was difficult to imagine him having much spare cash. Still, whatever he'd done had worked, and that was all that mattered to me.

On Tuesday evening, shortly after George informed us about Jamie's fate, a knock came at the door. I froze at once. My stomach dropped, and my whole body went tense. Then a face appeared squashed against the kitchen window, and Ben pulled such a stupid expression that Daisy burst out laughing. A second later, I laughed too, the fear slipping from me so suddenly that I felt a bit dizzy.

A few of Mum’s friends had called round on and off since she had disappeared. Most of them were the sort you would expect, drunk, high, or both, hanging about with hollow eyes and twitchy hands. But Ben was different. He had always been kind to us. He didn't seem like the others, not a drunk, not a druggie, just a man who happened to know Mum. I had always liked him, even though he didn't come by very often.

Daisy raced to the door, already excited to see if he'd brought us anything. He sometimes turned up with little treats, sweets, crisps, and things like that, and she adored him for it. “Hey, squirt,” he said as he stepped inside, ruffling her hair. Then he handed her a plastic carrier bag bulging with goodies. She let out a squeal and flung her arms around him. “Thanks so much, Ben.”

She hurried to the dining table and started sifting through the bag, delighted by every packet she laid her hands on.

Ben looked over at me. “Is your mum about?”

I shook my head. “No. She’s been gone a while. I don’t know where she is.” The words came out easier than I expected. It felt safe telling him. Like George, he seemed like somebody who would help us if he could.

His forehead creased. “How are you managing without her?”

“I’ve got her bank card, but I need to go into town tomorrow and check how much money is on it. We’ve had enough food up to now, but it’s starting to get a bit tight.”

“How are you getting into town?”

“I’ll walk. Or maybe get the bus.”

“I can take you now if you want?”

“I need to go tomorrow,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s when she gets paid. Wednesdays are when she usually stocks up on booze.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow, then. What time are you home from school?”

“Four.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll meet you here at four.”

Then he turned back to Daisy, who was still sitting at the table surrounded by snacks. “See you tomorrow, squirt.”

Daisy grinned up at him, her arms wrapped protectively around the carrier bag as if he might decide to take it with him.

***

I had planned to go to the food bank again the next day, but a lift into town was far too good an offer to turn down. I had already dipped into what little money I had left for electricity and the odd bit of shopping, and I'd nearly spent it all. Despite repeatedly telling myself not to get my hopes up, I still prayed that the trip would solve something.

As we rounded the corner after school the following afternoon, I spotted Ben waiting in his car.

He got out as soon as he saw us.

“Ben!” Daisy said, her whole face brightening.

I looked at her, then back at him. “He’s taking me into town. Are you coming?”

She hesitated for a second, then nodded.

“Good.”

Ben opened the back door for Daisy, and I walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.

The town wasn't far, close enough to walk if you had to—it would take twenty minutes, tops. And then there was the bus, which came fairly regularly, but we rarely had bus fare. However, being driven felt like a luxury. We hadn't had a car since Dad died. Mum couldn't drive, and George didn't have one either, which always struck me as odd. I had wondered about it more than once but never actually asked him why.

Ben pulled up outside the supermarket with the cash machine built into the wall.

“Thanks,” I said, unfastening my seatbelt. “I won’t be a minute.”

At the machine, my hands were colder than I realised. I slid Mum’s card in and held my breath, half convinced it might swallow it whole. I had seen that happen in a film once, and the thought had stuck with me. But the card went through as normal. I typed in Mum’s PIN, praying she hadn't changed it.

I knew the number because she sometimes sent me to the corner shop at weekends when she couldn't be bothered to go herself. The last few times I had used the card, it had only been contactless, so I hadn't needed it.

The machine accepted the PIN. When the balance came up on the screen, I actually gasped.

There was £483 in the account. For a second, I just stared. £483.

I had no idea Mum got that much in a week. I didn't even know whether it was just her wages or if her child benefit and Universal Credit had gone in as well. But I didn't care. All I knew was that with that amount of money, we were not about to run out of food any time soon.

Of course, some bills would come out. Her phone bill, for one. There were probably others I didn't know about. Still, it felt like more money than I had seen in one place in ages.

I took out £100 and left the rest where it was. That meant there was still £383 in the account.

Even that made me uneasy. Part of me wanted to drain it, just in case Mum somehow accessed it, but I couldn't bring myself to do that either. Not when I didn't fully know what money was hers, what was for us, and what might still need covering. I told myself I would come back into town the following week and check again. Things would probably look different then anyway, especially with Mum not going to work.

While I was there, I ran into the supermarket and picked up a few essentials. Bread, milk, some butter, a pack of ham, and a few bits we needed. It cost £9.30.

I stood at the till for a second, considering using Mum’s card, but it felt too greedy somehow when I had actual cash in my pocket. So I handed over a ten-pound note instead.

When I got back to the car, Ben glanced at the carrier bag in my hand, then at my face. “Well?” he asked.

I slid into the passenger seat and shut the door. “There’s money in it.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Good amount?”

I nodded, still trying not to sound too excited in case saying it aloud somehow ruined it. “Enough. More than I thought.”

“Thank God for that,” he said, starting the engine.

In the back seat, Daisy leaned forward between us. “Can we get chips?”

I laughed, and for the first time in days, it didn't feel forced. “You always want chips.”

“Because chips are yummy.”

Ben grinned. “Hard to argue with that.”

I turned in my seat to look at her. Her hair was all windswept from the walk out of school, and there was a smear of something on her blazer pocket, probably from lunch. She looked so hopeful that my chest gave a strange little tug.

“Go on then,” I said. “We can get chips."

Daisy gave a cheer, throwing herself back against the seat.

"Do you want some, too, Ben?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Not for me, thanks. I'm watching my waistline." He pulled away from the supermarket and drove towards the little chippy near the precinct. The place always smelt of grease and vinegar before you had even stepped through the door, but that day it smelt like heaven. While they waited in the car, I went in and ordered two small chips and a sausage for Daisy. The man who served us shovelled a scoop of crunchy batter sprinkles in with the chips. I loved it when they did that—it made the chips so much nicer. Then I stood there with the warm paper bags in my hands, feeling suddenly rich. Not properly rich, obviously, but rich enough to buy hot food without counting every coin twice.

Back in the car, Daisy tucked in before we had even turned the corner.

“Slow down,” I told her. “You’ll choke.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“That’s because I’m growing,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Ben laughed under his breath and drove us home.

The closer we got to the house, the more the little spark of relief inside me began to dim. I still had the money in my pocket. We still had food in the cupboards. That should have made everything feel better. Instead, I found myself looking at every person walking past the car, every van parked on the street, every stranger at a gate, half expecting trouble to appear out of nowhere.

Maybe once you had spent long enough waiting for things to go wrong, it became impossible to stop.

When Ben pulled up outside, he turned to me before I opened the door.

“I can take you again next week, if you like?”

“Yes, please. If Mum isn't back by then."

He held my gaze for a moment. “If she comes back, tell her to let me know, alright?”

Something in his voice made me pause. Was he concerned for us? Annoyed with Mum for abandoning us? Maybe both. I was simply relieved we had him and George in our corner. “I will," I assured him.

Daisy had already climbed out with her chips, so I got out too, grabbed the shopping, and shut the door. Ben waited until we were safely inside before pulling away.

The house felt colder than it had when we left it this morning.

I set the shopping on the counter and took the cash from my pocket, smoothing the notes flat before hiding them in the same place I had tucked the bank card. Daisy wandered into the living room with the last of her chips, humming to herself, happy as anything. I stood in the kitchen for a second longer, staring at the cupboard where we kept the cereal, the bread bin, and the half-empty fruit bowl.

We were all right for now. That was what mattered. I could still go to the food bank after school tomorrow, but that felt dishonest of me. Someone else may need that food more than we did right now, so I decided to see if we could make do. We had just over eighty pounds left after paying for the chips. That was so much more than we were used to. Obviously, Mum spent far more on booze and goodness knows what else than I ever imagined, and that hurt. But we were okay for this week at least. Who knew what next week would look like, but I'd face that when it came.

Chapter Sixteen

The next week slipped by so easily that it almost felt unreal.

On Monday, George sent another text from Mum's phone to her boss, saying she was still sick. I didn't see the messages, but George told me he'd had several missed calls from Mum's boss and a text demanding a sick note, or she would have no job to come back to. So that was that. What else could we do?

We went to school each day, did our homework at the table, and spent the evenings playing cards or watching television with full stomachs.

We even started turning on the heating for an hour at night, which felt naughty at first, as if Mum might burst in and scream about the cost. But she never did. So we would snuggle on the sofa, the warmth slowly building around us, the television flickering in the corner, and for that hour or so, we felt almost normal. Like the sort of family I'd always imagined other people had.

Life felt pretty sweet. That thought alone should probably have worried me more than it did.

Every now and then, usually when I was lying in bed and the house had gone quiet, I would get a stab of guilt about Mum. A sharp, uncomfortable thought crossed my mind about where she was, whether something awful had happened, and if I should be doing more to find out. Sometimes it hit me in the middle of the day too, catching me off guard while I was in class or buttering toast for Daisy. But even then, the feeling never lasted very long. Because every time I thought about telling someone, about reporting her missing or bringing the police to our door, I pictured what would happen next—the questions, the social workers, Daisy being taken away, and the little life we had managed to build over the past couple of weeks being ripped straight out from under us.

That fear was stronger than guilt. And underneath, it was something else too, something harder to admit. Without Mum there, the house felt calmer, and I actually preferred it.

Without her, we could breathe. I hated myself for feeling like that—for wishing she just stayed away for good. Of course, I didn't wish anything bad had happened to her, but I hoped she had found a happy life of her own somewhere and not looked back. Unlikely, but not impossible. I needed to convince myself of it, because the alternative would be the undoing of me.

Still, when Daisy laughed over a card game or asked what was for tea in that hopeful voice of hers, I knew exactly why I kept pushing those guilty thoughts away. Whatever the situation, however wrong it might look from the outside, it was working. She was warm. She was fed. She was sleeping through the night. So was I. And for the first time in years, that felt like enough.

By Tuesday, I still had sixteen pounds left and twenty-three pounds on the meter. I was doing really well. I hadn't used Mum’s card again, but I was hoping that when Ben took me into town tomorrow, there would still be money in the account.

“What do you fancy for tea?” I asked Daisy as we walked home from school.

She grinned at me. “What are my options?”

I smiled. She was loving life almost as much as I was. She had not even asked about Mum in days.

“We’ve got fish fingers, sausages, or chicken nuggets.”

She pressed her lips together, pretending to think hard about it. “Do we have any bread?”

I nodded.

“And lettuce?”

I nodded again.

“Can we have fish finger butties?”

“Ooh, yes. That sounds lovely.”

A sudden load of screeching coming from a house across the road made me flinch. My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up and saw Irene, Mum’s drunken friend, hanging out of an upstairs window and yelling at us. It took me a second to work out what she was saying.

“…smiling and acting like you own the bloody street. Your mum’s gone missing, probably dead somewhere, and you don’t even care.”

Daisy burst into tears.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing her arm and hurrying her along.

“What have you done to her, Lucy?” Irene shouted after us. “Don’t ignore me. I know something’s happened to her.”

My whole body went cold. For a second, I froze. Irene’s voice carried across the street, sharp and slurred, cutting through the quiet like broken glass. Curtains twitched in nearby windows. A front door opened somewhere further down. I felt it all at once—the eyes, the attention, and the disaster this could cause for us.

Beside me, Daisy was still sobbing.

“Come on,” I said quickly, steering her towards the house.

Behind us, Irene kept shouting.

“What have you done to her, Lucy? Don’t you ignore me. I know something’s happened to her.”

I fumbled for the key, nearly dropping it before I managed to shove it into the lock. Daisy was crying properly now, her face crumpled, her shoulders shaking, and that only made Irene louder.

“You hear me? Something’s happened to Becky. I know it.”

I dragged Daisy inside and slammed the door behind us, then twisted the lock and stood there for a second with my hand still on it, breathing too fast.

Daisy threw herself at me. “What did she mean?” she cried. “Why did she say Mum’s dead?”

“She’s drunk,” I said at once, wrapping my arms around her even though my entire body was shaking. “You know what Irene’s like. She talks rubbish when she’s been drinking, just like Mum does.”

But even as I said it, I could hear the weakness in my voice.

Daisy pulled back enough to look at me. Her cheeks were wet, her mouth trembling. “But what if she’s right?”

“She isn’t.” The answer came too quickly.

Daisy stared at me, and I forced myself to soften my face. I tucked her hair behind her ear the way Mum never had the patience to do. “She’s trying to upset us,” I said more gently. “That’s all. And she’s done it, so we’re not giving her anything else. All right?”

Daisy sniffed hard and nodded, though she didn't look convinced.

I led her into the kitchen and sat her down at the table. Irene’s voice was still drifting faintly through the window, not words now, just angry noise, but it was enough to make my stomach churn. I poured Daisy a glass of squash, then one for myself, though my mouth felt too dry to swallow.

She held the glass in both hands. “I really don’t like her.”

“I know.”

“Can George tell her off?”

That made me smile. “Maybe,” I said.

Daisy took a shaky breath. “I still want fish finger butties."

The relief that flooded me was ridiculous. I clung to it anyway. “Then fish finger butties it is. But it's a little too early yet. Fancy a snack while you wait?"

She wiped her face on her sleeve and nodded, all huge watery eyes and snot.

I opened the cupboard door, trying to act normal, trying to move like my legs didn't feel like jelly. Daisy sat at the table sniffling quietly, and every so often, I glanced at the window, half expecting Irene’s face to appear there next. She didn't come over. But her words stayed with me.

"Your mum has gone missing, probably dead somewhere, and you don’t even care."

That was not just drunken nastiness. It was baseless and mean. But if Irene was thinking it, how long before somebody else did too?

And suddenly, the walls of the house didn't feel safe.

With a sickening lurch, I realised that things had changed. Until now, Mum had simply disappeared. People had seemed to accept it, or at least shrugged and carried on, knowing how unreliable she was. But now they were starting to talk.

And once people started talking, it was only a matter of time before somebody did more than that.

I needed to talk to George. He'd not been around as much this week. I still saw him most days, usually when we got home from school, and he came to his front door, or sometimes he would pop over for a quick chat, but only for a few minutes. Even so, I knew he was there if I needed him.

And right then, I really needed him.

I waited until Daisy was settled in front of the television with a packet of crisps, and then I slipped out the back door and crossed the small gap between our houses. My heart was thudding far too hard for something so simple. It was ridiculous, really. Irene was just a drunk woman hanging out of a window, shouting her mouth off. But the things she had said had got under my skin in a way I couldn't shake.

I knocked, then stood there twisting my fingers together.

George answered after a few seconds. “Lucy.” His face changed at once. “What’s wrong?”

That was all it took. The concern in his voice, the way he looked straight at me and knew something was off, made the tightness in my chest pull even tighter. “It's Irene,” I said. “She was shouting at us from her window when we got home.”

His expression darkened. “What did she say?”

I swallowed. “She said she knows Mum has gone missing. That she was probably dead somewhere. She kept yelling that I didn't care.” My voice wobbled slightly, and I hated that. “Daisy got really upset.”

For a moment, George said nothing. He just stood there, his mouth set in a hard line, and something in his eyes turned cold. “The nasty old cow,” he muttered.

“She was drunk,” I said quickly, though I wasn't sure why I was defending her.

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.” He stepped back from the door. “Come in for a minute.”

I followed him inside. His house always felt different from ours. Cleaner. Calmer. It smelt faintly of washing powder and tea, and there was something about that which always made me feel strange. Safe, I suppose. Or maybe just sad, because I knew our house had never felt like that for long. It suddenly struck me that I hadn't seen him with a cigarette for ages.

"Have you given up smoking, George?" I asked as I followed hm along the hall.

"Yeah, I quit at New Year. I've had a few wobbles, though, but I'm determined to stick to it this time."

"Aw, well done."

George led me into the kitchen and gestured for me to sit down, but I stayed standing.

"Now, what are we going to do about bloody Irene?"

“What if she says something to someone?” I asked. “What if she already has?”

He considered that, his eyes fixed on my face. “People like that are always saying something. Most of the time, nobody pays much attention.”

“But what if they do?”

He was quiet for a second. “Has anyone else said anything to you?”

I shook my head.

“Then for now, that’s all it is. Drunken nonsense.” He paused, then added, more firmly, “And if she starts again, I’ll deal with her.”

I looked at him. “How?”

His face softened slightly. “By having a word. Telling her to keep her mouth shut and to mind her own business.”

I let out a breath, but it didn't help much. “She made it sound like...” I stopped.

“Like what?”

I stared down at the table. “Like I did something to her.”

George was silent long enough that I looked back up. "That's ridiculous. Nobody will believe that."

"Maybe not, but it will get people talking and asking questions."

“They probably will,” he said at last. “But Becky disappearing for a few days is not exactly out of character, is it? People will gossip, because they always do, but gossip is not the same as action.”

That made sense. It did. But still, there was a horrible fluttering feeling in my stomach that wouldn't settle. “I just don’t want Daisy upset,” I said quietly. “Things have been all right this week. Properly all right.”

George’s face changed then, just a little. He looked almost sorry for me. “I know, love,” he said. “You’ve done well. I'm so proud of you."

Praise from him always made me feel taller, somehow. Like maybe I really was doing okay.

He pulled a chair out and sat down. “Listen to me. You keep doing what you’ve been doing. Keep things normal. Keep Daisy away from people like Irene. And leave the worrying to me.”

I frowned. “You can’t just worry for everyone.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Watch me.”

That made me laugh, even though I didn't really feel like laughing. For the first time since Irene had started shouting, the panic inside me eased a little. “I should get back,” I said. “Daisy’s on her own.”

“She’ll be fine for five minutes.”

“I know. Still.”

George nodded and got to his feet to walk me to the door.

As I stepped outside, he said, “Lucy.”

I turned back.

“If anyone says anything else, anything at all, you tell me straight away.”

I nodded. “I will.” And I meant it. Because as I crossed back into our garden, I realised something I hadn't quite admitted to myself before. It was not just that George was helpful or kind. It was that I trusted him. Maybe more than I trusted anyone.

Chapter Seventeen

George

George was furious. How dare that spiteful old cow go after Lucy like that? After everything the girl had been dealing with, she had been doing so well. He had been genuinely proud of her. She had held herself together, made sure Daisy was fed and warm, and kept their whole fragile little world from falling apart. Then he had seen her earlier, upset and shaken, and something savage had stirred deep in his gut.

Irene had picked on the wrong girl. He would deal with the nasty old harridan once and for all.

He waited until darkness had properly fallen, until the curtains in the flats across the road glowed yellow against the night, and he could be fairly sure Irene would be well into her drink by then. Lucy had mentioned she had already been drunk when she saw her.

She lived alone in one of the upstairs two-storey council flats on the other side of the street. George only knew which one because Becky had once dragged him over there to fix a leaking tap. He had regretted agreeing the second he stepped inside. The carpet had been so filthy that the soles of his shoes stuck to it with every step, and the whole place had stunk of stale smoke, booze, and something extra rotten underneath. Still, it hadn't been any concern of his—live and let live had always been his motto. And he still believed that, to some extent. But there were limits. And Irene had just found his.

George crossed the road with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets and his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. The night air was cold enough to bite, but he barely felt it. All he could think about was Lucy’s face at his front door, pale and shaken, trying so hard to keep herself together. She should never have had to hear those words. Daisy certainly shouldn't.

By the time he reached the entrance to the flats, his anger had settled into something quieter and more dangerous.

He climbed the stairs slowly, listening as he went. A television blared behind one door. Somewhere else, a baby was crying. From Irene’s flat came the muffled sound of a radio and a woman’s voice singing badly along to it. George stopped outside her door and knocked hard.

There was a pause, then a scrape and a thud from inside. “What?” Irene shouted. “Who is it?”

“George.”

That brought another pause. Then came the rattle of chains and locks, followed by the door opening a crack. Irene peered out at him, one bleary eye narrowed, her hair standing up in wiry grey clumps. The smell of booze wafted from the flat in a thick wave. “What do you want?”

George looked at her for a long moment before answering. Up close, she looked even worse than usual. Her face was blotchy, her lipstick smudged into the lines around her mouth, and there was something mean and eager in her expression that turned his stomach. “I’ve come to tell you to leave Becky's girls alone.”

She barked out a laugh. “Have I touched a nerve?”

“You shouted across the street at Lucy and made Daisy cry.”

“Oh, boo hoo.” Irene took a swig from the can in her hand. “Someone’s got to say it. That woman’s gone missing, and those girls are skipping about like they’ve won the lottery.”

George felt his temper flare. “You know nothing about what those girls have been through.”

“I know Becky’s vanished. I know nobody’s heard from her. And I know there’s something funny going on in that house.”

George took one step closer. Not enough to touch her, just enough to make her shrink back slightly.

“What’s funny,” he said, his voice low and steady, “is a grown woman hanging out of a window screaming at children because she’s too drunk to mind her own business.”

Irene’s eyes flashed. “Children? Lucy’s not exactly innocent, is she? She’s got that look about her. Shifty. Like she knows more than she’s saying.”

Something cold slid through George then. He'd come over here to warn her off. That was all. But the way she said it, with such certainty and such ugly delight, made him realise her words were worse than idle gossip. Irene was not just mouthing off. She was creating her own unique narrative. And he couldn't have that. “She is a child,” George said. “A child who has had to cope with more than you could imagine. So you are going to keep her name out of that ugly, vicious mouth of yours. You are going to leave Daisy alone. And you are not going to shout another word across that street again. Have I made myself clear?”

For the first time, Irene looked uncertain. She took another swallow from her can, but her hand was less steady now. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“No,” George said. “But I can tell other people what I’ve seen.”

That made her blink rapidly.

He went on before she could speak. “I can tell the housing people about the state of this flat. I can tell the police how often you’re drunk and causing trouble. I can tell them about the screaming, the threats, and the state you get yourself into. I can make sure they take an interest in you. I'll make sure I mention the drugs and the dodgy people you have visiting you all hours of the day and night."

It was mostly bluff, and perhaps she knew that. He didn't doubt she took drugs, and he had seen people visiting, but not on the scale he'd mentioned, but just because he hadn't seen it didn't mean it wasn't happening. George had lived long enough to understand that sometimes the threat of trouble worked just as well as trouble itself.

Irene's mouth twisted. “You sanctimonious old git,” she muttered.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m also the man standing on your doorstep. Remember that next time you think about frightening those girls.”

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Irene made a disgusted sound and tried to swing the door shut.

George put his hand against it, not hard, just enough to stop it closing for a moment longer. “One more thing,” he said.

She glared at him. “What?”

“If Becky does come back, and you want to scream at someone, scream at her. Not Lucy. Not Daisy.”

Then he stepped back and let the door close. It slammed hard enough to shake the frame.

George stood there for a moment, listening to the chain being yanked back into place. Inside, he could hear Irene muttering to herself, her voice already starting to rise again, though the words were lost beneath the blare of the radio.

He turned and walked back down the stairs.

By the time he stepped out into the cold again, his heart was thudding harder than he liked. Part fury, part adrenaline, and part something else he would rather not examine too closely. He had meant what he said. Irene had better leave the girls alone from now on, or she would be fucking sorry.

As he crossed back over the road, he glanced next door. The curtains were closed. The lights inside were on. From the outside, it looked almost ordinary. But George knew better. Nothing about any of this was ordinary. But if he could just get them through the next few weeks until Lucy was old enough to care for her sister, then he would be more than satisfied.

Chapter Eighteen

Lucy

The next day, after school, I made sure we took the long way home. I didn’t want to risk running into Irene again. Daisy had been quiet ever since the rotten old witch's little performance the day before, and I could tell it had shaken her more than she was letting on.

By the time we finally got home, Ben was waiting for us, leaning casually against his car.

“Hey, girls,” he said with a grin. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about little old me.”

I smiled before I could help it and felt heat creep into my cheeks. If Mum had been there, she would have laughed and accused me of having a crush. A few weeks earlier, that would have made me want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Ben was lovely. He had the warmest eyes I had ever seen, the kind that made you feel safe just by looking at you.

“We’d never forget about you, would we, Daisy?” I said.

“Never!” Daisy growled in a ridiculous deep voice.

All three of us laughed.

Ben opened the back door of the car for Daisy, and she clambered in.

“I’ve decided we’re having chips today,” he said once I’d got in too. “My treat.”

“Yay!” Daisy squealed from the back.

I rolled my eyes at Ben, smiling in spite of myself, and he grinned too.

Then, once we were all buckled in and he’d pulled away, his expression softened.

“I’m guessing your mum still hasn’t shown up?”

I shook my head. “No. We haven’t heard a thing.”

“Strange.” He glanced at me briefly, then back at the road. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

I looked at Daisy in the back seat, hoping he’d understand without me having to say it out loud.

He did. He gave one exaggerated nod and kept his eyes on the road after that.

We drove to the bank in silence.

The whole way there, my stomach felt tight and wrong. I was terrified Mum had somehow managed to clear out the account and that all the little bits of control I’d managed to scrape together over the last few days were about to disappear in one awful moment.

When Ben pulled up outside, I just sat there for a second with my hand on the door handle. Then I told myself there was no point dragging it out. I had to know.

So I got out, shut the car door behind me and marched to the cash machine like I was much braver than I felt and wasn’t about to throw up at all.

Whatever the answer was, I would know in the next few minutes.

The seconds after I entered the PIN and selected the account felt endless.

I stood there staring at the screen, hardly daring to blink, with my heartbeat thudding so loudly inside my head it seemed to drown out everything else. For one awful moment, I was convinced the machine would flash up some humiliating message telling me there was nothing left. That Mum had drained the account. That I had been fooling myself into thinking we were managing.

Then the balance appeared. I just stared at it, seeing but not believing that there was more money in there. Not less. An extra hundred and ninety-four pounds had gone in. £577:78 was the balance on the screen.

For a second, my mind simply refused to make sense of it. I read the number again, certain I must have got it wrong. But it stayed the same, fixed there on the screen while my thoughts spun wildly. How could that be right? Had Mum's wages gone in? Some benefit payment? Had there been some kind of mistake? I didn’t know. All I knew was that the money was there. And that changed everything.

My hand was trembling slightly as I pressed the buttons to withdraw a hundred pounds. I was tempted to take more. My thoughts were all over the place by then. Part of me worried the bank would realise there had been some error and snatch the extra money back again before I had the chance to use it. Part of me wanted to empty the account there and then, keeping every penny safe from Mum in case she came storming back and blew the lot in one afternoon. But I didn’t. I made myself stick to the hundred.

When the notes slid out, I snatched them up and folded them quickly into my pocket, my fingers clumsy with relief.

A hundred pounds. With that in my hand, it felt like I could breathe again. Daisy would be okay for another week at least—another week without the constant clawing panic in my chest every time I opened the cupboard or checked the meter. Enough that I wouldn’t have to drag Mum’s trolley back to the food bank just yet and stand there praying nobody asked where she was.

Before I turned away, I pushed the card back into the machine.

An idea had struck me so suddenly I almost missed it the first time round. My fingers moved quickly over the buttons as I entered the PIN again and searched the options on the screen.

Then I saw it. Mini statement.

I actually gasped. I pressed it at once, and a few seconds later a narrow strip of paper slid out of the machine. I snatched it up, pulled out the card and stepped aside, my eyes darting over the printout while my pulse raced all over again.

This time, the numbers started to make sense.

Last week’s money had been wages.

But the one hundred and ninety-four pounds and seventy-eight pence that had gone in that week was Child Benefit. For Daisy and me. Money we were actually entitled to. The realisation hit me hard. Not because I hadn’t known the money existed, but because seeing it there in black and white made it feel different. Real. Ours, in a way Mum had never let it be. She'd always complained she didn't get nearly enough money. I also remembered overhearing Mum tell Irene once that she got a Universal Credit top-up at some point during the month. At the time, I hadn’t paid much attention. Now every little scrap of information mattered. I kept scanning the statement.

Before I’d taken the first hundred pounds the week before, there had been a payment of thirty-eight pounds to EE. That had to be the phone bill. I stared at the paper, my mind already racing ahead. With this, I could work out a budget. A proper one. I could figure out what had to be covered to keep us afloat. Food. Electric. The phone. The absolute basics. I didn’t need luxuries. I didn’t need much at all. I just needed enough to keep us going and stop anyone noticing too quickly that our mother had vanished.

And suddenly, I felt something I hadn’t felt since Mum disappeared. Not relief exactly. Power. Because if nobody touched the account and if no more money went out than I could account for, then even if nothing else went in, Daisy and I could survive for another five weeks. Five weeks, including this one.

Five whole weeks of food, electricity, and peace of mind. The thought should have terrified me. The thought of Mum being absent for so long should have been intolerable.

Instead, what I felt most was the shocking, guilty rush of knowing I could do this—really do it. I could keep us going without her.

Chapter Nineteen

Ben bought three portions of fish and chips, and we took the massive parcel back to the house to share between us.

Setting the table for three felt strange but also nice in a way that made something ache inside me.

I made Ben a mug of tea because he said fish and chips didn't taste right without one. I took his word for it and poured squash for Daisy and me instead.

Then we sat down together and ate every last bit. It was delicious.

Afterwards, Daisy went upstairs to get out of her uniform and do her homework. Ben stayed behind and helped me clear away the mugs and the scrunched-up paper from the food.

“The best thing about a chippy tea,” he said, “is that there’s no washing up.”

I laughed.

Then his expression shifted. “Right then, tell me where you think your mum might be." The sudden change in conversation made me shiver.

“I’ve no idea,” I admitted. “We woke up in the middle of the night because we heard shouting, and then a man left. When we got up the next morning, she was gone. Just gone. We haven’t heard from her since.”

Ben frowned. “You didn’t tell the police?”

I shook my head. “No. She’s done this loads of times before. She disappears and then just strolls back whenever she feels like it as though she'd just popped to the shops."

“So you thought she’d gone off on her own again,” he said. “And that she’d come back.”

I gave a small shrug. “I did. At first. Now I’m not so sure.”

“What’s changed?”

“Well, I found her phone, for one thing. Then her bank card. It’s not like her to be without either of those.”

He rubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. “No. That does sound odd.”

“And I can’t exactly go to the police,” I said. “Not without risking them taking Daisy away.”

Ben’s face tightened slightly. “You really are stuck, aren’t you?”

I let out a breath. “Pretty much.”

“And you’re managing all right?”

I nodded. “For now. We’ve got food and electricity, and honestly, those are the only things I really care about. As long as we’re fed and warm, I can deal with everything else.”

He looked at me for a moment in a way that made me feel both seen and sad.

“Well, if anything changes, you call me,” he said. “I mean that. If you get short of money or need help, I can sort something. Because your mum’s wages won’t keep coming in if she’s not turning up to work.”

I shook my head. “They’re already kicking off about it. So I doubt we’ll get another penny from them.”

“You should get something,” he said. “Your mum will have holiday pay built up. They’ll have to include that in her final wages.”

I nodded as though I understood properly, but the truth was most of it went over my head. Still, it sounded as though there might be a bit more money coming from her work if we were lucky, and right then, that felt like something worth holding onto.

***

George popped in not long after Ben and I had sat back down. He had Mum’s phone in his hand, and one look at his face told me the news before he even spoke.

“As expected,” he said, holding the phone out slightly, “her boss has messaged to say she’s lost the job.”

Even though I had been half expecting it, my stomach still dropped. That was it then. No more wages coming in. No more pretending Mum might somehow smooth things over before anybody noticed she was gone.

I took the phone from him and glanced at the message, though I barely needed to read it. The words swam a little in front of me.

When I looked back up, I noticed George’s expression had changed. Only slightly, but enough. His mouth had tightened, and there was a stiffness to him that had not been there when he first came in.

Then I realised why. He had not expected to find Ben sitting at the table.

Ben, to his credit, didn't seem bothered. He just gave George a polite nod and stayed where he was, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. “All right, mate?”

George gave a short nod back. “Ben.” Something about the way he said his name made the room feel smaller.

Neither of them was being openly rude, but there seemed to be a strange edge between them all the same. I could feel it at once, though I couldn't explain why. Ben stayed calm, almost casual, while George seemed tense in a way I had not seen before. Not frightened, but not exactly angry either. Just wary.

I hated the feeling it caused. The last thing I needed was some sort of weird atmosphere between the only two adults who cared about us.

“Well,” Ben said after a moment, pushing back his chair, “I should probably get off anyway.”

He stood, gave Daisy a quick smile as she came back into the room with her homework in her hands, then looked at me. “Remember what I said. If you need anything, ring me.”

“I will,” I said. He'd given me his phone number just before George arrived.

I saw him to the door.

When I returned, George turned to me. “Can I have a word?” The look on his face made my heart race. I followed him into the hallway, out of Daisy’s earshot.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

George lowered his voice, too. “You need to be careful with him.”

I frowned. “Ben?”

He nodded. “Don’t trust him.”

The words landed with a jolt. “What? Why?”

George glanced towards the kitchen, then back at me. “Because men like that don’t do things for nothing.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean, men like that?”

He let out a breath through his nose, as if trying to keep his temper in check. “I mean, your mum surrounded herself with dodgy people, Lucy. You know that as well as I do. Just because this one turns up with fish and chips and speaks nicely doesn’t make him safe.”

I felt myself bristle. “Ben’s been kind to us.”

“I’m sure he has.”

The way he said it made me defensive at once. “He has,” I repeated. “He’s helped. He took me into town. He’s brought food. He’s not like the others.”

George’s face softened a little, but only a little. “Maybe he is; maybe he isn’t. But I’m just warning you, don't put all your trust in him. That's all.”

I folded my arms. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then he rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just want you to be sensible.”

“I am being sensible.”

His expression said he was not completely convinced. “I know you think I’m overreacting,” he said, “but I’ve lived long enough to know that people aren’t always what they seem.”

That shut me up, because part of me knew he was right. Even so, I didn't like hearing it about Ben. Not when he had been nothing but decent to us.

George gave my shoulder a small squeeze, then dropped his hand. “Just be careful,” he said again. Then he stepped back, his face settling into something gentler before he headed for the door.

I watched him go, my thoughts churning.

When I went back into the kitchen, Daisy was bent over her homework, and Ben was already gone, but the strange feeling George had left behind lingered.

And no matter how much I tried to brush it off, I couldn't help wondering why he had looked so angry the moment he saw Ben sitting there.

Chapter Twenty

George

George had been horrified to see Ben sitting at Lucy’s kitchen table. For a second, it had knocked the breath clean out of him.

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to feel that sharp, strange jolt of panic either. But there it was all the same, cold and immediate. Ice ran through his veins as he stood there pretending everything was perfectly normal.

Later, once Ben had gone, George had tried to warn Lucy. Gently at first. Then he spoke a little more firmly when she didn’t seem to take him seriously.

He told her she needed to be careful. That trusting people too quickly could be dangerous. That not everyone who smiled at you had good intentions. But even as the words left his mouth, he could tell they were making no difference. Lucy had that set look about her, chin slightly raised, eyes shuttered. The same look she wore whenever she thought she was being judged or told what to do.

He hadn’t wanted to upset her. He certainly hadn’t wanted to offend her. But by the end of the conversation, he feared he had done both. So he’d said his goodbyes and left.

By the time he reached his own back door, the exchange was still playing over in his mind. Lucy’s guarded face. The awkward silence after he’d pushed too far. He felt frightened for her, but somehow he had managed to sound suspicious instead.

Then, suddenly, he became aware that someone was behind him.

The feeling was so immediate that he turned at once, certain for one absurd moment that it might be Lucy coming after him.

He barely had time to register movement when something hard slammed into his face. Pain exploded through him, white and savage, and the force of it snapped his head sideways. He remembered the sickening crack more than anything else. Then the ground rushed up to meet him.

After that, everything went black.

***

When he came to later, he knew straight away that hours had passed.

The light had changed. The air had sharpened. The weather, already miserable earlier, had turned even worse, and he felt as though the cold had worked its way right through him to the bone. He hadn’t bothered with a coat when he’d popped next door, which now felt like a ridiculous mistake.

For a long moment, he lay where he was, too dazed to move properly, trying to understand what had happened. Then the pain started to separate itself into different parts of his body. He ached everywhere. He sucked in a breath and instantly regretted it.

The movement sent agony tearing through his side, and that was when he realised the attacker hadn’t stopped after the first blow. There was no way one hit had left him feeling like this. Someone had kicked him. More than once, probably. They had beaten him repeatedly while he was already down.

He swallowed against the wave of nausea rising in his throat and forced himself onto the step, every movement clumsy and slow. His hands barely seemed to belong to him. He reached up, fumbled for the handle and somehow managed to get the door open.

Inside, the dark warmth of the kitchen felt unreal. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself in, then grabbed hold of a dining chair and used it to haul himself upright. The effort made his vision swim.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, shaking, one hand gripping the chair so hard his knuckles ached. Then he lurched towards the sink. There was a small mirror propped on the windowsill, and when he finally forced himself to look in it, his stomach turned.

Half his face was a mess. Swollen, bruised, and split. The skin around one eye was already darkening, and there was dried blood crusted near his mouth. He lifted unsteady fingers to his ribs and hissed at the tenderness there. No, not tenderness. Pain. Deep, brutal pain. Someone had done a real number on him.

And as he stood there staring at the stranger in the mirror, one thought pushed through the throbbing fog in his head with terrible clarity. This hadn’t been random. Someone had wanted to scare him off.

***

He had no idea what he was going to do with himself.

Every time he shifted even slightly, pain tore through him so savagely it made his vision blur. His whole body felt battered, but the worst of it was his ribs and the side of his face. He was certain at least one rib was broken, and his eye socket looked a complete mess. Even breathing too deeply was an ordeal.

He had never been so relieved in his life as when he heard someone knocking on the back door a few hours later.

“George?” Lucy’s voice came faintly from outside.

He tried to call out. “In here,” he meant to shout, but it came out little more than a rasp. He swallowed, gathered what little strength he had and forced himself to try again. It was louder that time, enough for her to hear. A second later, the door opened, and Lucy hurried inside.

The look on her face when she saw him almost broke his heart. She gasped and dropped to her knees beside the dining chair he had finally managed to drag himself into. “Oh my God, George. What happened?”

“Someone…” He struggled for breath. “Last night.”

Her expression changed instantly from shock to alarm. “You’ve been like this since last night?” She shot to her feet. “Hang on, I need to call an ambulance.”

He tried to tell her no. Tried to say not to ring anyone, not to bring police or paramedics or attention crashing down on all of them. But it was pointless. She had already gone, her voice carrying back from the garden as she spoke to someone, quick and urgent, and then, moments later, she was hurrying back in.

“They’re on their way,” she said. She crouched in front of him again, pale and flustered, her eyes darting over his face as though she still couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “Will you be all right if I drop Daisy off and then come straight back?”

He shook his head at once, wincing at the movement. “You…” He paused, dragging in another painful breath. “Go. School. Can’t… cause problems.”

She stared at him for a second, and he could see the moment she understood. If she stayed, there would be questions. Too many questions. Questions about why she was there, why Daisy wasn’t at school, why Becky still hadn’t returned, and why George was suddenly acting as though he had some responsibility for the girls next door.

Her mouth tightened. “But you need…”

“Ambulance… coming.” He nodded as firmly as he could. “Go.”

Lucy hesitated, torn, and for a second, he thought she might refuse. Then she gave a small nod. “All right,” she said quietly. “But I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

George closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted by the effort of staying upright and speaking. Even thinking was an effort.

And as he listened to Lucy’s hurried footsteps disappearing back out of the house, one thought pressed through the pain, clear and cold. Whoever had done this hadn’t just wanted to hurt him. They had wanted him out of the way.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lucy

Icouldn’t believe what had happened to George after he left our house last night.

I didn’t usually go round there first thing in the morning, but he had left Mum’s phone behind, and I’d panicked at the thought of the school trying to ring her while we were out. The whole thing had felt like a small problem when I knocked on his door.

Then I saw him. I'd never seen anyone so badly beaten. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I had seen my father after Mum had stabbed him. I had seen the blood, the awful stillness of him, the horror of what had been done. But even Dad, lying there stone dead, hadn’t looked as physically battered as George did that morning. George looked broken. It was as if someone had kept going long after they should have stopped.

The sight of him turned my stomach. It also terrified me in a way I hadn’t expected, because it had happened after he left my house. That thought wouldn’t leave me alone. It circled and circled in my mind while I got Daisy to school, while I sat through lessons pretending to listen, while the teachers droned on as if the world were normal and not quietly falling apart around me.

Had it been random? Just some drunken thug looking for trouble on a cold night? Or had it been something else? Something connected to Daisy and me?

I didn’t understand how that could be possible, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling. We hadn’t done anything to anyone. We kept ourselves to ourselves. We went to school, came home, and stayed out of the way. Apart from drunken Irene mouthing off, there had been no drama around us. If anything, we had been the ones upset. Not her.

Still, that didn’t stop the fear from creeping in, because George had stood up for us. He had told Jamie to back off. And now he'd been attacked.

Was it just a coincidence?

By the end of the school day, I doubted George would be home. I couldn’t imagine they would patch him up and send him straight back after the state he’d been in. I reckoned he’d be in hospital for days, maybe longer.

And although I hated myself for thinking it, part of me was terrified not only for him but also for what it meant for us if he wasn’t next door anymore.

The thought stayed with me all the way home.

Not just worry for George, though that was there too, sharp and constant, but the sickening realisation that with him gone, Daisy and I were on our own again. Properly on our own.

We had nobody through the gate if something went wrong or to answer Mum’s phone if school called. There would be nobody stepping in with a calm voice and steady eyes whenever someone like Jamie came sniffing around.

I hadn’t realised how much I’d started to rely on him until I walked up our path that afternoon and saw his kitchen curtains still closed, his side of the fence quiet and lifeless.

Daisy glanced towards his house, too. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

I shifted my school bag higher up my shoulder and forced a nod. “Yeah. He looked awful, but the ambulance came, didn’t it? They’ll sort him out.”

She didn’t look convinced.

Neither was I.

Once we were inside, I locked the back door and checked the front one as well, even though I knew I’d already locked it before school. The house felt exposed. Every sound outside seemed louder than usual—a car door slamming, someone shouting further down the street, and a dog continually barking.

I made us both tea earlier than usual, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands. Beans on toast. Simple, hot, and filling.

Daisy ate perched at the kitchen table, quieter than normal, and every so often, I caught her looking at me as if she wanted to ask something but didn’t quite dare. Eventually, she did. “Do you think the person who hurt George might come back?"

The question made my grip tighten on my fork. “No,” I said at once.

Daisy didn't believe me. I could tell by the way her shoulders curled in slightly.

I softened my voice. "George got attacked outside his house, not ours. It was probably just some idiot who’d had too much to drink.”

But even as I said it, Jamie’s face flashed into my mind. The baseball cap. The icy smile. The way he’d looked at George with open dislike. The way George had glared back without flinching.

I pushed the thought away.

I had no proof. No reason, really. Just a horrible feeling.

After tea, I sent Daisy upstairs to change into her pyjamas, and I took the chance to go through Mum’s phone again. I'd decided not to leave it with George after seeing the state he was in. I sat at the table with it in front of me, chewing the skin beside my thumb while I scrolled.

There had been more missed calls from Mum's work.

My stomach dropped when I saw the number repeated twice, and the caller had left a message.

I went into her messages and found one from the office manager, sent earlier that afternoon.

Becky, please contact the office as soon as possible regarding your P45.

I didn't have a clue what a P45 was, but it sounded pretty final.

There had been several random calls from numbers not saved in the phone, but no more messages.

I sat at the table, staring at the phone in my hand, while the daylight faded from the kitchen window and the room darkened around me.

Everything seemed to be shifting. Up to now, it had still felt possible that Mum might breeze back in and put a stop to all of it. That she might drag her sorry self through the door, reeking of drink and excuses, and life would lurch back into its usual miserable shape.

***

That night, Daisy climbed onto my bed without a word, curling into the warm patch beside me as if it were the only safe place left. I turned off the lamp and lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling while she drifted off.

For once, I didn’t even pretend to myself that Mum might come back that night.

Instead, I thought about George lying in a hospital bed with half his face smashed in—about Jamie asking questions in that soft voice of his. I thought about Mum’s work calling again tomorrow.

And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, a new thought came to me, cold and clear enough to make my whole body tense. What if Mum wasn’t the only one in danger?

I lay awake for hours after that, listening to Daisy breathe, waiting for the sound of someone at the door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lucy

Iwas exhausted. It felt as though I hadn’t slept at all, though I must have done at some point. My eyes burned, my muscles felt heavy, and I couldn’t stop yawning no matter how hard I tried.

We left for school late, which meant I had no choice but to take the shortcut, straight past Irene’s flat. I told myself she wouldn’t be up that early. I was wrong.

“Oh, there she is,” Irene slurred from across the path. “Little Miss Blabbermouth. Who’s going to fight your battles for you now that your guard dog’s been muzzled?”

My whole body went cold. “Keep walking, Daisy,” I said, my voice low and tight. I didn’t look at Irene again. I just kept moving, urging Daisy along beside me as fast as I could without breaking into a run. My heart was pounding so hard it made me feel sick.

I had no idea what she meant by someone being our guard dog. Could she be talking about George? Had he spoken to her? Had they argued? Or was it worse than that?

A horrible thought struck me. Could Irene have had something to do with what happened to him? That possibility frightened me even more than Jamie. Jamie had unsettled me, yes, but he had never been openly nasty. Irene had. She had made it perfectly clear she thought I knew more than I was saying about Mum. She already looked at me as though I’d done something wrong. And now George had been attacked.

I kept walking, one hand pressed lightly between Daisy’s shoulder blades as though I could somehow speed her up without making it obvious we were rattled. Her words kept running through my thoughts.

Who’s going to fight your battles for you now that your guard dog has been muzzled?

The words made my skin prickle.

Daisy was silent beside me, which somehow frightened me more than if she’d burst into tears. She had that stiff, brittle look about her, shoulders up, eyes fixed ahead, as though to say if she didn’t react, then maybe the whole thing hadn’t happened. But it had.

Before, I had been telling myself it was probably Jamie. Or some random thug. Or bad luck. But Irene was vicious enough and drunk enough to do something stupid. Maybe not herself, but she knew plenty of people. Men who would swing first and think later. Men who wouldn’t care who got hurt.

And Irene hated me. Not in the casual, neighbourly way that some people disliked each other around our estate. Properly hated me. She had made that clear enough, especially lately. She was convinced I’d done something to Mum. I could see it every time she looked at me, that ugly, suspicious glint in her eyes.

By the time we reached Daisy's school, I felt wrung out already.

Daisy touched my arm before we parted ways. “Do you think she meant George?”

I looked down at her. There was no point in lying completely. Not to her. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I think she did.”

Her face went pale. “Do you think she hurt him?”

“I don’t know.” I crouched slightly so I was level with her. “And we are not saying anything about it to anyone at school. Do you understand?”

She nodded straight away.

“Not teachers. Not friends. No one.”

Another nod.

I tucked a curl behind her ear and forced my voice to be gentler. “Just get through the day. Then we’ll go straight home.”

She gave me a tiny, unhappy smile and headed off down the corridor.

I watched her go, feeling about a hundred years old.

Lessons blurred. Voices buzzed around me. At one point, a teacher asked me a question, and I just stared at her for a second too long before I realised she was expecting an answer. I mumbled something, anything, and she moved on, but my face flushed with embarrassment. Normally, I could blag my way through most situations. That day, though, every part of me felt stretched too thin.

At lunchtime, I hid in the library. I sat at a table by the window, staring at a page without taking in a single word, while Irene’s voice and George’s battered face and Mum’s silent phone all tangled themselves together in my head until I could hardly think straight.

By the final bell, I was desperate to pick up Daisy and get home.

This time, I didn’t risk the shortcut.

I didn’t care if it took longer. I wasn’t walking past Irene’s flat again if I could help it. Daisy didn’t argue either. She just walked beside me, clutching her bag, unusually subdued.

At least it was Friday, so we didn't need to go anywhere this weekend. We grabbed a few groceries on the way home and topped up the meter.

When we got in, I locked the door and checked the windows before I even took my coat off.

Daisy watched me. “Do you think she’ll come over?”

I knew she was talking about Irene. “I don’t know.” That was becoming my standard answer to everything, and I hated it.

I made us both hot squash, more for comfort than anything else, then sent Daisy upstairs to change while I stood in the kitchen trying to work out what to do next.

The situation wasn’t just about Mum being missing. Now George had been attacked. And Irene was making comments that sounded like she'd arranged it. I looked at Mum’s phone sitting on the counter. For a second, I thought about calling the police, but what would I even say? That the nasty, drunk woman from across the road had shouted something horrible at me on the way to school? That I had a feeling she knew more than she should? It wasn’t enough. It was nothing. And all it would do was bring attention crashing back onto our house, our lives, and our mother being missing without explanation.

So instead I did the only thing I could think of. I went next door.

George wasn’t back, of course. His house was dark and silent, exactly as I’d expected. But standing at his back door with the cold creeping through my shoes, it confirmed to me just how exposed I felt without him there.

I went home again quickly and bolted the door behind me.

That night, I kept every downstairs light off except the lamp in the living room. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it made us less visible. Maybe I just didn’t want anyone outside seeing too clearly that it was only Daisy and me in there.

Daisy fell asleep beside me on the sofa before nine.

I sat awake much longer, listening for footsteps, someone knocking, or anything unusual.

And when we finally went up to bed, I'd started wondering who would come for us first.

Chapter Twenty-Three

By Saturday morning, I had made up my mind. If George still wasn’t home later, I would call Ben. I couldn’t go through another night like last night, jumping at every sound and feeling as though something terrible was about to happen.

I spent most of the day cleaning the house. I washed our uniforms and hung them on the line as the weather was windy and bright for a change.

Later that afternoon, we went to see if there was any sign of George next door. We knocked more than once, then stood there listening, hoping for movement, a voice, anything. But there was nothing. After a while, it became obvious he still wasn’t home.

We headed back into our house, both of us quieter than usual. I made us a hot drink, then sat down at the table and called Ben.

“Hiya, Luce.” Ben’s warm voice came down the line at once. “Is everything okay?”

The kindness in his tone almost got to me. I glanced at Daisy, who was curled on the sofa with her mug clutched in both hands, watching me with wide eyes. I turned slightly away from her before answering.

“Not really,” I admitted. “George has been attacked, and he's in the hospital. I'm scared because I don't know how he is or when he'll be coming home.”

There was a brief silence. "When was this?"

"The other night. I found him on Thursday morning—he was in a right state."

"Who attacked him? Do you know?"

"No. But they did a fair old number on him."

“Right,” Ben said, his voice changing, becoming more serious. “Has anyone heard anything from the hospital?”

“No. Well, not us anyway.” I lowered myself into the chair and stared at the scratches in the tabletop. “An ambulance came, but George told me to go on to school with Daisy, so I didn’t hang around.”

“Jesus.” Ben let out a slow breath. “And you don't know what hospital he’s in?”

I shook my head before realising he couldn’t see me. “No. Nothing. His house is still empty.”

“And you’re worried.”

“Yes.” My fingers tightened around the phone. “I know he’s not family, but he was helping us. If he’s in a bad way and no one’s checking on him…” I trailed off because what I really meant was that I needed him. Not just for practical things. For the feeling that there was an adult nearby who knew what was going on and hadn’t turned his back on us.

Ben was quiet for a second. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and steady. “Do you want me to come over?”

I closed my eyes as relief washed through me. “Would you?”

“Of course I will.” I could hear movement at his end, keys maybe, or a coat being picked up. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks.”

“Luce?”

“Yes?”

“You did the right thing calling me.”

My throat tightened. “Okay.”

We ended the call, and I set the phone down carefully, as though it might break in my hand.

Daisy was already looking at me expectantly. “Is he coming?"

I nodded. “Yeah. He’s on his way.”

Her shoulders loosened just a little.

That made me feel both better and worse. Better because she trusted Ben, too. Worse, because I was starting to realise how quickly I was building our little safety net out of people who could disappear just as easily as everyone else. The persistent thought of contacting social services popped unbidden into my mind. If things carried on, I would have no real option.

I busied myself in the kitchen while we waited, putting the kettle back on even though neither of us had finished our first drinks. I needed the noise. The movement. Something to stop my mind from racing.

When the knock finally came at the back door, Daisy actually smiled.

I opened it to find Ben standing there in his coat, his hair damp from the drizzle, concern written plainly across his face.

“All right?” he asked softly.

“No,” I said, before I could stop myself.

His expression shifted. “Let me in, then.”

I stepped aside.

The kitchen seemed smaller the second he entered it, but not in a bad way. Daisy came in from the living room, and Ben smiled at her. “Hey, trouble.”

“Hi,” she said, suddenly shy.

Ben looked between us. “Right. Start from the beginning.”

So I did.

I told him all about George being beaten. About Irene’s comments about Mum being missing and what she'd said after George was beaten. I told him about Jamie and how George had warned him off. About how every knock at the door terrified me.

Ben listened without interrupting, leaning back against the worktop with his arms folded, his face growing more grim by the minute. When I finished, the kitchen was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “You shouldn’t be dealing with all this on your own.”

I almost laughed. “But I am.”

“No.” His voice sharpened slightly. “You have been. That’s not the same thing.”

This caught me off guard.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked towards the window, thinking. “First things first, I can try to find out where George has been taken. If the ambulance came, there’ll be a record somewhere. Or at least I’ll be able to ring round the hospitals.”

“Would they tell you?” I asked.

“Maybe not much. But enough, perhaps.” He looked back at me. “And if not, I’ll think of something else.”

The simple certainty in his voice made something in my chest loosen.

Daisy had perched on a chair by then, hugging one knee to her chest. “Do you think Irene hurt him?”

Ben’s eyes flicked to her, then to me. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “But what she said was nasty, and it sounds like she knows more than she should.”

That was exactly what I had thought, and hearing him say it made me feel sick all over again.

“I don’t want to walk past her anymore,” Daisy whispered.

“You won’t have to, don't worry,” I said at once.

Ben nodded. “No, you don’t have to. I’ll take you both to school on Monday.”

I stared at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” His eyes met mine. “I want to.”

For a second, I couldn’t speak.

Nobody had ever simply decided to help us. Not without wanting something. Not without keeping score. But Ben said it as though it were obvious, as though making sure we got to school safely was the most natural thing in the world.

“All right,” I said quietly.

He straightened. “Good. Now, before it gets too late, I’m going to make some calls about George.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Unless you prefer, I do it standing in the garden.”

Despite everything, that pulled a small laugh out of me. He smiled back, and for a split second, I felt warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the radiators.

Then the feeling was gone, smothered by the reality of the situation.

And yet, as Ben pulled out his phone and started asking sensible, practical questions, I felt the tiniest flicker of hope that maybe, for tonight at least, we weren’t facing it completely alone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

George was okay.

He was in the local hospital, and although the nurse wouldn’t tell Ben exactly what was wrong with him, she did confirm that he was recovering and already desperate to get home.

The relief that hit me was so fierce it almost took me down with it.

I had to press my lips together hard to stop them trembling, but it was no use. My eyes filled anyway. Across from me, Daisy looked just as close to tears, her face crumpling as all the fear she’d been holding in finally started to give way.

“Right,” Ben said after a moment, glancing between us both. He paused just long enough to make my stomach tighten. “How would you feel about me moving in here for a little while?”

I stared at him.

“Just until your mum comes back,” he went on, “or until something more permanent gets sorted.”

That was it. The tears came then, hot and fast, before I could stop them. I covered my mouth with my hand, embarrassed and overwhelmed all at once. “Would you really do that for us?”

Ben’s expression softened. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

I tried to speak, but my throat had closed up.

“I thought about just popping over every day,” he said, his tone practical now, steady, like he knew I needed that more than anything. “But that’s not much use. I live too far away. Then I considered having the two of you stay with me, but I’ve only got two bedrooms, and it would be a nightmare getting you both to and from school.” He paused, then shrugged lightly. “It makes far more sense for me to come here. If you’re both okay with it, I could sleep in your mum’s room.”

I looked at him, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. It felt like the kind of thing that only happened in books or films. “I don’t even know how to thank you,” I said thickly. “That would be… honestly, that would be amazing.”

Ben smiled, but then he looked past me to Daisy. He was checking with her, too, and that mattered.

Daisy nodded at once, so enthusiastically it would have made me laugh if I hadn’t still been crying. “Yes,” she said. “Please.”

“Right then,” Ben said, clapping his hands together once, like the whole thing was settled and perfectly ordinary. “That’s that sorted.” He looked between us with a grin. “Now, what’s for tea?”

It was such a normal thing to say that for a second, the room went quiet.

Then, through my tears, I let out a shaky laugh.

And just like that, the house didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

***

Ben must have already decided to stay with us before he’d even left his house, because his bags were already in the boot of his car.

The sight of them made something inside me twist with a relief so strong it almost hurt.

We helped him carry everything in, and while Daisy chattered away, I cleared space in Mum’s room. We shoved her things into one drawer and made room for his clothes and toiletries. I knew full well Mum would have plenty to say about a man moving into her bedroom without permission if she ever came back and found out, that is. However, that wasn't looking very likely.

Later that day, while Ben and I stood side by side in the kitchen peeling potatoes for dinner, I finally asked the question that had been nagging at me ever since he’d offered to stay.

“Do you think we should report her missing now you’re here?”

Ben didn’t answer straight away.

He kept peeling for a second, his brow furrowed as he thought it through. “I don’t know, Luce.”

The way he said my name, gently, made me brace myself.

“I haven’t got kids,” he went on. “And if social services turned up to find a grown man living here with two young girls, they might not see it the way we do. They might think it’s strange.”

My stomach dipped because I knew he was right.

“I think,” he said carefully, “it may be best to stay quiet for a little while longer.”

I nodded, though heat had crept up my neck.

I hadn’t thought of it like that. To me, Ben was safe, kind, and solid. But people on the outside wouldn’t know that. They wouldn’t just take my word for it. If he’d been a woman, I doubted anyone would have blinked. But a man was different. That was just the truth of it.

Still, if I was being honest, I felt safer with Ben in the house than I ever had with my own mother, which wasn’t something I could ever say out loud.

“Could I ask you a favour?” I said.

Ben glanced at me. "Of course you can.”

“Is there any chance you could take us to see George tomorrow?”

His expression softened at once. “I don’t see why not. If he’s not home by tomorrow afternoon, we can pop in and visit him.”

The relief that washed through me was ridiculous considering it was such a small thing. “Thanks, Ben.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to thank me for every little thing.”

But I did. Because every little thing felt massive.

That night, Daisy beat both of us at Snap and made a huge fuss about it, gloating so shamelessly that even I had to laugh. Afterwards, we all watched some daft comedy on the television, the sort of film that didn’t ask anything of you. Just silly jokes and people falling over, and a happy ending you could see coming from miles away.

For a while, sitting there with Daisy curled up in the middle, and Ben stretched out at the other end of the sofa, it almost felt like we were playing at being a normal family.

At bedtime, though, Daisy still climbed into bed with me. She didn’t say she was frightened. She didn’t need to. I could feel it in the way she curled herself in close, in the way her body stayed tense for a while before sleep finally took hold.

Ben being there had helped. But that wasn't enough. Not yet.

***

Ben had been to the shops before Daisy, and I had even opened our eyes the next morning.

When I went downstairs and saw the kitchen, I genuinely gasped at the sight of so much food. The fridge was full. Not just a loaf and some milk shoved in the corner, but properly full—butter, cheese, ham, yoghurt, fresh fruit, and juice. There was fresh bread on the side, and when I opened the pantry, the shelves were stocked too. Pasta, rice, cereal, tins, and biscuits. Proper food. Enough that for a second I just stood there staring, hardly able to take it in.

I turned to Ben, who was putting the kettle on as though none of it was unusual. “Do you want me to give you the money?” I asked, not really sure what the right thing was anymore. “For the shopping, I mean.”

He looked over his shoulder at me and snorted. “Give over, silly. It’s my treat. Call it rent.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

No one had ever just done something like that for us. Not without expecting something back. Not without making us feel beholden. But Ben said it so lightly, as if it were no trouble at all, and that somehow made it even harder to process.

There was so much to choose from that I almost felt dizzy.

And then, as if filling the house with food wasn’t already enough, he made us a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, and hash browns were all sizzling away in the pan while Daisy hovered at his elbow like he was some kind of magician.

When he finally put the plates down in front of us, I could hardly believe it. It tasted even better than it looked. Hot, salty, and rich, the kind of meal that settled right into you and made you feel human again.

Daisy ate every scrap on her plate and then looked sad when it was gone, which made Ben laugh and offer her an extra hash brown from the pan.

For that one meal, sitting around the table with full plates and the smell of coffee and fried food still hanging in the air, everything felt absurdly normal.

By the afternoon, though, George still hadn’t come home.

I found myself glancing towards his house more than once, as though I might somehow will him back just by looking hard enough. But the curtains stayed drawn, and nothing moved next door.

True to his word, Ben took us to the hospital that afternoon.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The drive to the hospital felt longer than it probably was.

Daisy sat in the back of the car, unusually quiet, staring out of the window as the town slipped by in a blur of grey pavements and bare trees.

I sat in the front with my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying not to imagine George looking even worse than he had when I found him.

Ben must have sensed how wound up I was, because he kept the conversation light. Pointing out daft number plates. Complaining about hospital parking before we’d even arrived. Anything to stop the silence from closing in too much.

But the second we pulled into the car park, my stomach tightened all over again.

The minute we stepped inside the hospital, I felt too warm in my coat and yet cold all at once.

Ben spoke to the receptionist while Daisy and I hovered nearby. I watched people come and go through the sliding doors, some carrying flowers, some looking pale and frightened, others laughing too loudly as though they were trying to drown out whatever worry had brought them there.

When Ben finally turned back to us, he gave a small nod. “He’s on a ward upstairs. Visiting time doesn't start for a couple of hours, but they said we can see him for a few minutes.”

A few minutes didn’t seem like enough after all George had done for us, but it would have to do.

We followed the signs, up in the lift and along a corridor that seemed too bright and too quiet. By then, Daisy had slipped her hand into mine without saying anything, and I held on tightly.

George was propped up in bed when we found him.

For one horrible second, I barely recognised him.

Half his face was swollen and mottled, deep purple and yellow. One eye was almost closed. There was bruising along his jaw and a cut above his eyebrow stuck together with little white strips. Even the way he held himself looked wrong, stiff and careful, as though the slightest movement was agony. But at least he was awake. And when he saw us, he attempted to smile, even though it looked more like a crooked wince, but it was still George.

“Well,” he said, his voice raspy but stronger than it had been on Thursday. “Don’t you all scrub up nicely.”

The relief that flooded me this time was quieter than before but somehow deeper.

“You look awful,” Daisy blurted.

I shot her a look, but George let out a rough little laugh that turned into a grimace almost immediately.

“Thanks, pet,” he said. “Always nice to know where you stand.”

Ben pulled a chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I lost a fight with a bus.” George shifted carefully against the pillows. “But apparently I’m not allowed to die just yet. Very inconsiderate of them, if you ask me.”

Daisy smiled then, small and shaky, and I felt some of the tension leave her hand.

I stepped closer to the bed. “Do you remember what happened?”

George’s good eye flicked to mine, and for the briefest moment something unreadable passed across his face.

“Not much,” he said. “I heard someone behind me. Turned round. Then, bang.” He lifted a hand slightly towards his face. “Next thing I knew, I was waking up frozen half to death outside my own back door.”

“Did you see who it was?” Ben asked.

George shook his head once, carefully. “No.”

I wasn’t sure whether I believed him. Not because I thought he was lying exactly, but because there was something in the way he answered.

“Police have been round,” he added. “Asked all the usual questions. I couldn’t tell them much.”

My stomach dipped at the word police, but Ben just nodded.

George looked at me then. Properly looked at me. “You all right?”

It was such a 'George' question. Battered and bruised in a hospital bed and still asking after me.

“Yeah,” I lied.

His gaze lingered a second too long, making it obvious he didn’t buy it. “You look shattered, Lucy-Loo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

There was affection in it, but also something else. Concern. Warning, maybe.

Daisy moved closer to the bed. “When are you coming home?”

“As soon as they let me,” George said. “Another day or two, I reckon. They’re fussing because of my broken ribs.”

I winced. “They’re broken?”

“Cracked, apparently.” He rolled his eyes, then winced again as if even that had hurt. “Sounds less dramatic than it feels.”

"We think Irene did it," Daisy blurted.

I nudged her sharply.

"I'm not sure of that. But just stay away from her to be safe."

"Ben's staying at our house to look after us," she continued. "He bought loads of food."

Ben shifted in the seat uncomfortably. "We need to get going soon, girls. The nurses only let us in because we'd come so far."

George's eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Ben. “You’re staying with them?” he asked.

Ben nodded. “For now.”

George was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Good.”

That one word concerned me. Just the other day, George had warned me to stay away from Ben, yet now he seemed grateful he had moved in with us. This reaction didn't seem right. My chest tightened a little. “You think that’s the right thing?”

George looked back at me. “I think you two girls shouldn’t be alone right now.”

The way he said it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It was as though he suspected we were in danger.

A nurse appeared then, all brisk shoes and clipped voice, letting us know our time was nearly up. Daisy leaned in carefully and hugged George around the least-damaged side she could find. He patted her arm awkwardly, clearly trying not to hiss with pain.

When it was my turn, I hesitated. Then I bent and kissed his cheek, the unbruised one. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For everything.”

His good eye softened. “Get home safe.”

It was such an ordinary thing to say, and yet it landed heavily.

Ben drove us back in near-darkness. Daisy was tired and subdued in the back, clutching the little packet of hospital biscuits that George had insisted she take. I sat in silence, replaying the visit over and over in my head.

George was frightened of something. I was sure of it now. He might not have admitted it. Might not even have said the words out loud to himself. But I'd seen it there beneath the jokes and the brave face.

And if George was frightened, then I had every reason to be too.

When we got home, Ben locked the door behind us before he even took his coat off.

Daisy went upstairs to change, and I stood in the kitchen with George’s words still ringing in my ears.

You two girls shouldn’t be alone right now.

Ben must have noticed something in my face, because he asked quietly, “What is it?”

I let out a shaky breath. “I think whoever hurt George might come back for us.” The words sounded dramatic once they were out in the open, but that didn’t make them feel any less true.

Ben didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell me I was being silly either. Instead, something in his expression hardened. His jaw tightened, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked genuinely angry. “I’d like to see them try,” he said. There was nothing playful in his voice. “They’ll have to get through me first.”

I swallowed hard and looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. “You don’t know what you might be dealing with,” I said quietly. "I think Mum was into something dodgy."

Ben stepped closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough that I could feel the steadiness of him. “Maybe not. But neither do they. I don't scare easily.”

His words settled somewhere deep inside me. I wanted to believe him, but I had lived too long with the knowledge that bad things didn’t knock politely before barging in. They didn’t care how kind you were, or how brave, or how badly you wanted to keep the people you loved safe.

Still, standing there in the dim kitchen light with Ben between me and the back door, I felt a little less desperate than I had in the past. A little less alone.

Ben asked whether I minded him going through Mum’s phone to see if he could work out what had happened to her.

“Go for it,” I said. “I already tried, but I didn’t get very far. Either she deleted everything herself, or there was never anything there to begin with.” I unlocked the phone and handed it over.

Ben sat at the dining table and went through everything. Messages, calls, WhatsApp, contacts, and photos. He was thorough, but he found exactly what I had found. A great big nothing. Or nothing useful, anyway.

“That J bloke was pretty determined to get hold of her,” he said at last, setting the phone down on the table between us.

I nodded. “He was. And he was seriously annoying. But I kept thinking, if he had anything to do with her disappearing, why would he be trying so hard to find her afterwards?”

Ben leaned back slightly in the chair. “Unless she doesn’t want him to find her.” He studied my face. “Did you ever work out what it was he wanted back?”

I shrugged. “No. But I think George might know. He somehow managed to get rid of him, didn’t he?”

Ben was quiet for a second. “What about Irene? What’s she like?”

I pulled a face. “Nasty. She’s always drunk, and she stinks of pee.”

Ben gave a visible shudder.

I couldn’t help smiling. “I know. All Mum’s friends are horrible like that. Apart from you and George, obviously.”

He looked up at me, one eyebrow raised. “Nice save, Miss Lucy.”

I laughed. “I’m serious, though. I’ve always wondered why you were friends with her. You’re nothing like her usual mates.”

Something shifted in his expression then. Not much, just enough for me to notice. “I’ll tell you the whole sorry saga one day,” he said. “But for now, just trust that I’ve got your best interests at heart.”

I scrunched up my face, more put out than I wanted to sound. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

“Because it’s not my story to tell.” His voice stayed gentle, but there was something final in it. He tapped the phone lightly with one finger. “Come on. We need more information on your mum’s dodgy mates.”

I sighed but nodded. “There’s another bloke who drops by a lot. But most of the others are just sleazy randoms. They come once, and that’s it.”

Ben frowned slightly. “What’s the name of the one you know?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I know him.” I tucked one leg underneath me on the chair. “But I’ve seen him loads of times. He’s always wasted. I don’t know his name, though. I think Irene does. I’ve seen her with him once or twice.”

Ben nodded slowly, his face thoughtful.

I watched him for a moment, grateful for the help, for the calm way he handled things, for the fact that I didn’t feel quite so alone with him there. And that was when another thought slipped quietly into my mind, one I didn’t much like admitting to myself. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to find Mum too quickly. Because, however wrong it was, however temporary I knew it had to be, I was enjoying having him there.

Upstairs, I could hear Daisy moving around in her bedroom, drawers opening and closing, the familiar sounds of ordinary life carrying on as though the world outside our walls hadn’t shifted into something darker.

Ben glanced towards the ceiling, then back at me. “We’ll be careful,” he said. “Make sure everything is shut up tight. No one answers the door unless they know exactly who it is. All right?”

I nodded. “All right.”

“And starting tomorrow, I’ll take you both to school and pick you up again.”

“You honestly don’t have to do that.”

“I know, you keep saying.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I’m going to anyway.”

That ache came back then, the one that had become so familiar around him—gratitude tangled up with something softer. Something I would rather not examine too closely. “Thanks,” I murmured.

He shrugged, but gently. “Go on. Get yourself upstairs to bed. I’ll sort the kitchen.”

I should have argued. Normally, I would have. But that night, I was too tired to pretend I didn’t need the help. So I left him there, sleeves rolled up, already reaching for the mugs on the side, and went upstairs to Daisy.

She was already under the duvet when I got into bed beside her. “Is Ben okay?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, pulling the covers up to my chin. “He’s just locking up.”

She was quiet for a second. “Do you think he’ll really keep us safe?”

I thought of the way his voice had changed downstairs. The calm certainty of it, and I nodded. “Yes,” I said, after a pause. “I think he will.”

Daisy snuggled closer, apparently satisfied with that, but long after her breathing evened out and the house fell silent, I lay awake staring into the dark.

Because I believed Ben meant it. I believed he would try his best. What I didn’t know yet was whether that would be enough.

Chapter Twenty-Six

When Daisy and I came downstairs in our school uniforms the next morning, I stopped short. Ben had made boiled eggs and soldiers, and a proper teapot was waiting on the table.

For a second, I could only stare. Tears filled my eyes so suddenly it caught me off guard. It seemed as if someone had reached inside my head, found every tiny dream I'd ever had about a perfect family breakfast, and quietly laid it out in front of me.

“Right,” Ben said, with his head in the fridge. “What do you girls usually take for lunch?”

Daisy was already shovelling egg into her mouth as if someone might snatch it away.

I laughed and looked over at him. “We have school dinners, thanks, Ben. Maybe we can take a piece of fruit if there’s enough.”

He straightened and glanced over his shoulder at me. “There’s plenty. Help yourselves to as much or as little as you want.”

Then he came over and sat opposite us, lifting the teapot and pouring out the tea like this sort of thing happened in our kitchen every day.

I watched the steam rise from my mug and felt that ache again, the one I never quite knew what to do with. Gratitude, mostly. But grief as well, I think. For all the mornings we had never had.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said, setting my spoon down beside my egg. “Do you work, Ben?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Mostly from home, though.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Mainly, I deal in stocks and shares. Buy something for one price and sell it for higher. It’s all very boring, but it pays well.”

I nodded as if that explained everything. It didn’t, not really. I was none the wiser. But he said it in such an offhand way, as though money and full fridges and proper breakfasts were the most ordinary things in the world, and that alone made him seem even more impossible to me.

Daisy dipped another soldier into her egg, got yolk all over her fingers, and grinned. Then she licked off every last bit as though it was the best thing she'd ever tasted.

And sitting there at the table with warm tea in my cup and breakfast in my stomach, I found myself wishing the morning would never end.

***

Ben dropped us off at school with an apple and a banana each, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had a pocketful of money and nothing urgent to spend it on. He had even topped up the electricity by fifty pounds on the way back from the hospital.

Just one week ago, I had been counting coins and wondering how to keep the lights on. Now the meter was topped up by more than it had ever been, the cupboards were full, and there was enough cash hidden for emergencies. I should have felt relieved. Instead, I mostly felt bewildered. It was all too good to be true.

Part of me wanted to sink into it and enjoy every second, but another part was already preparing for it to end. Because things this good never lasted for us. Not really. So I knew I had to be sensible. I needed to hide the money properly and keep every penny untouched until everything went wrong again.

George should be home within the next couple of days. Between him and Ben looking out for us, I thought we might stand a chance if social services started poking around. At least there would be adults who could say we were being cared for. And there were only eight weeks until my sixteenth birthday. The closer I got to it, the more I held on to the idea that surely someone would let me keep Daisy with me.

Ben said he would meet me at Daisy’s school, since I was always a few minutes late picking her up. He had already called in that morning and introduced himself properly, just so the teachers would know who he was when he turned up. It still made me nervous. Handing over any part of Daisy’s care to someone else went against every instinct I had. But I had to trust Ben. He seemed to know what he was doing, and so far, everything he had done had made life easier, not harder.

When he picked us up that afternoon, we drove straight home.

The second we walked through the back door, the smell hit us. It was rich, savoury, and warm.

"What the heck is that?" I asked. Inhaling deeply as though I could actually taste it.

"I put some braising steak and onions into the slow cooker this morning. Is that okay?"

Daisy breathed in deeply. “Oh, my God.”

I laughed, even though my own stomach was already tightening with hunger. It smelt like comfort, like someone cared enough, and I'd never smelt anything that good before.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The food tasted even better than I imagined, which hardly seemed possible. I tried a bit as I stirred, and it was amazing. But just as we were serving up, there was a knock at the back door.

Ben opened it, and there stood George.

For a second, none of us moved. Then Daisy and I rushed towards him at the same time, stopping just short when he winced, already bracing himself for the force of a proper hug.

“Careful,” he said, though he was smiling.

He looked dreadful. Better than he had in hospital, maybe, because he was upright and dressed in his own clothes, but still dreadful. His face was a mess of yellowing bruises and swelling, and he held himself stiffly, as though every movement hurt.

“What are you doing out, old man?” Ben asked, half amused, half horrified. “You’re in no fit state to look after yourself.”

George rolled his good eye. “I discharged myself. I wasn’t wasting my life lying on my back in that place when I could be here with you lot.”

Daisy clasped her hands together. “Are you staying here with us?”

The hope in her voice made my heart ache.

George chuckled, then immediately looked as though he regretted it. “No, pet. I’m only next door. But that still beats the hospital.”

“You could stay here until you’re feeling better,” I said before I could stop myself. “You could have Daisy’s bed. She sleeps with me anyway.”

George shook his head. “I’m fine.”

He so obviously wasn’t fine that even he had to know it sounded ridiculous.

Ben stepped aside and guided him to one of the dining chairs. “I think the girls are right,” he said. “You need to stay here for now, old man.”

George gave him a look. “Stop calling me an old man, and I’ll think about it.”

Ben grinned. “Deal.”

That made George smile too, a careful, lopsided one, and for the first time in days, with the slow cooker still filling the house with warmth and both Ben and George standing in our kitchen, things felt almost impossibly safe.

"Yay!" Daisy squealed, and to be honest, I almost joined in.

We all sat down to eat dinner soon after. George didn't eat very much. He insisted he'd eaten not long ago at the hospital, but I didn't believe him. But Daisy and I ate two servings each. I'd never tasted braised steak before, and it was my new favourite meat.

Afterwards, we washed the dishes and prepared to get George settled in Daisy’s room.

He needed a few things from next door, and Ben went to fetch them while I straightened the bed and Daisy fussed about with an extra pillow and blanket as though we were running a hotel instead of shuffling people around a cramped little house.

The second Ben was gone, George started asking questions.

They came quickly, one after another, and although he tried to make it seem casual, there was nothing casual about the way he looked at me while he spoke. He was asking roundabout questions about Ben being there.

It was obvious he was trying to be careful, but time was clearly pressing on him, and the effort of talking for too long was already making him look tired. Underneath it all, I could see the real reason for the questions. He wanted to make sure we were safe. That Ben wasn't taking advantage of us. I understood his concern, but it really wasn't an issue.

“We’re fine,” I told him before he could ask another. “Honestly, George.”

Daisy nodded vigorously beside me. “More than fine.”

George’s gaze moved between us, weighing up our faces as though he could spot a lie if there was one.

“Ben’s been brilliant,” I said. “He’s looked after us better than…” I trailed off because I didn’t need to finish that sentence. We all knew what I meant.

George’s expression softened slightly.

“And now you’re here too,” Daisy said brightly. “So it’s perfect.”

That seemed to do it.

George gave a small nod and sat back against the pillows, though even that tiny movement made him wince. Looking at him then, pale and bruised and trying to pretend he wasn’t in agony, I had a sudden horrible feeling that he’d dragged his battered body out of a hospital bed and back home because he thought we needed him. That made my throat tighten. Poor George had no business being out of hospital. He needed rest and painkillers. He should be getting proper care.

But he was here now. And between us, one way or another, we would look after him.

***

Later that night, when Daisy and I were already tucked up in my bed, I heard the low murmur of voices coming from her room. Deep, steady, male voices. George and Ben, I assumed, were talking quietly in the dark.

I lay still and listened for a moment, unable to make out the words, only the rise and fall of them. For some reason, it comforted me. The sound of men in the house should have unsettled me, given everything Daisy and I had grown up around. Strange voices, drunken laughter, doors opening and closing at stupid hours. But this felt different. Like we had two people keeping watch while the rest of us slept.

I pulled the duvet a little higher and glanced at Daisy curled beside me, already breathing deeply.

I hoped George and Ben would become friends. I needed them to. They had both become so important to us in such a short space of time, and the thought of anything coming between them made my stomach tighten. I didn’t want tension in the house. Didn’t want suspicion or resentment or anything that might crack the fragile little bubble of safety we had somehow managed to build. Because if it came down to it, I didn’t know how I would choose between them. And I didn’t want to find out.

The voices carried on for a little while, rising and falling in soft waves through the wall, and before long I found myself trying to guess what they were saying.

Probably nothing exciting. Something ordinary. Something that belonged in a normal house, like George asking for a glass of water to take his painkillers with.

A normal house. That thought stayed with me long after the voices faded.

I had wanted one for so long that sometimes I didn’t even let myself think about it. Not properly. It felt too dangerous, like wanting too much was the quickest way to lose everything. But lying there in the dark, with Daisy’s warm body curled close beside me, George next door in her room, and Ben somewhere downstairs or maybe still talking quietly with him, the feeling crept up on me anyway.

This was the closest I had ever come.

Not perfect. Not even nearly. Mum was still missing. Someone had beaten George half to death. We were all still pretending far more than we should have had to. But even so, the house felt held together in a way it never had before.

I rolled onto my side and stared at the faint line of moonlight leaking through the gap in the curtains.

What would happen if Mum walked through the door now? The question came out of nowhere, but once it landed, I couldn’t shift it. Would she scream at Ben for being in her house? Would she throw George out? Would she demand to know why her bank card had been used, why food had appeared in the cupboards, and why, for once, the house was clean and calm, and we weren’t walking on eggshells waiting for her next mood?

Or would she do something worse? My stomach tightened. I wasn’t only frightened of Mum coming back. I was frightened of what she might ruin when she did.

That thought made me feel disloyal, almost cruel. She was still our mother, but I couldn’t help it. Life without her had started to arrange itself into something gentler, and I hated myself for noticing how much easier it was to breathe.

Beside me, Daisy stirred and made a little sleepy sound in her throat.

I reached out automatically and smoothed a hand over her hair until she settled again.

No matter what happened with Mum, no matter what anyone said or did, Daisy was the thing that mattered. I needed to focus on keeping her safe. Everything else had to come second.

Eventually, the house fell properly quiet apart from the old settling noises of the place and the odd gust of wind nudging at the windowpane.

I told myself I should sleep. Instead, I lay there as my thoughts chased each other in circles until they began to blur.

At some point, I must have drifted off. Because the next thing I knew, I was startled awake.

It took me a second to realise what had woken me.

Then I heard it again. The front door. Someone was rattling the handle.

I froze. There was no other sound. Just the unmistakable rattle of someone quietly testing the door from outside. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might wake Daisy. I held my breath and listened, every inch of me rigid.

There it was again. A soft metallic scrape. A pause. Then another.

Whoever it was didn’t want us to know they were there.

I slipped my hand across the mattress until I found Daisy’s wrist and held it lightly, ready to shake her awake if I had to. My mouth was dry. My whole body felt cold and wired. For one wild second, I thought it might be Mum. But what if it was Jamie or Irene? What if it was someone worse than all of them put together?

On the stairs, a floorboard creaked. Someone was inside the house. I nearly screamed. But then I heard a low male voice, rough with sleep.

“Who’s there?” It was George.

Another sound followed, this time from the hall. A second male voice, sharper now. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but I recognised his voice—it was Ben.

The rattling at the front door stopped dead.

Silence followed.

I sat there in the darkness, barely daring to breathe, and understood with sick certainty that whoever had been outside hadn’t expected to find two men in the house.

And that could only mean they had come for Daisy and me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

George

George closed the bedroom door and leaned against it for a moment.

Whoever had been there was gone, at least for now. Thank God Ben had been in the house. George knew full well he would have been little use on his own if he had needed to go downstairs and confront a possible intruder. He was still covered in bruises, black and purple across his body, but he would live.

With a pained groan, he lowered himself back onto the single bed, but he couldn't settle. His mind kept circling back to Ben. He still couldn't work out why the lad had been interested in Becky. George had asked her often enough over the years, but she had always given him the same vague, slippery answers, never quite saying anything. It had been obvious she had no intention of telling him the truth.

When Ben started turning up again and sniffing around the girls, it had driven George half mad.

There he was, doing everything he could to help Lucy and Daisy get back on an even keel, trying to give them some sense of safety, some kind of routine, and then Ben had appeared out of nowhere. It was plain to see the girls were fond of him. He was easy to like—George would give him that. Charming enough, helpful enough, and calm in a crisis. But that was precisely what George found so unsettling. Guys like him didn't usually insert themselves into situations like these out of pure kindness.

Not without wanting something in return.

That was the part George could not get past. What, exactly, was Ben getting out of it?

Earlier, after the girls had gone to bed, Ben had brought him up a glass of water. They had talked for a few minutes, quietly, and George had decided to ask the question directly. Asked him how he knew Becky.

Ben’s whole manner had changed at once. The warmth had gone out of his face. His body had seemed to close in on itself. “I’ve known her for years,” he said. And that was it. Not really an answer at all.

George lay back carefully, staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight with thought. He knew Becky had been involved in some questionable things over the years. More than questionable, if he were honest. Some of it had been downright criminal. But that had never been his business, and now it was no longer a problem anyway.

Still, one question would not leave him alone. What could a young, good-looking, well-spoken man possibly have wanted with Becky? And more to the point, why was he now taking such an interest in her two daughters?

This was exactly why he had discharged himself from the hospital. He couldn't bear lying there, feeling sorry for himself, while having no idea what was happening with the girls. When Lucy suggested he stay with them for a while, he had almost kissed her.

At last, a solution.

Staying at the house meant he wouldn't need to keep inventing reasons to pop around and check on them. He would have them right there under his nose, where he could watch over everything and keep a close eye on what was going on.

The rest of the night passed without much incident, or perhaps George had simply slept through anything worth noticing.

The first sound he properly registered was the girls moving about upstairs, getting ready for school. Doors opening and closing. Floorboards creaking. The low murmur of their voices.

He wanted to get up, desperately, to make sure they had everything they needed before they left. But his battered old body had other ideas. The pain held him down, heavy and unrelenting, and for a while he could do nothing but lie there and listen.

At some point, he drifted off again.

When he finally woke, the house had gone quiet.

George lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, already knowing he had missed them. Still, he couldn't stay in bed all day. He needed the bathroom, for one thing, and he ought to make an appearance in case Lucy came back for something.

With a grimace, he forced himself upright.

He washed, pulled on a clean shirt, and then made his slow, careful way downstairs.

Everywhere was spotless.

The washed breakfast dishes were stacked upside down on the draining board, and the radio was playing softly in the corner of the kitchen. But there was no sign of anyone, not Lucy, not Daisy, not even Ben.

George made himself a cup of tea and shuffled through to the living room. He couldn't face perching on one of the hard dining chairs with his body aching the way it was. He had only just started sipping the hot, overly sweet tea when he heard the kitchen door open.

He jumped at the sound. Then he heard Ben humming along to the radio and felt some of the tension leave him.

With a quiet groan, George pushed himself to his feet and made his way back into the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re up,” Ben said, turning with an easy smile. “I was just about to make you a cuppa.”

“Yes. Only just, mind.” George gave a faint nod. “I slept like a baby after all the excitement.”

Ben’s expression shifted for a second, the smile fading. “Yes. That was a bit worrying. Whoever was trying to get in had done a runner by the time I got to the door.”

“Maybe just some opportunist,” George said. “Someone seeing what they could nick.”

Ben shrugged, but he didn't look convinced. “Maybe. But I’m not so sure. From what the girls have told me, Becky didn’t exactly keep the best company.”

There it was again, that faint note of judgement. It grated on George more than it should have. Not because he disagreed—he didn't, but because it seemed odd hearing it from Ben, of all people. He spoke about Becky as if he barely knew her, yet he had known her for a long time and had involved himself deeply enough to be here, in her house, making tea in her kitchen and watching over her daughters.

George still couldn't make sense of it.

What did this man really want? How did he know Becky? And why did every answer he gave feel as though it had been carefully trimmed back before it reached the truth?

There was no point asking him outright again. George had tried that already and got nowhere. No, if he wanted answers, he would have to be clever about it. He would have to win Ben over somehow, draw him in, and make him comfortable enough to slip up. One way or another, the truth would come out.

“Did the girls get off all right?” George settled down onto a wooden chair.

Ben nodded as he filled the kettle. “I dropped them at the school gates. Seemed the safest option while things are as they are.”

“Good thinking. Were they upset about last night?”

“Lucy was,” Ben said. “Daisy was oblivious, thank God.”

George gave a slow nod. “They’re lucky to have you looking out for them, you know.”

Ben glanced at him and gave a small smile. “Thanks. They’re lucky to have both of us.”

George nodded again. He could feel his eyes narrowing and had to force the tension from his face, stretching it into something that passed for a smile. “You’re not from round here, are you?” he asked.

“Macclesfield. I’ve got a house over there, but I thought it would be better for the girls if I came here rather than try to uproot them and take them back with me.”

George nodded once more, studying him. “You do know Becky’s missing, don’t you? She hasn’t just gone off on a whim.”

Ben turned from the kettle, his expression steady. “Of course I know. And like you, I’m trying not to rock the boat for the girls. The last thing they need is to be dragged into care and split up.” Something in the way he said it made George pause.

As if caring for the girls wasn't just some passing act of kindness for Ben. As if he had already thought it all through and come to the same conclusion George had. He found that unsettling.

The kettle clicked, and Ben reached for two mugs. “Tea?”

George lifted his own cup slightly. “Already sorted, thanks.”

Ben nodded and spooned sugar into one mug. “You look like you're in a lot of pain.”

George gave a dry laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Ben looked at him over his shoulder. “You should probably still be in the hospital.”

“Probably.”

“But you discharged yourself.”

George said nothing to that.

Ben poured the water and let the silence sit for a second before speaking again. “For the girls?”

George looked at him properly then. “What else?”

Ben didn't answer straight away. He picked up the teaspoon, stirred his tea, then set it down with a small clink. “I get it,” he said at last. “I do.”

George wasn't sure he liked how easily Ben said that.

“You’ve not answered my question,” he said.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“What you’re doing here.”

Ben’s gaze held his for a moment, calm and unreadable. “Helping.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

George let out a breath through his nose. “You’re a long way from your own home. You knew Becky. You’ve moved yourself in here, more or less. Surely you can see why I might wonder.”

Ben picked up his mug. “I can see why you might.”

“But?”

“But I’m here because two girls were left in a mess, and somebody had to step in.”

George’s jaw tightened. “Somebody already had.”

Ben took a sip of tea. “Then they’re fortunate they have two people willing to share the load.”

The words were mild enough, but George heard the edge underneath them all the same. Not rude exactly, but deliberate. A reminder that he was not the only one staking a claim on being their protector. He didn't like that at all. Still, he kept his voice even. “If we're laying our cards on the table, maybe you can tell me about your relationship with Becky? What was she to you?”

Ben looked down into his mug, then back up again. “Just someone I knew. Nothing more you need to concern yourself with.”

There it was again, the wall slamming down.

George smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “That sounds like something a man says when there’s plenty to concern myself with.”

Ben’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Maybe. Or maybe it means Becky’s business is her own.”

George nearly laughed at that. Becky’s business had seeped into every corner of those girls’ lives and poisoned half of what it touched. There was no such thing as her business being her own. But he bit the thought back. There was no point pushing too hard—not yet.

Instead, he took another sip of tea and said, “Well, whatever brought you here, I’m glad the girls had a quiet enough morning.”

Ben nodded. “So am I.”

They paused in silence for a moment, the radio warbling softly in the background, the kitchen too tidy, too calm for the undercurrent running through it.

George could feel it plainly now. Ben might speak softly and carry himself well, but there was something locked up inside him. Something he had no intention of sharing.

And George, sore and tired though he was, felt the old instinct sharpen inside him. He would find out eventually. He always did.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

George went home for a couple of hours that afternoon to water his plants and put a load of washing on. He was glad he was staying next door, but he didn't want to be a burden.

Still, the longer he was there, the more Ben puzzled him.

All morning, George had watched him getting on with the ordinary household chores as though he belonged there, tidying up, sorting things out, then calmly preparing the evening meal. It unsettled George more than he cared to admit. After asking Lucy a few careful questions yesterday, he had learned that Ben had paid for the food he was now cooking and had even topped up the electricity meter. The heating had been turned up too, and the house felt warmer than George had ever known it with Becky under that roof.

The difference in the girls was impossible to miss. They looked happier. Lighter. More at ease than they ever had when their mother was around. Lucy had more or less said so herself. Quietly, almost shamefully, she had admitted that part of her dreaded Becky coming back and wrecking everything.

That stayed with George.

Not because he thought Lucy was wrong to feel it—she wasn’t—but because it was desperately sad. A girl of fifteen shouldn’t feel relief at her mother’s absence. George knew that much. If his own mother had vanished when he was that age, even for a single day, he would have been beside himself. But Lucy was different. She had learnt too young that peace sometimes arrived only when certain people were gone.

Still, she didn’t need to worry because Becky wouldn't be coming back. Not now. Not ever.

George was the only one who knew that for certain, and he intended to keep it that way. Whatever it took, he would help those girls build something better than the life they had been given. Something safe, steady, and close enough to happy that, in time, they might even believe they deserved it.

What still troubled him was who had tried to break in last night. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that it might have had something to do with Irene and the scuzzy people she mixed with. He was fairly sure one of them had attacked him after he warned her off, though in his current state, he was hardly in a position to deal with that. Still, once he was stronger, he would get his revenge.

At least they had stopped turning up at the house or stopped doing it openly. No more knocking on the door and making a scene. George suspected they had been after the drugs that Becky had got hold of, the very drugs that had set all of this mess in motion. They wouldn't know Jamie had already got them back.

Once again, only George knew that.

As far as anyone else knew, the drugs were either in the house or had simply vanished along with Becky. This meant that the danger had not necessarily gone away; it had only shifted shape. People like Irene and her druggie mates didn't just shrug and move on. They waited, watched, and came back when people began to relax.

George knew the type. He'd mixed with enough of the slimy bastards while he was incarcerated. They lived for whatever they could get their thieving hands on, by any means necessary, with no regard for anybody else.

Even so, the house had been quieter. No banging on the door or drunken voices in the garden. No strangers hanging about outside pretending to mind their own business. On the surface, things had settled down. But George didn’t trust peace that arrived too suddenly.

He stood at his kitchen window for a moment, looking out towards Becky’s house, his thoughts turning over and over. If the people sniffing around really were connected to Irene or to Becky’s drinking pals, then they were unlikely to let it drop forever. Eventually, somebody would decide to try again. And next time, the girls might be there on their own.

The thought made his jaw tighten.

He wasn't fit enough yet to deal with much of anything. Every movement still sent pain flaring through his ribs and shoulders, and the bruising across his body was slow to fade. But when it did, he would sort Irene and the rest of that poisonous little circle out properly.

For now, all he could do was watch, wait, and stay close.

He turned from the window and went back to the washing, but his mind stayed next door.

The girls were safer than they had been in a long time. Warmer, too, and better fed. Lucy looked less drawn every day. Daisy had started laughing more, real laughter, not the thin little sound of a child trying to be brave. Ben had helped with that. George could admit it, even though the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Still, help was help.

And George was not stupid enough to reject something useful just because it unsettled him, not without good reason anyway. He would keep his opinions to himself for now and carry on as though all was well. But he would watch Ben as closely as he watched everyone else. Perhaps more closely. Because kindness was one thing. Stepping into another person’s chaos and taking charge of it was something else entirely.

Sooner or later, Ben would show his hand. He was certain of it.

And when he did, George intended to be ready.

***

“I’ve bought a doorbell camera,” Ben told George when he returned next door. “It should arrive tomorrow.”

George nodded. “That’s a good idea. At least we’ll know who’s been creeping about at night.”

“Yeah. It can be angled to catch the gate and the path as well. If it works properly, we could get one for the back door too.”

“I can pay for one of them if you want to order it.”

Ben shook his head. “No need. I’ve got it covered. But thanks.”

George gave a small nod, though his mind had already moved elsewhere. It struck him then that he had no idea how Ben paid for any of these expenses—the food, the electricity, and now the camera. Ben spent money easily enough, but George had no clue what he actually did for a living or how he funded the lifestyle he seemed to lead. It was another question to add to the growing list. Not one to ask just then, though. The girls would be home soon, and the last thing George wanted was to create tension in the house before they walked through the door.

Ben picked the girls up from school, and by the time George wandered through to the kitchen, they were already settled at the table with their homework spread out in front of them.

The whole house had a lived-in warmth to it now, with school bags by the back door, pencil cases open, the delicious smell of cooking drifting from the slow cooker. It was such an ordinary scene, and yet George found something almost painful in it. Ordinary had been in very short supply in that house for a long time.

Ben had made sausage casserole with mashed potatoes for tea that evening, proper comfort food, the sort that filled the kitchen with rich, savoury smells and made Daisy ask every five minutes when it would be ready. By the time they sat down to eat, she was practically vibrating with impatience.

It was excellent too. Better than George would have expected from a man who looked as though he ought to live off takeaways and charm alone.

After they had eaten, they played cards at the table until the girls’ bedtime. Daisy grew sillier with every round, collapsing into giggles whenever she won and accusing everyone else of cheating whenever she lost. Even Lucy relaxed enough to laugh properly, rolling her eyes at her sister while trying and failing to hide her amusement.

George watched them all more than he played.

He watched the ease between the girls and Ben, the way Daisy leaned against his arm without thinking, the way Lucy no longer seemed constantly braced for something to go wrong. He watched the light in the kitchen, the clean plates stacked by the sink, the small, warm shape of an evening that looked almost like family life.

It should have pleased him more than it did.

Instead, it left him with that same restless feeling Ben always stirred in him. Gratitude, yes, because the girls were happier than they've ever been. But there was something else too, something darker and harder to name. Maybe it was just the unknown. All the stories out there about grooming and trafficking—not that he really knew what that meant, but he knew it was a real thing.

When the girls had finally gone up to bed, George and Ben sat in the living room and watched the news together. Neither of them said much. The television filled the silence, voices talking about politics and crime and bad weather somewhere else, none of it really going in.

Afterwards, Ben stood and stretched. “I’m off,” he said. “Long day.”

George nodded from his chair. “Night.”

Ben hesitated for a moment, then said, “The camera should be here by lunch tomorrow. I’ll fit it before the girls get home.”

“Good.”

Then Ben headed upstairs, and a few minutes later George heard a door close.

Left alone, George muted the television and sat in the hush that followed.

The house creaked around him as it settled for the night. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard gave a soft groan. Pipes clicked in the walls. Familiar sounds. For a moment, he let himself imagine that all the danger had passed, that the worst of it was behind them now. But the feeling didn't last, because too much still didn't add up.

Ben was here. Becky was gone. The girls were happier than ever. And George, who should have been relieved by that, couldn't quite shake the sense that they were all living in the middle of something unfinished.

After a while, he switched the television off altogether and hauled himself carefully to his feet. His body ached less than it had the day before, though not by much. He turned off the lamp and made his slow way upstairs, pausing on the landing to listen.

Nothing. Just quiet.

He went into the small bedroom and lowered himself onto the bed with a weary groan, then lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, the camera will go up. Then, perhaps, they would start to see who had been lurking in the shadows. And maybe that would bring answers instead of more questions.

Chapter Thirty

There had been no drama in the night this time, at least none that any of them knew about.

George was up early enough to see the girls before Ben drove them to school. He sat at the kitchen table and watched Daisy demolish two boiled eggs and a mountain of toast, while Lucy, who was clearly not built for mornings, picked at a single round of toast as if even chewing was too much effort before nine o’clock.

By the time Ben returned from the school run, George had already washed the breakfast dishes, emptied the bin, and put the kettle on. Two mugs stood ready on the side.

He made the tea, then the two men sat at the dining table in the quiet kitchen.

George wrapped both hands around his mug. "I take it you knew Conrad?” It was the first of the questions he had been lining up in his head.

Ben put his mug down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I knew of him. We never actually met.”

George tilted his head. “That’s odd, isn’t it? I’m sure I remember seeing you here when Conrad was still alive.”

Ben stiffened almost at once. He drew in a slow breath before answering. “He was at work whenever I came over.”

“Every time?”

Ben nodded. “As far as I know, yeah. I never met him.”

George let that sit for a second.

“And when did you first meet Becky?”

Ben’s expression hardened. “Not this again, mate. It’s getting a bit boring now.”

“Humour me,” George said mildly. “You’ve got to admit it’s unusual, a man your age stepping in like this for someone you barely knew.”

“I never said I barely knew her.” Ben’s voice sharpened. “I knew her well enough. And I’ve always taken an interest in the girls.”

George held his gaze. “That’s exactly the part I’m struggling with. What sort of interest? And before you get offended, it’s a fair question. It’s the sort of thing the authorities would ask too, if they happened to turn up unannounced.”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “Nothing sleazy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

George studied him for a few long seconds. “I hope not, Ben. I really do. But these days, you can’t be too careful.”

Ben gave a humourless little smile. “Fair enough. But I could say the same about you.”

The words hit George like a punch he hadn't seen coming. Still, he couldn't deny the point. From the outside, an older man hovering protectively around two vulnerable girls might look just as questionable. The difference, of course, was that George knew his own heart. He had never looked at Lucy or Daisy with anything but concern, affection, and a fierce need to protect them. Even so, he inclined his head slightly. “That stung,” he said. “But it was fair. I can assure you, I’ve got no ulterior motive. I only want to keep them safe until Lucy is old enough to stand on her own two feet.”

Ben lifted his mug again. “Or until Becky comes back?”

“Exactly. That's what I meant.” At once, heat crept into his cheeks. He lowered his eyes to his tea, annoyed with himself. He needed to be more careful. One loose word at the wrong moment and people would start drawing conclusions. Ben said nothing, but George could feel the silence shift between them, could feel the moment hanging there longer than it should. He took a sip of tea to cover it.

Across the table, Ben watched him with a look George couldn't quite read.

Neither of them spoke for the next few minutes.

George knew then that this was not a man who would be easily unsettled or neatly pushed into a corner. Ben gave away very little, and when he did, he chose it carefully.

This meant that George would also have to be more careful. Because if he was ever going to find out the truth about Ben, he would need patience, not clumsy questions or careless slips of the tongue.

***

Just after lunch, the doorbell camera arrived, and Ben spent most of the afternoon fitting it.

When he was done, he showed George the picture on his phone. The image was startlingly clear, every detail of the path and front gate sharp enough to make George feel uneasy and reassured at the same time. Ben explained that both their phones would ping with an alert if anyone came near the house.

That helped.

Having it there made the place feel safer, more protected somehow. Still, George had no intention of going back to his own house full-time just yet. Not while things were still uncertain. He was far happier staying where he was, for as long as the girls wanted him there.

Once they came home from school, the atmosphere in the house changed as it always did. The tension eased. The place softened around them.

One thing had become obvious to George—whether he liked everything about the situation or not, he and Ben both cared deeply about the girls. Whatever else sat unspoken between them, that much was true. And perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps, between them, they could keep things steady.

That evening, laughter filled the house once again.

Daisy was in one of her excitable moods, chattering through tea and giggling at almost everything, while Lucy looked more relaxed than George had ever seen her.

George sat back and watched them, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction settle over him.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lucy

Icould hardly believe how much my life had changed.

Part of me was still waiting for something awful to happen, for the whole thing to fall apart and remind me that lives like mine did not just suddenly become easy. But so far, nothing had. Each day passed much like the one before, and instead of feeling dull, it felt like a gift.

Having George there was lovely.

He had always hovered in the background before, just Mum’s friend from next door, always around in some vague way. Kind, yes. Thoughtful too. But easy to overlook, like a piece of old furniture that had simply always been there and never demanded attention. Now that he was living among us properly, I was seeing the person underneath all that bulk and slowness and age.

He was funny. Not in an obvious way. His humour was dry, almost deadpan, and sometimes he would say something so unexpected that it caught me off guard and made me laugh properly, the kind of laugh that hurt my stomach and left my eyes watering. I hadn't done much of that in a long time.

And Irene had stayed away. Thank God for that. She hadn't come near us since Ben moved in, and whether that was because she was frightened, embarrassed, or simply distracted by something else, I couldn't care less. I was just relieved. The prowler from a few nights ago still played on my mind now and then, especially when the house went quiet, and I was trying to get to sleep, but no one else seemed especially rattled by it. George and Ben both acted as though it had been dealt with, or at least contained, and I tried to follow their lead. They were the adults after all.

The cash was still hidden in my room, tucked inside a battered old shoebox I'd had for years.

And as far as I knew, the money was still sitting untouched in Mum’s account.

I had already decided that after school, I would ask Ben to take me into town so I could check it.

I felt awkward bringing up money with Ben after everything he had already done for us. He had been so generous, and I hated the idea of sounding ungrateful. Still, I had decided that if there was money left in the account, I would take out another hundred pounds and give it to him. It was the very least I could do. He was feeding us, keeping the electricity topped up, and using his car and petrol to ferry us about as if it were nothing.

He picked us up at the gate at the usual time. Daisy was already in the back seat.

“Any chance you could take me into town, Ben?” I asked, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

He just smiled and nodded. “Of course, Miss Lucy. Your wish is my command.”

Daisy burst out laughing. Clearly, it was some joke between the two of them, but I didn't ask.

Ben turned the car round and drove straight towards the cash machine. I hadn't even needed to explain what I wanted. He had spared me the embarrassment of asking outright, and I was grateful for that.

At the machine, I slipped Mum’s card in and checked the balance.

For a second, I genuinely thought my legs might give way.

There was almost eleven hundred pounds more in the account than before.

I stared at the screen, certain I had misread it, then quickly printed a mini-statement with trembling fingers.

Three hundred and eight pounds had come from Mum’s work.

The rest was from Universal Credit.

I felt sick.

That meant Mum had been getting that much money every month, on top of her wages and child benefit. All that money, and still Daisy and I had gone without. All that money, and we had lived in that freezing house, scraping together food, never knowing what state she would come home in. The thought of it turned my stomach. It didn't make me feel relieved. It made me angry.

She'd had more than enough, and she'd wasted it on drink and God knows what else.

I hated her in that moment. Properly hated her. And more than anything, I found myself hoping she never came back.

After I withdrew another hundred pounds, there was still well over fourteen hundred left in the account. I couldn't get my head around it. How could she let us live the way we did when that kind of money was coming in every month?

But I wasn't stupid. However good the balance looked right then, it didn't mean we were safe for long. We still needed to be careful. We needed to keep living as cheaply as possible because I had no idea how long any of it would last. I didn't know how Universal Credit worked or whether Mum had to check in with someone to keep receiving it. I didn't know how quickly her wages would stop. In fact, I didn't know anything for certain. All I knew was that we had money for now. And for now, that had to be enough. We would take it one day at a time and hope that somehow, some way, things would sort themselves out.

When I got back to the car, I held the cash out to Ben.

He frowned. “What’s that for?”

“Food. Bills. Everything.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “It probably won’t cover all of it, but it will help.”

He didn't even look tempted. He just shook his head. “No chance, Luce. You put that money away for a rainy day. I’m more than happy to look after you both until your mum gets back.”

The words hit me so hard my eyes filled before I could stop them. “How did we get so lucky to find you?” I asked.

His face softened at once. “Oh, stop it, squirt, or you’ll set me off as well.” He nodded towards the money. “Put it back in your bag. And, by the way, we’re having chippy tea.”

I blinked. “We are?”

“We are,” he said firmly. “Looks like we’re building a routine. Wednesdays are now chippy tea day.”

“Yay!” Daisy squealed from the back seat.

I smiled in spite of myself and slipped the cash back into my bag.

We rang George to ask what he wanted. He answered in that ridiculously posh telephone voice he put on sometimes, and all three of us burst out laughing before I could even speak properly. When Ben told him we were getting fish and chips, George said he would love haddock and chips, and he sounded genuinely touched that we had thought to ask.

By the time we pulled up outside the house, the hot paper parcels were warming my knees, filling the car with the gorgeous smell of salt, vinegar and fried batter. We all hurried inside before the food could get cold, and soon we were sitting around the table eating straight from the paper.

It was one of those moments that felt so simple and so perfect that part of me didn't quite trust it.

After we had eaten, Ben showed us the doorbell camera properly. He explained how it worked and how we could check who was at the door without actually opening it. Daisy thought it was brilliant and kept wanting to press things on the phone just to see the picture change. Even I had to admit it made me feel better. Safer. As if the house had grown an extra pair of eyes.

George seemed better, too. Not completely himself, not yet, but he was moving more easily than he had been, getting in and out of his chair without that tight, pained look on his face. Watching him, I had a sudden sinking feeling that he might decide to go back home soon. The thought caught me off guard. I would miss him. Even if home for him was only next door, it wouldn't be the same. He'd become part of everything without me even realising it. The evenings, the meals, the little comments that made Daisy giggle, the quiet sense that someone older and steadier was there if things went wrong.

As I watched him peering at the camera app with suspicious concentration while Ben explained it for the second time, I realised just how much I had come to rely on him. And that scared me a little, because relying on people had never ended well for me before.

Chapter Thirty-Two

George

That night, the doorbell camera picked up movement at half past two, but George didn't notice the alert until the following morning. He was in the kitchen when he saw it flashing on the phone. At once, he looked towards Ben, but Ben gave him a pointed glance, then flicked his eyes towards the girls. Not now.

George understood. So he held his tongue while Daisy chattered through breakfast and Lucy picked at her toast. He did nothing until Ben took them to school. Only when the house was quiet again, and the front door had closed behind them, did George allow himself to feel the full weight of his unease.

Ben returned in a foul mood. “It was some weaselly little bloke,” he said the second he stepped into the kitchen. “Bald on top. Peering through the letterbox. Trying the handle. He didn’t hang about, but he was definitely checking the place out.”

George’s stomach tightened. “I tried to get the video up on my phone,” he said, annoyed with himself. “But I forgot what you told me.”

“Give it here.” Ben took the phone from him and pressed the screen a few times. Then he handed it back with the footage playing.

George recognised the man straight away. It was Irene’s sidekick—the same pathetic little creep who seemed to trail after her now and then, hanging about outside the flats with his shoulders hunched and his face pinched, always looking as though he was about to nick something. George felt a hard pulse of fury go through him. So he had been right. Irene hadn't let it go. After all her shouting, all her poison, she'd now sent one of her horrible little mates to prowl around Becky’s house in the middle of the night. Whether he had been looking for drugs, money, or just a way to frighten the girls, George didn't much care. The point was, he had been there, and that was enough.

George told Ben who it was, and neither of them wasted time discussing it. They headed straight across the road. Although George was still struggling to move, he refused to be left behind.

Irene answered the door in a grubby dressing gown, cigarette in one hand, looking as rough as she usually did at that hour. The second she saw George, her expression soured. “Oh, for God’s sake. What now?”

George didn't bother with pleasantries. “You tell your creepy little friend to stay away from Becky's house.”

For the briefest second, something shifted in her face. “What friend?”

Ben chipped in then. “The camera-shy mate who came over at half past two this morning, looking through the letterbox and trying the handle.”

Irene barked out a laugh, but there was no real confidence in it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

George took a step closer. Not threatening, not quite, but enough to make her feel it could be. “Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. “We’ve got him on camera, clear as day. And I know exactly who he is.”

That landed. He saw it in her eyes.

She looked away for a second, dragged on her cigarette, then gave a shrug that was meant to seem like she couldn't care less. “Maybe he was just passing.”

“At half two in the morning?” Ben said. “Trying the door handle?”

Irene said nothing to that.

George could feel his temper building, hot and steady in his chest. Lucy’s face flashed into his mind then, pale and shaken after Irene screamed at her in the street, with Daisy crying beside her. The thought of that same child asleep upstairs while one of Irene’s grubby little mates crept around the house in the dark made something ugly stir inside him. “I warned you already,” he said. “You leave those girls alone. You leave that house alone. And you tell your filthy friends to do the same.”

Irene glared at him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“No,” George said. “But I can decide what happens next.”

That made her pause.

Ben folded his arms beside him. “You’re lucky we’re not taking the footage straight to the police.”

At that, Irene’s mouth tightened. She was still defiant, still nasty, but the certainty had gone out of her eyes. George could see it. She hadn't expected to be confronted with proof or for the two of them to turn up together on her doorstep. Good.

“Is that understood?” George asked. He hadn't even addressed his assault with her yet, but he didn't intend to let it go—just wait until he was feeling a little more in control.

For a moment, Irene said nothing. Then she gave the tiniest nod. Not an apology. Not even close. But enough.

George held her gaze for another second, making sure she felt the weight of it, then stepped back. Ben did the same.

Neither of them said another word as they crossed back over the road.

Once inside the house again, George let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. His body was aching from the effort of it, his bruises still sore under his clothes, but he didn't regret going. Not for a second.

Ben checked the footage once more on his phone. “Do you think she got the message?"

George looked towards the window, across at the flats, his jaw still tight.

“Yes,” he said. “I think she did.”

And if she hadn't, then next time he would make sure there was no room for doubt.

***

Once again, after lunch, George went back to his own house for a couple of hours. He had asked Ben to order another doorbell camera for the back door, seeing as the first one had already proved worth every penny. As soon as Ben had done it, George sent the money over, adding extra to cover the meals he had been eating next door as well. Ben protested, saying he had it all in hand, but George wouldn't hear of it. He had never mooched off anyone in his life, and he was not about to start now at sixty-six years old.

He had to admit, Ben was growing on him.

George no longer believed there was anything malicious about the younger man. Even so, Becky’s drunken words still echoed in his head from that last conversation. There was someone in her life who meant harm to the girls. Of that, he was certain. And George would not allow it. He would take the law into his own hands if he had to. He had done it before, and he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. The thought made him shudder.

His mind slid back to that night.

… Shouting ripped through the darkness.

George had only just shuffled outside to put the bin out when the sound made him stop dead. The noise came from next door—raised voices, frantic and ugly. All at once he was thrown back to the last time he had heard a row like that from Becky’s house, the night Conrad died.

Folding his arms against the bitter cold, he hurried through the side gate. He had just reached the back door when it flew open.

A scrawny man in a baseball cap came bolting out so fast he nearly crashed straight into him.

“Watch it, mate,” George snapped, stumbling aside as the man shot past.

He stood there for a second, watching him tear down the path and dive into a car parked on the road. The engine started at once, the tyres crunching against the kerb as it pulled away.

A chill moved through George that had nothing to do with the weather. He turned and went through the open door.

He found Becky on the kitchen floor, curled on the tiles with one arm wrapped around her middle as if she was in agony. A glass had been smashed in the sink, and the whole room stank of stale booze and something sickly sweet beneath it.

George dropped to his knees beside her. “What the hell’s happened?”

“Gerroff me. I’m fine.” She shoved at his hands, clumsy but aggressive.

“You don’t look fine.” He ignored her for a moment and reached for her arm. “Come on. Let me help you up.”

This time she let him.

He hauled her to her feet, though she swayed as soon as she was standing.

“Who was that bloke?” he asked.

“Some waste of space,” she muttered. “Wanted drugs but didn’t have the money.”

George stared at her. “So now you’re dealing from your own kitchen with those girls upstairs?”

She gave a harsh little laugh. “Where else am I meant to do it?”

Then, as if to make herself clearer, she bent over the worktop, drew a line with the side of her hand, and snorted it up her nose without a flicker of shame.

George recoiled. “Jesus Christ, Becky.”

She straightened and wiped her nose. “Want some?”

“No, I do not.” Disgust rose hot in his throat. “And shouldn’t you be selling it instead of shoving it up your nose?” He remembered all too well the trouble she had been in before, the sob stories about missing stock and dangerous men and misunderstandings that were somehow never her fault. He hadn't believed her then, and he didn't believe her now. “They’ll come after you again,” he said. “Only this time I’ve not got a penny to my name to drag you out of the mess.”

“Stop going on, George. You’re giving me a bloody headache.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, then looked at him with that glassy, ugly amusement in her eyes. “Anyway, it won’t matter. I’ve got another plan. One that’ll keep me in booze and gear for as long as I need.”

George looked at her in disbelief. “What, selling yourself again? You tried that before, and it went nowhere. Your nether regions probably look like a dropped meatloaf.”

Becky barked out a laugh, foul and sharp. “Cheeky bastard.”

Then she leaned in slightly, smiling in a way that turned his stomach.

“But just so you know, it’s not my nether regions I’m talking about.”

Back in the present, George shoved away from the table so suddenly that the chair legs scraped hard against the floor.

He spun across the kitchen, his jaw tight, his pulse hammering.

He didn't want to think about that night any longer. He would rather not hear Becky’s voice in his head or see that smile ever again.

Because even now, after everything, the memory of it still made his blood run cold.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lucy

When we got home from school the next day, something felt different straight away.

Ben and George seemed to be getting on much better. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what had changed, only that something had. The tension that had sat between them before seemed to have eased, and the house felt calmer for it. It was such a lovely thing, coming home to warmth and voices and the smell of dinner cooking, as though we had somehow stumbled into the sort of family life other people took for granted.

Even Daisy had changed. She didn't ask nearly as often about going to her friend’s house any more. She had enough love and attention at home now, enough warmth to wrap herself in, and it was beautiful to watch her settle into it. She seemed lighter these days, happier, as though some tight little knot inside her had finally started to loosen.

We were halfway through dinner when something hit me so suddenly I nearly choked on my chicken. Mum’s phone. I hadn't checked it in ages. The thought made my stomach drop.

As soon as we finished eating and I had helped clear the dishes, I slipped away upstairs and found the phone in my bedroom. The screen was black. Dead. Swearing under my breath, I rummaged through the drawer we'd filled with the last of Mum’s things from her room when Ben moved in. Her charger was tangled at the bottom. I plugged the phone in and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

It took a few minutes before it had enough life in it to switch on. The second it did, the room filled with message alerts, one after another, beeping so fast it made my heart pound. I stared at the screen in horror. How had I been so stupid?

Why had I not made sure it stayed charged, kept taking calls and received messages like before? I felt angry with myself then, really angry. Things had been going so well, and I had let myself get careless.

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I started going through everything.

In the end, there was nothing truly disastrous, just several messages from Mum’s boss saying her final wages had been processed and her P45 was on its way in the post.

But there were also messages from someone saved as JimmyJay. The first few were friendly enough, casual even, but they quickly changed tone. By the end, they were sharp and demanding, asking where she was and what had happened to whatever she had promised him. Reading them made my skin prickle.

There were missed calls, too. A few were from unknown numbers. A couple from Irene. And several from JimmyJay.

I sat there staring at the screen, my pulse thudding hard in my throat. It felt as though I had narrowly avoided something, though I couldn't have said exactly what. All I knew was that I had been lucky. Very lucky. This time, anyway. I wasn't sure how often Mum would be in touch with the schools, especially Daisy's, or the benefits department, but it seemed okay for now.

I left the phone on charge in my room and promised myself I would check it every single night from then on. No more forgetting. No more taking chances.

I checked the phone again that night before I got into bed, and there was a voicemail from Irene.

She sounded drunk, the same as ever, her words slurring together, but one part of it stood out. She was ranting about two guard dogs and telling Mum to call them off.

I had no idea what she was on about.

Mum had never had one dog, never mind two.

***

The next few days passed without anything much happening. George was slowly getting back to normal, moving more easily and looking less battered every day. And the better he seemed, the more I dreaded the moment he would finally say he was going home. I tried not to think about it too much. It was silly, really. George only lived next door. It wasn't as though he was moving to the other side of the country. He would still be there, still popping in, still keeping an eye on us like he always had. But it wouldn't be the same, and I knew that. He had become part of the rhythm of things—his slippers squeaking on the kitchen floor, his dry little comments from behind his mug of tea, and the way Daisy ran to show him her homework if she got a spelling right or a sum done properly was adorable. Even the way he grumbled about the news while secretly loving the fact that we all sat together to watch it was amusing.

Without meaning to, we had all got used to him, and I think he had got used to us too.

By Sunday, he was moving well enough that I caught him carrying a basket of washing back across to his house, and something in my chest dipped. He looked almost like himself again, sturdy and capable, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he decided he had overstayed his welcome.

That evening, while Daisy was upstairs brushing her teeth and Ben was on the phone in the garden, I found George alone in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea.

“You’re doing better,” I said, trying to sound casual.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, I'm not ready to pop my clogs just yet.”

I smiled despite myself. “I can see that.”

He stirred his tea slowly. “The bruises are fading, and the stiffness is easing off.”

“That’s good.”

“It is.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. I stood there pretending to straighten the tea towels while my heart knocked stupidly against my ribs.

George looked at me properly then. “What is it, love?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Rubbish. Spit it out."

I gave a small laugh, then stared at the worktop because I couldn't quite bear to meet his eyes. “I just wondered when you were planning to go back home.”

There. It was out in the open.

For a moment, he said nothing.

When I finally looked up, his face had softened.

“Is that you politely trying to get rid of me?” he asked.

“No.” The answer came too fast, too fierce. “No, of course not. The opposite."

He nodded once, almost as if he had known that would be my answer.

I swallowed. “It’s just... things are good at the moment.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want anything to change.”

George set his spoon down. “Things will have to change eventually, Lucy. They always do.”

The words made panic flutter low in my stomach.

“But not straight away,” he added, more gently. “I’m not rushing off tomorrow, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Relief washed through me so quickly that I felt stupid for it. “Oh.”

He gave me a long look over the rim of his mug. “You didn’t think I’d leave before I knew you were all right, did you?”

I didn't know what to say to that. Because the truth was, I didn't know if I would ever feel all right without him any more. Not really. Ben was wonderful, and I trusted him, too, but George was different. Solid and familiar. Like he'd always been there, caring for us in the background. “I just like having you here,” I said at last, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

For a second, I thought I'd embarrassed him. His expression shifted, and he looked down into his tea.

Then he cleared his throat. “Well. I like being here.”

That simple answer made something tight inside me ease.

From upstairs, Daisy shouted my name, asking where her reading book was, and the spell broke at once.

“It’s on the bed,” I shouted back.

George took a sip of tea. “Crisis over, then.”

I laughed. “For now.” I turned to go upstairs, feeling much lighter than I had a moment earlier.

Chapter Thirty-Four

George

George sat on the sofa after the girls had gone to bed, the television on low in front of him, though he wasn't really watching it. Ben was still upstairs moving about, drawers opening and closing, floorboards creaking now and then. He hadn't said goodnight yet, so George expected him back down at some point.

His mind was elsewhere. He felt uneasy since Lucy had mentioned earlier that there had been calls and messages on Becky’s phone from someone called JimmyJay.

George had asked to see them, and after a bit of scrolling and piecing things together, he was almost certain JimmyJay was the same weedy little bloke caught on the doorbell footage. The same one peering through the letterbox, and no doubt trying the handle in the middle of the night. And probably the same one who had done him over.

George hadn't forgotten that, not for a second. Although he was improving daily, he could still feel it in his body sometimes, in the dull ache that settled into his ribs and shoulders by evening, in the stiffness that crept back if he sat too long. He had no intention of letting it go—not for a second. But he also knew he would have to tread carefully.

That was the problem. A man like JimmyJay could skulk about in the dark and stick his nose where it did not belong, but people would give him the benefit of the doubt. George, on the other hand, already had a criminal record. However unfair it was, that marked him. It followed him into every situation and tilted the ground against him before he had even opened his mouth. People were quick enough to side against a convicted man. They liked things neat and simple, and a past like his made him easy to blame.

He had learnt that lesson the hard way. And one thing was certain. He didn't intend to spend another minute of his life behind bars. So whatever he did next, he would do it properly. He would watch, listen, and wait for JimmyJay to make a mistake, because men like that always did. Sooner or later, he would show his hand, and when he did, George would be ready to pounce.

Ben trudged downstairs in his socks a little later to make a final cup of tea before bed.

George stepped into the kitchen behind him. “Making one of those for me?” he asked.

Ben glanced over. “I thought you were still snoring in front of the TV.”

"Wasn't snoring. I was thinking." George lowered himself carefully into one of the chairs.

Ben chuckled. "Sounded like snoring to me." He set a mug down in front of George and sat opposite.

For a while, they drank in silence. Things between them were better since they'd visited Irene together, but there was still a slight edge.

"You're a good man, Ben. I see that you have the interests of the girls at heart." George stared into his tea. "I'm sorry I doubted your motives, but I don't trust many people on this planet."

Ben leant back slightly. “Really? I can't say I noticed.”

George gave a humourless smile. “In my defence, I've never had a reason to. I’m not used to people sticking around when things get messy. Especially with no reward.” The words surprised even him a little. He hadn't meant to say that much. But once it was out, something in him seemed to loosen. “I’ve made mistakes in my life,” he continued. “Some bad ones. The sort that doesn't wash off, no matter how many years go by. People see it in you. Even when they’re smiling, even when they’re being polite, they’re seeing what you did long before they see who you are now.”

Ben was quiet for a beat. “You mentioned you'd been in prison before. Is that what you mean?”

George gave a slow nod. “I was angry and careless. That’s usually a bad combination.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I spent years paying for it, and maybe I deserved to. But once you’ve got that mark against your name, that’s it. It doesn’t matter what else you do. To some people, you’re only ever defined by that one thing.”

Ben watched him steadily. “So how do you see yourself?”

George let out a breath through his nose. “These days? As an old fool with a bad back and too much time to think.”

That made Ben smile.

George went on before he could lose his nerve.

“My mother was everything to me,” he said quietly. “The best person I ever knew. She kept me straight more times than I can count. When she died...” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “Something in me went with her, I think.” He hadn't said that out loud before. Not like that. The words hung in the kitchen between them.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said after a moment. "What did she die of?"

"Cancer. It was brutal. I never want to see anyone suffer like that again."

"I'm sorry, George."

George shrugged. "It is what it is—life sucks sometimes."

“No,” Ben said gently. “Sometimes it’s far worse than that.”

George looked at him then.

There was no pity in Ben’s face, which he appreciated. Just a kind of quiet understanding that made something in George’s chest ache unexpectedly.

“I should’ve done more sooner for those girls,” George blurted suddenly.

Ben inhaled deeply and nodded.

“That’s the truth of it," George continued. "I told myself I was keeping the peace, staying close, waiting for the right time. But the truth is, I saw enough to know it was bad long before all this unfolded. I just kept thinking I could manage it without making everything worse.”

“You were trying to protect them.”

“I was trying not to lose access to them.” He paused. “That’s not always the same thing. Sometimes I felt like I was straddling a fine line. Becky wasn't an easy person to deal with, as I'm sure you know.”

Ben nodded again but didn't rush to fill the silence after that.

"Then," George continued, "Becky told me something one night, half-cut and laughing to herself, and after that... I don’t know. It stopped feeling like I was helping. I started feeling like I was standing at the edge of something rotten and pretending I couldn’t smell it.

Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What did she tell you?”

George shook his head at once. “Not tonight.”

Ben accepted that with a small nod. "Fair enough."

George stared down at the contents of his mug. “All I know is that those girls deserve better than what they had. Lucy’s too young to be carrying everything the way she does. Daisy should still think the world is a decent place. And every time I look at them, I think about all the years they’ve had to live with fear in their own house.” He swallowed. “It makes me furious, if I’m honest.”

That hung there too.

Ben didn't flinch. “I’ve gathered,” he said.

George huffed out something close to a laugh. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

There was another pause.

Then Ben said, “You care about them. That’s not a crime.”

“No. But what a man does because he cares can be—I've discovered that firsthand."

Ben held his gaze. “Are you telling me you’re frightened of what JimmyJay might do or of what you might do if he gives you a reason?”

George shrugged one shoulder. “I’m old enough now to know that unchecked anger comes with a cost. That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want those girls dragged through any more misery because I lose my temper and make a mess of things.”

Ben nodded slowly. “Then don’t do it alone.”

George frowned. “What?”

“Whatever comes next, don’t decide on your own about what needs doing. Talk to me first.”

George gave him a sceptical look. “Are you volunteering to be the sensible one?”

“Someone has to be.”

That dragged a real laugh out of George, brief but genuine. Then he looked at Ben for a long moment. “You know, I might trust you more than I did, but I still don’t fully trust you.”

Ben smiled into his tea. “I know.”

“But I do believe you care for them.”

“I do.”

George studied him, then nodded once. “That will have to do for now.”

Ben raised his mug slightly. “Glowing review.”

George did the same. “Don’t get used to it.”

They drank the rest of their tea in a silence that felt different from the ones before, less wary and less strained. Not easy exactly, but easier.

When George finally stood, his knees cracking in protest, he rested a hand for a moment on the back of the chair. “Ben.”

“Yeah?”

"Joking aside. We need to be able to rely on each other, especially for the sake of the girls."

"I agree."

"I know we both have secrets where Becky is concerned, but we need to be honest with each other. Totally honest."

"What? You mean now?"

George shook his head. "I'm too tired tonight. But soon."

"Okay."

“And if something does kick off with JimmyJay or anyone else, we need to handle it properly.”

Ben’s face turned serious again. “Agreed.”

“No heroics. No stupidity.”

“From either of us,” Ben said.

George gave a short nod. “Especially from me.”

Ben watched him for a second, then said, “Thanks for being honest with me.”

George looked faintly embarrassed. “Don’t make a song and dance of it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With that, George turned and headed slowly for the stairs.

His body still ached, the past still sat where it always had, heavy and unchangeable, but something in him felt marginally less tightly wound than before.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Once the girls had been dropped off at school the next morning, George and Ben slipped back into the conversation they'd started the night before.

“So,” Ben said, leaning against the kitchen counter, “what do you want to do about this JimmyJay bloke?”

George gave a small shrug. “I’m not sure yet. He hasn’t been back since we had words with Irene about the camera, so maybe that was enough to put him off for now.”

Ben nodded, though he didn't look convinced. “And the assault?”

George scratched at his chin. The rough scrape reminded him he needed a shave. “Truth is, I’m only assuming it was him. I can’t be certain. And even if I were, I’ve no idea how I’d prove it.”

Ben was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you think they had anything to do with Becky disappearing?”

George felt his heart slam hard against his ribs. He could be ruthless when he had to be, but lying had never come easily to him. His mother had seen to that. Even now, after everything, deceit sat badly with him. “It’s possible,” he said carefully. “They were all mixed up in drugs together. That much I do know.”

Ben straightened. “Becky was doing drugs?”

The surprise in his voice caught George off guard. He frowned. “Sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Why would I know?” Ben asked. “I didn’t see her that often.”

George gave him a long look. “No. I suppose you didn’t.” He let the silence stretch for a beat, then added, “You still haven’t told me how you knew her.”

Ben met his eye. “No. I haven’t.”

George waited.

Ben said nothing more. It was obvious he was not ready to share, and George knew better than to push when somebody had already braced themselves like that. So he let it go, for now.

The rest of the morning passed in practical tasks. They shared the household jobs between them, moving around each other more easily than they once had. Ben made a cottage pie for tea, filling the house with the rich smell of mince and onion and gravy, and by lunchtime George headed back to his own house for the afternoon.

When he returned a couple of hours later, he found Ben sitting at the table with Becky’s phone in his hand, scrolling through the messages with a frown.

Ben glanced up. “Do you think JimmyJay could be Jamie? Similar sort of name.”

George shook his head. “I can’t see it. If it was the same man, surely the contact would be saved the same way.”

Ben considered that. “It’s strange, though. Jamie was desperate to see Becky when she first vanished, but he hasn’t been back since. I’m tempted to message him and ask outright what he wanted.”

“I wouldn’t do that, son.”

Ben looked up sharply. “Why not?”

George paused. He weighed up how much to say, then decided the truth, or as much of it as he could safely give, was still the best option. “Because I met him here,” he said. “And I let him search the house for whatever it was he’d come for.”

Ben stared at him. “You what?”

“He was causing trouble. I wanted him off the girls’ backs.” George held his gaze. “And he found what he was looking for.”

Ben set the phone down slowly. “Which was?”

“A massive stash of drugs behind the bath panel,” George said. “Becky had been dealing for him.”

For a second, Ben looked as though he thought he must have misheard. “You’re joking?"

“I wish I was.” George lowered himself into a chair, his joints protesting. “I knew she’d been dabbling. I just didn’t realise how far it had gone.”

Ben was still staring at him. “Jesus.”

“A few months back, I had to help her out of a mess,” George went on. “She’d built up a debt with a dealer. A bad one. He was threatening her and threatening the girls, too. I ended up giving her the last of my mother’s money to get her clear of it.”

Ben’s expression hardened. “Was that Jamie?”

“I don’t know,” George admitted. “She never told me properly. Only cried, begged, and promised she’d stop.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Then, before long, she was at it again.”

Ben looked ill.

George watched him for a moment, then said, “I don’t know how much you knew about Becky, if anything at all. But there was more going on than drink.”

Ben swallowed. “Like what?”

George hesitated only briefly this time. “She was selling herself as well.”

Ben’s face changed at once. “You mean she was...”

George nodded.

“A prostitute?”

Another nod.

Ben looked away, jaw tight, then back again. “And she was doing that here?”

George said nothing. He only nodded once more.

The silence that followed was thick and ugly.

Ben stared at the table for a long moment, then dragged a hand over his mouth. “While the girls were in the house?”

George nodded again, more slowly this time.

Whatever colour had been in Ben’s face seemed to drain away.

For a few seconds, neither man spoke. The kitchen felt colder somehow, despite the warmth drifting from the oven.

At last, Ben let out a breath that sounded almost unsteady.

“They were living with that,” he said quietly. Not a question. A realisation.

George looked at him, and for once, there was no suspicion in him, only a grim sort of sadness.

“Yes,” he said. “They were.”

Ben turned his head and stared towards the window, his expression dark with something close to fury. “And Lucy never said a word.”

“No,” George said. “Because girls like Lucy learn the hard way that saying things doesn’t always help.” That one landed. George could see it in the way Ben’s shoulders tightened. For all George’s doubts about the man, he believed his anger in that moment. It was not performative. It was not for show. Ben looked genuinely sickened, and George, against his better judgement, found himself respecting him for it.

“She should never have had to carry any of that,” Ben said.

“She shouldn’t,” George replied. “Neither of them should.”

Ben looked back at Becky’s phone on the table. “And now we’ve got this JimmyJay, Jamie, whoever else, all orbiting round the wreckage she left behind.”

George gave a slow nod. “That’s about the size of it.”

Ben was quiet for a long time after that.

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed. It was flatter. Colder. “We need to make sure none of them ever get near the girls again.”

George held his gaze. “Yes. We do.”

“So if the drugs were still here, where the hell did Becky go?” Ben asked. He looked genuinely shaken now, all the easy confidence gone from his face. “That makes the situation worse, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” George said quietly. “It does.”

Ben sank back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. For the first time since George had known him, he looked defeated.

“Something bad happened to her,” he said. “It must have. If she were alive and free to come and go, she’d have come back for the drugs.” His eyes lifted to George’s. “We really do need to tell the police.”

George said nothing.

He could see the panic building in Ben and could almost hear the thoughts crashing together in his head. Missing woman. Drugs. Dangerous men. Two children living in the middle of it. It was the natural conclusion, the obvious one, and George let him sit with it.

He didn't interrupt, argue or try to steer him too quickly, because he knew Ben needed to arrive at the harder truth on his own. The police might search for Becky, yes. They might ask questions, sniff around and make all the right noises. But they would not leave Lucy and Daisy where they were while they did it. Not once they discovered the full state of things. The girls would be taken. Split up, quite possibly. Dragged off into care and handed to strangers who knew nothing about them.

George couldn't let that happen.

So he waited, watching Ben’s face as the silence stretched between them, knowing that sooner or later he would understand there was more at stake here than Becky.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Lucy

Over the next few weeks, everything settled into an easy routine. George had started sleeping back in his own house again, but he still made sure he was there every afternoon after school and stayed until we went to bed.

Daisy had moved back into her room, and she seemed happier and more confident than I had ever seen her.

Ben was still paying for everything in the house and would not take a penny from either George or me.

“Are you rich?” Daisy asked him one Wednesday night over fish and chips.

Ben laughed. “Not rich. Comfortable. My parents give me a generous allowance, and I’ve got my own business, which is doing pretty well.”

“You never really talk about your family,” I said. “Where do they live?”

“Macclesfield. They’ve got a big house and some land, so I suppose you could say they’re rich.”

I glanced at George then and saw the look on his face. He was scowling, and I couldn't work out why.

“Do you see them much?” I asked.

“They’re off on a cruise at the moment,” Ben said, “but when they’re home, I see them at least once a week.”

“Have you got any brothers or sisters?” Daisy asked.

Ben rolled his eyes, smiling. “What is this, twenty questions? No. I’m an only child.”

That night, while I was getting ready for bed, I checked Mum’s phone as usual and felt my stomach drop. There was a message from Universal Credit saying they would be calling the following Tuesday for a telephone interview.

That was it.

Everything we had managed to hold together suddenly felt as though it was about to collapse. We wouldn't be able to dodge it any more. We would have no choice but to tell them Mum had vanished.

My whole body started shaking.

I hurried back downstairs and was relieved to find George and Ben were both still there, sitting together and talking. The second they looked up and saw my face, they both jumped to their feet.

“What is it?” George asked.

I could barely get the words out. I told them about the message, and as soon as I had finished, George dropped heavily onto the sofa.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I suppose it was always going to happen sooner or later.”

“What do we do?” I asked, tears spilling down my face before I could stop them.

“Don’t upset yourself, Lucy,” Ben said. “It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

He was saying all the right things. But his face told a different story altogether.

***

Over the next few days, we decided that on Monday, we would finally report Mum missing.

We agreed on a story and stuck to it. We would say Mum had told us she was going away for a while and had asked George and Ben to look after us until she got back. We hoped that would be enough to stop anyone stepping in straight away, enough to let us stay where we were for now. And if not, then there was nothing more we could do.

The days leading up to it passed in a blur.

I felt sick with dread, but underneath that was something else, too, a desperate need to get it over with. The waiting had become unbearable. Every time Mum’s phone lit up, every time there was a knock at the door, every time somebody looked at me for a second too long, I felt as though I might crack.

George and Ben both told us to go to school as normal on Monday. They instructed us to behave exactly as we would if the story were true. In that version of things, Daisy and I would know no more than anyone else.

So we went. And it was the worst day of my life. Every lesson dragged. Every voice grated on me. I couldn't concentrate on anything. My stomach twisted every time I imagined police officers in our house, opening cupboards, asking questions, and deciding our whole future over one conversation. By the end of the day, I felt wrung out.

When I came out of school and saw Ben waiting at the gate, relief hit me so hard I nearly cried.

I got into the car and leaned towards him slightly. “How did it go?” I whispered.

Ben glanced at Daisy in the rearview mirror.

I gave a small nod to show I understood.

When we got home, Daisy rushed inside ahead of us, and Ben and I stayed in the car, still strapped in. For a second, neither of us spoke, and the silence made my heart hammer even harder.

Then he turned to me. “We told the police,” he said. “They’re making enquiries.”

I gripped the edge of my seat.

“They want to come by once you’re home and talk to both of you,” he went on. “But depending on how that goes, I think they agree it’s better to leave you where you are for now.”

The relief that swept through me was so intense that it made me feel weak.

Once we had changed out of our uniforms and eaten a snack, Ben called the police to say we were ready for them.

Before they arrived, George sat with Daisy and explained that we had reported Mum missing because we had not heard from her in a while. She seemed to take it surprisingly well. The idea of speaking to the police made her nervous, but not for the reasons I worried about. She still associated them with Dad dying, which made sense. Especially now, with Mum gone too.

So we sat together on the sofa and waited.

It wasn't long before two young policewomen arrived. They were both pretty and soft-spoken, and they were kind to Daisy straight away, which helped more than I expected.

They asked when we had last seen Mum.

We couldn't give them an exact date, which was believable enough. Who really kept track of that sort of thing in our house? Besides, we had to be careful. We had already lied to Mum’s boss, and giving precise dates now felt far too risky. Daisy didn't know any of that, of course.

They asked about our living arrangements, too, and about Ben and George.

Mostly Ben.

That was hardly surprising, considering he was the one staying overnight.

Daisy and I both told them the truth, at least the truth that mattered most. That Ben had been doing an amazing job of looking after us. George as well. That we loved them both. And that we wanted to stay in our own home with them.

In the end, the police agreed to leave things as they were for the time being. But they said they would have to refer everything to social services, who would carry out their own investigation.

It was the best outcome we could have hoped for.

For now, at least.

And as frightening as it all still was, there was also relief in it. The secret was no longer pressing down on us in quite the same way. It was out there now, said aloud, and somehow that made it easier to breathe.

***

The next few days were a blur of police officers and social workers, even at school. It felt as though there was always somebody waiting to ask another question or to take us aside and go over the same things again in a slightly different way.

While we were in lessons, the police took Mum’s phone and searched the house, but just like us, they found no real sign of her.

They asked us a lot about Jamie, JimmyJay, and Irene. Daisy and I told them everything we knew, which wasn't much beyond what we had already said.

George had more to tell them.

I overheard part of his conversation and learned that he had admitted to letting Jamie search the house and that Jamie had found a package hidden behind the bath panel. The police seemed very interested in that.

George also told them he had been attacked one night after leaving our house.

That got their attention, too.

It was obvious by then that they were taking Mum’s disappearance seriously, which was both terrifying and oddly reassuring. At least nobody was brushing it off any more. At least somebody was finally looking properly.

The best part, if there even was one, was that there was still no serious talk of Daisy and me being removed.

Not for now.

Even so, I never really relaxed.

Every time I was called out of class, my stomach dropped. Every time a phone rang in the house, I felt a jolt of panic shoot through me. It was exhausting, living in that constant state of waiting, but there was nothing else to do. We'd handed everything over now. All we could do was answer the questions, tell the same story again and again, and hope no one looked too closely in the wrong place.

At school, the social workers were kind enough, but I hated being seen with them. I hated the way people glanced over, pretending they weren't looking. I hated wondering what they had been told and what they were guessing for themselves. Daisy seemed less bothered. She just answered what she was asked in her small, serious voice and then went back to class as though none of it mattered. I wished I could do the same.

At home, things felt different too.

Not worse, exactly. Just more fragile.

The police had been in every room, opened cupboards, and looked under beds. They asked about Mum’s clothes, her habits, her friends, and the last time we had seen her properly sober. It was strange having people pick over our lives like that, yet part of me had wanted them to. I had wanted someone else to finally see what it had really been like.

George took most of it in his stride. He always seemed calm when the police were around, but I noticed how exhausted he looked afterwards and how quiet he was. Ben was much the same. Between the two of them, they held everything together, making meals, sorting lifts, and keeping the routine normal, as if ordinary life could still run alongside all this. And somehow, it did. That was the strangest part.

We still had dinners at the table, watched television in the evenings, and argued over what to have for tea and whose turn it was to dry the dishes. The normal moments carried on threading through the nightmare, and maybe that was what kept me sane.

One afternoon after school, Daisy was in the living room drawing at the coffee table, George was half asleep in the armchair, and Ben was in the kitchen peeling potatoes. For a second, I just stood there in the doorway and looked at them. My family, I thought.

Not the one I had been born into. Not the one that anybody official would write down on a form. But mine all the same. The thought made my throat ache.

Ben looked up first. “You all right?”

I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I was.

I went into the kitchen a while later and leaned against the worktop while Ben cooked. “Do you think they’ll find her?”

Ben paused for a second before answering. “I don’t know.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but I appreciated that he didn't lie.

George had appeared in the doorway by then, moving slowly as always. “They’re looking harder than anyone ever has before,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean they’ll find her.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

The honesty of it settled heavily over us.

I looked down at the floor. “Part of me doesn’t want them to.”

Neither of them spoke.

I felt suddenly ashamed. “That sounds awful.”

“No,” George said quietly. “It sounds honest.”

I looked up then.

His face was gentler than I expected, and for some reason, that affected me more than anything else.

“I just keep thinking,” I said, my voice catching, “if they do find her, then everything changes again. Even if she’s alive. Even if she comes back. Everything changes.”

Ben set the peeler down. “Things have already changed, Lucy.”

“I know.” But that was exactly what frightened me. For the first time in my life, change had brought something good, and I didn't trust life enough not to snatch it away again.

That night, when I was lying in bed listening to Daisy moving around in the next room and the low murmur of George and Ben downstairs, I realised I was no longer scared of the truth coming out.

What I was scared of was losing what we now had. The warmth. The safety. The feeling that I mattered to someone.

I'd spent so long surviving that I hadn't noticed when survival started to feel a little like living.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

George

The police searched the entire house, looking for anything that might point to where Becky had gone. Thankfully, they did it while the girls were at school. He and Ben made sure everything was tidied away before they got home, sparing them the upset of knowing strangers had been through their things.

But the search turned up nothing.

That, more than anything, seemed to trouble the police. Becky had not taken a single thing that suggested she had left by choice—not her phone, which was usually glued to her hand. Not her bank cards, or even any obvious way of getting hold of money. It was becoming harder and harder for anyone to pretend she had simply gone off somewhere and would come strolling back when it suited her.

The police clearly believed something had happened to her. And because George and Ben said she had told them she was going away, it made them look even closer at them as suspects in her disappearance. They hadn't realised that telling a fib would make things so much worse for them. However, it had made things better for the girls. At least they had been able to stay at home for now, at least.

On Wednesday, day three, they woke to find the street crawling with detectives and uniformed officers. Cars lined the kerb, and officers were already going door to door, knocking on neighbours’ houses and asking what they knew about the missing woman.

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall and hear what everyone’s saying about Becky,” he muttered to Ben as they stood at the bedroom window. “She was never exactly the street’s favourite neighbour.”

Ben stared out at the officers. “God knows what Irene will come out with,” he said under his breath, watching two police officers head up the old woman’s path.

George gave a grim little nod. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough.”

***

That afternoon, while George was dozing in his armchair at home, a thunderous banging on the front door jolted him awake.

For a moment, he had no idea where he was. His heart was hammering, his neck stiff from sleeping awkwardly, and the room seemed to tilt around him. Then the knocking came again, hard and urgent, and he pushed himself up and made his way to the door.

When he opened it, two plain-clothes officers stood on the path, flanked by several uniformed policemen.

“We need you to come with us to the station, Mr Fallow,” the older detective said, holding up his warrant card.

George stared at him. “What the hell for? I’ve already told you everything I know.”

The other detective spoke in a calmer voice. “Do you need to change your shoes or get a jacket?”

Still completely bewildered, George did as he was told. He changed his shoes, grabbed a coat, and followed them out to the unmarked car parked at the kerb.

The drive to the station passed in silence.

Once inside, they took his details, then led him down a corridor and into an interview room. The place was plain and airless, with a table bolted to the floor and a smell of stale coffee lingering in the room.

They were polite enough. They offered him a drink. Asked if he wanted a sandwich. Treated him almost kindly, which unsettled him more than if they had barked at him. He couldn't shake the feeling that they had something on him. Something serious. His stomach turned. He couldn't go to prison again—it would kill him.

After a short wait, the two detectives came in. The older one took the lead, settling into the chair opposite him with the kind of calm expression George instinctively distrusted.

He brought up George’s prison sentence almost at once. Mentioned, in that clipped professional voice, that George had served time for killing his mother.

George had agreed with him. There was no point arguing with a court decision, not after all these years. He had learnt that much.

Then they asked him again to go over the last time he had seen Becky.

George kept his answers careful and vague. He blamed the confusion of Christmas and New Year; the dates had blurred into one another more than usual. “She told me she was going away for a few days,” he said. “Asked me to keep an eye on the girls while she was gone.”

“Did she say where she was going?” the detective asked.

George shook his head. “No. Becky could be a bit dodgy at times. Better not to know, usually. I was more concerned about the girls than where she was headed, to be honest with you.”

“When did she say she’d be back?”

“She didn’t. I just assumed it would be a few days.” He paused, then added, “It wasn’t until Lucy found the phone and bank card in the bedroom that we started thinking it was odd.”

“Why didn’t you report her missing?”

George spread his hands slightly. “Because I wasn’t convinced she was missing. She said she was going away. And if you knew Becky, you’d know she hated the police. Properly hated them. If she’d come back and found out we’d reported her missing after she told us she’d be gone, she’d have gone spare.”

The detectives exchanged a look.

Then the older one asked, “When did Ben Marshall become involved?”

George rubbed a hand across his chin. “I’m not certain of the exact date. A few days later, maybe. He turned up saying Becky had asked him to check on the girls, and that’s what he did. Then, after I was attacked, the girls were frightened, and Ben decided to stay there until Becky came home.”

“What was Ben Marshall's relationship with Becky?”

George lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask him.”

The detective watched him for a beat too long.

Then he said, “Irene Slater claims he was Becky’s pimp.”

George felt something hot and vicious flare in his chest. “That evil old cow knows nothing,” he snapped. “If anyone was more likely to be involved in that sort of thing, it’d be her. Her and that scruffy little hanger-on she’s always got trailing after her.”

The detective gave a slow nod and wrote something down.

“What do you think has happened to Becky?” the younger detective asked.

George gave a weary shrug. “I haven’t a clue. For all I know, she could be holed up with some bloke somewhere, living the life of Riley. One thing I do know about Becky is that she was the most unreliable person I have ever met. She did exactly as she pleased and never gave those girls a second thought. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

"Was?"

"Sorry?" George asked, confused.

Are you aware that you are talking about her in the past tense? Did something happen to Becky, Mr Fallow?"

"Don't be so stupid. I'm talking about her like that because she isn't here, and I don't know where she is. But when she was here, she was unreliable. End of."

They kept him there for hours after that.

Round and round they went, circling the same questions, picking at dates, repeating details, and trying to catch him out. George recognised the tactic for what it was. They were hoping exhaustion would do what evidence could not.

But it was becoming clear they had nothing concrete on him.

They did bring up Irene again. This time, they told him she had accused him of being a dirty old man and suggested he had some sleazy reason for wanting to stay close to the girls.

George had stared at them in disbelief.

He told them exactly how ridiculous that was. He told them that he had been gay his entire life and that anyone who knew him could confirm it. The whole thing would have been laughable if it had not been so offensive.

Eventually, they let him go. By then, he felt wrung out, hollowed by tension and tiredness. He pushed himself up from the chair and made his way out, his legs unsteady beneath him. The corridor outside felt too bright after the stale little interview room, and for a second, he just stood there, trying to gather himself.

Then movement caught his eye.

Two officers were steering Ben into another interview room further down the corridor.

George stopped dead. “Hey,” he shouted, his voice sharper than he intended. “Who’s looking after the kids?”

Ben twisted round as he was taken through the doorway. His face was pale, his expression tight with something close to panic. “They’ve taken the girls, George,” he called back. “Please. Try to find them. Daisy was in a right state.”

For a second, George couldn't move. The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

They had taken the girls.

His mind went blank, then lurched violently into motion. He visualised Lucy and Daisy, frightened and confused. They had been dragged off by strangers after everything they had already been through.

A sick, furious helplessness rose in him so fast he thought he might choke on it.

“No,” he said, though nobody was listening. “No, no, no.”

An officer nearby told him he needed to leave.

George turned on him so quickly that the man took half a step back. “Where have they taken them?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you.”

George felt something dark flare inside him. “You can’t discuss it? You’ve dragged two frightened children out of their home, and you can’t discuss it?”

“Sir, you need to calm down.”

That nearly made him laugh. Calm down. As if calm had any place left in this shitshow.

He forced a hand over his mouth for a second, breathing hard through his nose, making himself think. Anger would not help. Not here. Not now. He knew that much. One wrong move in a police station and he would hand them exactly what they wanted, another reason to paint him as unstable, dangerous, and guilty. So he swallowed it. Or tried to.

“When can I find out where they are?” he asked, with his lips turned in.

“You’ll need to speak to social services.”

Social services. George stood there, every muscle in his body rigid, and knew in that instant that the one thing he had been trying to prevent all along had happened anyway. They had taken the girls.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

George was out of his mind with worry.

The girls had been taken to God knows where, and no one would tell him a thing. After what felt like endless calls and being passed from one person to another, he finally managed to reach the social worker’s secretary. She promised to ring him back as soon as she had spoken to her boss.

For now, that was all he had, but it wasn't enough.

He knew in his bones that all of the trouble had come from Irene and the filthy things she had been saying. Poison like that spread. Once it was out there, people listened, especially when it targeted someone like George. A man with a criminal record was already easy to judge. If he laid eyes on her while he was so angry, there was no telling what he might do.

And now they had hauled Ben into the station as well. What the hell for?

At least George had something to fear from the police. He had secrets, history, and more to lose than most, with officers poking about in his life. But Ben had done nothing except follow George’s lead and try to help the girls. That was what made it all feel even more twisted.

Still, it wasn't Ben he kept thinking about.

It was Lucy and Daisy.

Poor little Daisy would be beside herself. George could picture it too clearly—her frightened face, the tears, the confusion, and the way she would be turning to her sister for answers, as though she would be able to make sense of it all. He prayed they had kept them together. He prayed Lucy was holding up well enough to comfort her, though the thought of Lucy being forced to do that yet again made his chest ache.

He spent the rest of the evening pacing from room to room.

He couldn't settle.

At one point his legs nearly gave way beneath him, and only then did he force himself to stop long enough to make a cup of tea. Even that felt impossible. The kettle took an age to boil. His hands were trembling by the time he poured the water. He stood at the counter drinking it in small, bitter mouthfuls, barely tasting it.

It was a strange sort of grief, he realised. As if something had been cut away from him without warning. As if he had lost a limb and was only just beginning to understand the shape of the absence. He couldn't even remember properly how he had filled his days before the girls came into his life. Before homework and teatimes and making sure there was enough milk in the fridge. Before Daisy’s chatter and Lucy’s guarded little smiles. Before all of it.

They had slipped into his life so completely that he had stopped noticing the change.

And now they were gone.

The thought of them in some strange place, frightened and alone, made something twist sharply inside him.

He stood in the middle of his living room, staring at nothing, and understood with sudden clarity that his life was no longer his own. Those girls had taken it over, and he wouldn't rest until he had them back.

***

The next morning, he woke once again to the sound of knocking at the door. This time it was the back door.

Hope shot through him so suddenly he was halfway down the stairs before he had properly gathered himself. He yanked the door open and found Ben standing there, hair a mess, clothes creased, and his whole face drawn with tiredness.

“Any news?” George asked, stepping aside to let him in.

Ben shook his head as he came through. “I didn’t get back until about midnight. I was hoping you’d heard something.”

“Not a word. I was waiting for the social worker to ring me back, but she never did.” George closed the door behind him. “Want a coffee?”

Ben let out a breath. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table while George filled the kettle.

“So, how did you get on last night?” George set two mugs on the counter.

Ben raked a hand over his face. “They said they’d had information that I was Becky’s pimp.”

George glanced at him and nodded grimly. “They put that to me as well.”

“I hope you told them it was complete rubbish.”

“Of course I did.” George spooned coffee granules into the mugs. “And just so you know, it was Irene who fed them that little gem. She also made out I was some dirty old man trying to get my grubby hands on the girls.”

Ben stared at him. “Why the hell would they listen to a word that comes out of that drunken old cow’s mouth?”

George poured the water and carried the mugs to the table. “I’ve no idea. But they let us both walk out again, so clearly they’ve got nothing to back any of it up.”

“Maybe not.” Ben reached for one of the mugs. “But because of her, the kids have been taken into care.”

The words settled between them like something poisonous.

George sat down heavily opposite him. “Temporary care, hopefully.”

Ben gave a humourless laugh. “That’s meant to make it better, is it?”

“No,” George said quietly.

For a moment neither man spoke.

Ben looked exhausted in the morning light, older somehow.

George stared down into his coffee. “I should’ve done more.”

Ben looked up sharply. “Don’t start that.”

“I should.”

“No.” Ben’s voice was firm now. “You didn’t take them. You didn’t spread lies. You didn’t make this happen.”

George’s mouth tightened. “No. But I didn’t stop it either.”

Ben didn't answer straight away.

After a moment, he said, “Then we stop it now.”

George looked at him across the table. The tiredness was still there and the anger, but underneath both was something harder. Resolve and determination.

“We get hold of social services,” Ben said. “We find out where they are. We make sure they know the girls need to stay together. We keep pushing until somebody listens.”

George nodded slowly. “I’ve already started.”

“Good.”

“I’m not letting this lie.”

“Neither am I.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Then George said, “If Irene has ruined this for us, I swear to God...”

Ben cut in before he could finish. “No.”

George’s eyes flashed. “No, what?”

Ben leant forwards. “You go anywhere near her in the state you’re in, and you’ll give them exactly what they want. Another reason to keep the girls away from us.”

George knew he was right. That was the worst of it. “I hate that she gets to sleep in her own stinky pit, while those poor girls are waking up in a strange bed this morning.”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

George looked away, out of the window and towards the patch of sky above Becky’s roof. “We need to find them.”

“We will.”

"But even if we do, what are the chances they'll allow them to come home?" George rubbed at his temples.

"Maybe not, but we've still got to at least try."

George got to his feet. “Right then.”

Ben frowned. “What?”

“I’m not sitting here waiting for a call that may never come.” George reached for the phone on the side. “I’m ringing the secretary again. And if she fobs me off, I’ll ring someone else.”

Ben stood too. “That's what I'm talking about.”

George glanced at him. "Are you staying?”

Ben gave him a tired, crooked look. “Where else would I be?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The social worker’s secretary was full of apologies and excuses about why no one had returned George’s calls the day before. Yet even then, she still couldn't put him through to anyone directly. All she would say was that somebody would ring him back within the hour.

Ben, meanwhile, rang Daisy’s school to see if she was there, but the receptionist, who was usually all warmth and chatter, sounded clipped and wary. It was obvious she had been told not to give anything away.

So less than five minutes later, the two men were back at the kitchen table with the kettle on and four slices of bread in the toaster, neither of them really knowing what else to do with themselves.

At last, the social worker rang back.

She told George, in a calm voice that made him want to throw the phone at the wall, that he would need to apply for a residency order before anyone could make any proper decision about the girls staying with him.

George felt his heart sink.

It sounded long. Formal. Complicated. The kind of thing that could take forever, while the girls sat in some stranger’s house, wondering why nobody had come for them.

Then Ben held out his hand for the phone. “Let me speak to her.”

George passed it over without argument.

Ben took the call into the hallway, lowering his voice so much that George could only catch the occasional murmur. It went on for several minutes. Long enough to make George’s nerves stretch tighter and tighter. When Ben finally came back into the kitchen, his face had changed.

“Well?” George demanded.

Ben put the phone down on the table. “I’ve got a meeting with her at one.”

George stared at him. “How?”

Ben gave the faintest hint of a smile, though there was no real pleasure in it. “I played my ace card.”

“What does that mean?”

But Ben only shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

George didn't like that answer, but he didn't have the energy to argue. A meeting was something. A chance. More than they had half an hour ago.

Still, the rest of the morning dragged unbearably.

George tried sitting, then standing, then pacing. He made more tea than either of them could possibly drink. Ben was not much better. He kept checking his phone, glancing at the clock, running his hand over his jaw as though he could physically drag time forward.

Ben said he preferred to stay in George's house for the time being—the house next door seemed too quiet without the girls in it. Even though they wouldn't usually be home for ages yet, it was the anticipation of them arriving home that had steered his day. He had to make sure they had a hot meal to look forward to, but now he had nobody to cook for and nothing to look forward to. No chatter. No television turned up too loud. No Daisy asking what was for tea or Lucy hovering in the doorway, pretending she didn't need anything.

By half twelve, George felt wound so tight he thought he might snap.

When Ben finally reached for his keys, George was already on his feet. “I’m coming.”

Ben paused. “She asked to speak to me.”

“And I’m not staying here doing nothing.”

For a moment, it looked as though Ben might argue. Then he just gave a short nod.

“All right. Come on, then.”

And with that, the two of them left the house together.

“Where are we meeting her?” George asked as they went through the side gate between the houses.

“Here,” Ben said. “She’s coming to the house.”

George glanced at him. “Oh. I don’t know why, but I assumed you’d be going into town to meet her.”

“I would have done, but she said she was already doing home visits this afternoon and could fit us in.”

They went inside and sat at the kitchen table. It struck George as faintly absurd that they had only just left one table in his house to sit at another next door, barely ten paces away.

They hadn't been waiting long when both their phones lit up with an alert from the doorbell camera. A second later, the chime sounded through the house.

Ben stood at once, drew in a breath, and went to answer it.

“Ben Marshall?” a woman called.

“Yes. Hi. Come in.”

A moment later, Ben reappeared with a short blonde woman following behind him.

“This is George,” Ben said. “He’s the next-door neighbour. He’s been helping care for the girls as well.”

“We spoke on the phone earlier,” she said, holding out her hand to George. “Sandra Bond.”

George shook it. Her grip was firm, her expression pleasant enough, but there was something brisk about her, too. Efficient. Professional. The sort of woman who probably delivered difficult news every day and had learned how to do it with a calm face.

“Can I get you a drink?” Ben asked. “Tea or coffee?”

“A glass of water would be lovely, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

He came back a moment later with the water, and then all three of them sat around the table.

Ben didn't bother easing into it. “How are the girls coping?”

Sandra folded her hands lightly around the glass. “I’ve come straight from there, and they’re all right.”

George felt something in his chest loosen, if only slightly.

“Are they together?” Ben asked quickly.

“Yes,” Sandra said. “They’re staying with a foster carer, and they’re sharing a lovely bedroom.”

George shut his eyes for half a second. Thank God for that, at least.

“Obviously, they’re upset,” Sandra went on. “They’re worried about both of you. They asked me to pass on their love.”

Ben’s eyes filled at once. He looked down, jaw tight, then rubbed a hand over his face as if annoyed with himself for showing it.

“Would we be able to see them?” he asked. “As I said on the phone, I’ve no problem applying for the...” He shook his head. “Kinship...”

“Kinship order,” Sandra supplied gently.

Kinship order? George thought.

“Yes, sorry. That.” Ben swallowed. “How long does something like that take?”

Sandra gave him an apologetic look. “It isn’t quick, I’m afraid. On average, around four months.”

George felt his stomach drop. Four months. The idea of those girls sitting in foster care for four months while paperwork crawled along made his hands curl under the table.

“But,” Sandra continued, “you could apply to be a temporary foster carer in the meantime. As I said earlier, that can still take some time to put into place, but the first thing you need to do is find a solicitor who specialises in family law.”

Ben nodded, leaning forward. “Can we see them? They must be so worried. They’ve already been through enough.”

“I’ll see whether I can arrange family time,” Sandra said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. We just need to check over the information you gave me earlier.”

“But please,” Ben said. “Don’t say anything to them about the other thing yet."

George looked from one to the other, a cold confusion settling over him.

He had asked earlier if he could see the girls and had been told no. Flatly. That he would need to apply through the courts. Yet here Sandra was, speaking to Ben as though visits could probably be arranged, and discussing the possibility of him applying to foster them temporarily, as if that were a perfectly normal next step. Something about this didn't add up.

He could hear the conversation continuing, could see Ben nodding and asking the right questions, but his mind had snagged on one ugly little point and would not let go.

Why was Ben being treated differently from him?

Why had George been shut down while Ben was being offered options? It made no sense. Unless, George thought, staring at Sandra’s composed face, there was something about Ben that he still did not know.

And suddenly, more than ever, he needed to find out exactly what that was.

Chapter Forty

George didn't get the chance to question Ben.

As Sandra stepped out of the house, two plain-clothes detectives walked down George’s path towards his front door. The sight of them made something tighten at once inside his chest.

“May I help you?” George called over the privet hedge.

One of the men looked up. “George Fallow?”

George nodded. One of them seemed familiar, though he couldn't place him at first. “Yes. What can I do for you?” He went through the adjoining gate and met them on the path.

“Can we have a quick word?” the older one asked.

George led them inside.

The younger detective gave him a small nod once they were in the hallway. “We met when you reported the assault a few weeks ago, remember?”

George blinked, then it clicked. “Ah. Yes. I remember now.” His pulse picked up. “Did you find out who attacked me?”

The older detective was already opening the manila folder tucked under his arm. “We contacted the neighbour across the street to ask whether we could access her camera footage. She was away on holiday and only got back yesterday. She got in touch this morning and sent these over.”

He pulled out a photograph and handed it to George.

“Can you identify this man? He was seen entering your gate a couple of minutes before the assault.”

George looked down. And very nearly laughed with sheer vindication. It was JimmyJay.

There he was, caught clear enough to make George’s heart leap, the weedy little rat himself. George felt a surge of triumph so fierce it almost made him light-headed.

“I knew it,” he said. “I bloody knew it.”

The detectives exchanged a glance, then looked back at him.

“You recognise him?”

“Oh yes,” George said, still staring at the image. “That’s JimmyJay. Or at least that’s what he’s saved as in Becky’s phone. Same man from the doorbell footage. Same man snooping about her house.”

He lifted his head, suddenly energised.

And then he told them everything he knew.

About the messages on Becky’s phone. About JimmyJay’s missed calls. About the footage of him peering through the letterbox and trying the handle in the middle of the night. About Irene and the shabby little orbit of hangers-on around her. George even pointed them towards Irene’s flat, making it very clear that if JimmyJay was anywhere nearby, she was the likeliest route to him.

The detectives listened closely this time.

Really listened.

When they finally left, George stood for a second in his own hallway, the photograph and the folder gone, but the satisfaction still fizzing through him. It was not justice, not yet, but it was something. Proof. And best of all, he had been right.

He straightened his shoulders and headed back next door with a slow, almost jaunty swagger.

For the first time in days, he felt like the cat who had got the cream.

“What was that all about?” Ben asked as George let himself back in.

“You’ll never guess.”

Ben’s eyebrows lifted. “Go on, then.”

George could not keep the triumph out of his voice. “They’ve got footage. From a camera across the road. Clear as day, apparently, it was JimmyJay going through my garden gate and down the side of the house minutes before I was attacked. They saw him running out afterwards too.”

Ben stared at him. “You’re joking?"

“Nope.” George gave a sharp, pleased nod. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Ben looked impressed, though faintly puzzled too. “Why’s it taken them this long?”

“The neighbour was away. Only just got back and handed it over.”

Ben absorbed that for a second, then said, “I wonder if her camera picked up what happened to Becky.”

The words landed like a hammer blow. Just like that, George’s whole world seemed to shift under his feet. The small burst of triumph died instantly. He felt the blood drain from his face, though he fought to keep his expression steady. His mind lurched violently ahead, racing through possibilities before he could stop it. If that camera had a view of his path, if it had caught JimmyJay entering his garden, then what else had it seen?

It must've seen Becky going into his house and never coming back out. For one awful second, George thought he might be sick. The very footage he had been gloating over moments before, the proof that JimmyJay had attacked him, could also be the thing to destroy him completely. He stood there staring at Ben, hearing the echo of his own cheerful words as though someone else had spoken them.

Brilliant, isn’t it?

But it wasn't brilliant. It was catastrophic.

He forced himself to breathe.

Ben was still watching him, waiting, and George knew he had been silent a fraction too long.

“Maybe,” he said at last, though the word came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Depends on what angle it had, I suppose.”

Ben frowned slightly. "Are you all right?”

George dragged a hand over his mouth. “Just thinking.”

Because he was done for.

He knew it with a cold certainty that settled deep in his gut.

If that camera had seen Becky go into his house and never seen her leave, then it was over. The police would start pulling at that thread, and once they did, the rest would follow. His lies. The timeline. Everything. He had spent weeks believing he was managing it all, keeping the worst of it buried, literally and otherwise, but all it had ever taken was one overlooked camera pointed in the wrong direction.

Or the right one, depending on who you asked.

Ben was still speaking, saying something about asking the police whether the footage covered more of the street, but George barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere now, trapped in that single terrible image.

Becky at his door.

Becky stepping inside.

Gone.

He realised suddenly that his hands were trembling. He shoved them into his pockets and tried to anchor himself in the room, in the ordinary details. The smell of washing powder. The faint warmth from the radiator. Ben was standing by the table, unaware that the ground beneath George’s feet had practically just given way.

He needed to think.

Needed to know exactly what the camera had seen before anyone else said another word.

Because if Ben’s guess was right, then everything George had built, every careful move, every lie told to protect the girls and himself, was already starting to crumble.

Chapter Forty-One

George lowered himself onto one of the dining chairs before his legs gave way completely.

Ben was still talking, words tumbling out about going over to the neighbours. He had seen them get back the day before, before the police took George in, and they must have missed the officers who had gone door to door that very morning.

“I need to go and ask them to check the footage,” Ben said. “If their camera caught JimmyJay, it might have caught more.”

George barely heard him.

“What’s a kinship order?” he asked instead, his voice so faint it hardly sounded like his own.

Ben stopped—the room went properly still. He looked at George for a long moment, then said, “I need to tell you something. But it has to stay between us. It isn’t my story to tell.”

There it was again. That same maddening line he had used more than once already.

George looked up at him. “Then whose story is it?”

Ben swallowed. “Becky’s,” he said. “She’s my mother.”

George drew in a sharp breath so suddenly it almost hurt. For a second, he could only stare. Why had it never occurred to him? How had he missed it?

The age. The secrecy. The money. The interest in the girls. The fierce, almost personal protectiveness. It all slammed into place at once so neatly that it made him feel stupid for not seeing it sooner. Ben was not just some helpful stranger. He was Becky’s son. Which meant he was Lucy and Daisy’s brother.

George sat frozen, every ugly suspicion he had ever entertained about Ben shrivelling inside him. He had imagined all sorts. Some seedy. Some sinister. Some cruel. And all the while the truth had been sitting right there, simple and extraordinary. This was the best possible answer. The girls were not alone. Whatever happened now, with or without George, they had someone. Not just a kind man willing to help, but family. Real family. Someone with means, with stability, with every reason in the world to fight for them.

Once Ben started talking, he could not seem to stop. It all came out in a rush, as if he had held it in too long and now the dam had broken.

He told George that when he turned sixteen, he had searched for his birth mother. He had been lucky, he said. His adoptive parents had money, and they gave him a generous allowance, enough that he could pay a private detective to find her.

At first Becky refused to meet him. Then, when she hit one of the many rough patches that seemed to make up her life, she got back in touch. For money. Ben said it plainly, without bitterness, which somehow made it sadder. He had sworn to Becky that he would never tell anyone who he was. She wouldn't allow him to meet Conrad, who had never even known Ben existed. She had been fourteen when she got pregnant and had given the baby up straight away. Becky had never even seen him as a newborn, never held him, never looked at his face.

George listened in silence, the pieces falling into place one after another.

Ben had not had a bad life. Far from it. His adoptive family had been good to him—loving, stable, and comfortable. He was not driven by some aching need for a mother he had never really had. He did not even claim to care much about Becky, but he cared about the girls.

That, George realised, had been the truth all along.

“They’re the only reason I kept in touch,” Ben said at last, his voice quieter now. “I saw them a few times over the years, here and there. Enough to know what things were like in that house. Enough to know they needed someone.” He looked down for a second, then back at George. “So when Becky vanished, I knew I couldn’t just stay away.”

George said nothing for a moment. Then he let out a slow breath and shook his head, more at himself than anything else. “I thought all sorts about you,” he admitted.

Ben gave a tired half-smile. “I gathered.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know.” Ben’s face tightened. “But it wasn’t my secret alone. And once everything happened, once the girls were finally safe and things were settling, I didn’t know how to say it without turning their world upside down again.”

George could understand that. More than he wanted to. His thoughts went at once to Lucy. To Daisy. To what this would mean for them. A brother. A real brother. One who wanted them. One who had already stepped in and proved himself without asking for anything in return.

The girls would be all right. That thought came to George with such force that for a moment it eclipsed even his fear. They would be more than all right. They would have a chance.

Ben was still watching him, perhaps waiting for judgement, but George found he had none to give.

Only one question really mattered now. “Do you want them to know?”

Ben’s expression shifted, softened. “Eventually. When the time’s right. Not like this. Not while everything’s already such a mess.”

George nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s fair.”

The room fell quiet again.

Beneath the relief, the other truth still sat there, dark and waiting. The camera footage. George felt it all come rushing back at once. Should he confess all to Ben? Stop him from going across the road and potentially ruining everything for George? But he couldn't put that on anyone else. He had to just continue on and hope things worked out for him. What will be, will be, as his mother used to say.

Chapter Forty-Two

George watched from the window as Ben headed down the path and crossed the road.

He could have tried to stop him. Could have said they should leave it to the police now and not interfere, but that would have looked wrong, too eager, and out of character. The detectives had already told him the footage from across the road was clear, and the still image they had shown him proved it. The camera quality was excellent.

The question was, how much had it seen?

Becky had used the adjoining gate between the gardens. George wasn't even sure the camera had a full view of her gate or the path leading from it. For all he knew, it might only show the front stretch of his own garden and nothing more. He clung to that possibility, thin though it was.

There was nothing he could do now except wait.

He didn't want to go back to prison. The thought of it made his heart race until he could barely breathe. But this part was out of his hands now. Whatever that camera had caught had probably already been handed over. Whatever happened next would happen.

At least, he thought bleakly, if it all came crashing down, the girls would be looked after. At least that much no longer felt uncertain.

His pulse was hammering by the time he saw Ben coming back across the road. George stood, bracing himself for bad news. Whatever Ben had found out, he was about to hear all about it.

Ben came through the door and let himself drop onto the sofa with a weary thud.

“They’ve already sent the footage to the police,” he said. “So I suppose all we can do now is wait.”

George forced himself to stay still. “That’s good, then, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Ben dragged a hand over his face. “I wanted them to show me, but the husband was a bit of an arse.”

George gave a small shrug. “Never mind. I’m sure the police will get in touch if there’s anything useful on it.”

Ben nodded, though he still looked frustrated. “I was about to head to the school as well. I’d forgotten for a minute.”

“Yes,” George said quietly. “I’ve done the same myself a couple of times today.” He let out a breath. “What the hell are we meant to do now? I feel as though I’m stuck in limbo.”

Ben leant forward, elbows on his knees. “I need to start ringing round for a solicitor. One who specialises in family law. That should keep me occupied for a bit.”

George nodded. It sounded sensible. Practical. Exactly the kind of thing that needed doing. He was glad that Ben had something solid to focus on, because George felt as though he was one wrong thought away from coming apart. “I’ll leave you to it, lad,” he said. “I could do with a lie-down."

Ben looked up at him. "Are you all right?”

George managed a tired nod. “Just worn out.”

That, at least, was true.

He turned and moved towards the back door, each step feeling heavier than the last. Behind him, he could hear Ben already moving about, phone in hand, ready to start making calls.

George let himself into his house and struggled up the stairs. His gait seemed clumsy and slower than usual. He certainly wasn't as sprightly as he had been just that morning. A good rest would hopefully work wonders. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment before lowering himself back.

He needed to recharge his batteries while he waited for the knock at the door that might change everything.

Chapter Forty-Three

George couldn't move. He was lying on the bedroom floor with no idea how he had got there. The last thing he remembered was stretching out on the bed for a nap. After that, his mind was a blank.

His head was pounding. Not just aching, but hammering so violently it felt as though something inside his skull was trying to split free. He lay there blinking up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the room, of the strange angle of the wardrobe, of the dull afternoon light slanting through the curtains.

There was a smell, too. Urine. He caught it faintly and felt a wave of horror, though he could not even tell whether it was coming from him. To be honest, he couldn't tell much of anything. His whole body felt wrong—heavy and disconnected. As though something serious had happened while he was asleep.

Had he fallen?

Had someone attacked him again?

He tried to push himself upright, but the effort was useless. His arms wouldn't cooperate properly, and the room dipped sickeningly the second he moved. A crushing exhaustion dragged at him, stronger than fear, stronger than pain. He let his eyes close.

The next thing that pulled him back was the sound of knocking.

Distant at first. Then nearer. Then Ben’s voice was coming from downstairs. George hadn't locked the door. Ben must have let himself in.

A moment later, footsteps thudded up the stairs, quick and urgent, and then Ben was in the room. “Oh, my God, George. What happened?”

George tried to answer, but the words came out all wrong, slow and thick in his mouth, as if his tongue no longer belonged to him.

Ben’s face changed at once.

“Right,” he said, his own voice suddenly sharper, steadier. “Let’s get you onto the bed, mate. Come on. Hold onto me.”

It should not have been that hard. The bed was barely two feet away, yet it took real effort for Ben to haul George up and manoeuvre him onto it. George could feel his body failing him in humiliating little ways, his limbs sluggish, his head lolling, his thoughts slipping in and out of focus.

Once he was finally on the mattress, Ben pulled out his phone and dialled for an ambulance.

***

The next thing George was aware of was a strange, floating weightlessness and a wash of bright lights burning through his closed eyelids. At some point, he heard someone calling his name, sharp with urgency, but he couldn't fight his way through the thick fog in his head to answer.

He needed to speak.

Needed to explain.

If he was dying, he had to tell Ben the truth first.

***

A steady beeping drifted in and out around him, and he could sense someone sitting close by.

What was wrong with him?

Had he already died?

***

“George?” Lucy’s voice.

Then Daisy sobbing. “Please don’t die, George.”

I won’t die. I promise. Don’t cry, Daisy.

But the words stayed trapped inside him.

***

“He may be able to hear you. Just talk to him as normal,” said a woman’s voice he didn't recognise.

Then Ben, close enough to make George want to open his eyes. “Come on, old man. We’ve got some good news for you.”

Don’t call me an old man.

***

When he finally managed to open his eyes, the room was empty.

He was lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines, drips, and wires he did not understand. The ceiling above him was too white. The air smelt sterile. His thoughts were still slow and clumsy, and the confusion pressed down on him almost as heavily as the exhaustion.

He let his eyes drift shut again.

Just for a minute.

***

The next time he surfaced, Ben was there.

He started visibly the moment he saw George looking at him, then hurried out of the room to fetch a nurse. They came back together, Ben hanging back near the door while the nurse moved around the bed, checking monitors, adjusting things, and speaking to George in a calm voice that slipped past him almost without meaning.

He could already feel himself sinking again. His eyelids were too heavy to hold open.

Just five more minutes.

Just five.

***

When George came round again, his head felt clearer. Not right, not fully, but definitely clearer.

Ben was slumped in the chair by the bed, fast asleep with his chin tucked against his chest. The sight of him there stirred something in George. Ben had given up so much time to sit at his bedside. They had grown closer lately; that much was true, but not this close. Not family-close. Or perhaps they were now.

Ben shifted suddenly, then jerked upright, blinking as though he had forgotten where he was.

“Hi,” George said.

Ben stared at him for a second, then let out a long breath. “You’re awake.”

“What happened?”

Ben leant forward, his face tired and pale. “You had a massive stroke, triggered by the head injury. JimmyJay, or James Nicholas, as we now know he’s called, has been arrested and charged with attempted murder.”

George absorbed that slowly. “Oh. That’s good.” His throat felt dry and strange. “I thought I was dying there for a while.”

Ben gave a grim little nod. “You nearly did. It was touch and go.”

George closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “How are the girls? Did they visit me?”

“They’re fine,” Ben said. “And yes, they did. Did you hear them?”

George nodded weakly. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Ben’s face softened then, and for the first time, there was something close to light in it. “They’ve granted me an interim care order,” he said. “The girls have come home.”

The words hit George harder than anything else had. All at once, his face crumpled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, not properly, not like this, but the tears were there in an instant, hot and unstoppable. They slid down his cheeks before he realised.

The girls were home. Safe. That was all that mattered.

The effort of crying seemed to drain the little strength he had left. He closed his eyes again, and sleep came for him almost at once.

When he woke the next time, Ben was still there.

George looked at him for a long moment.

“I need to tell you something,” he muttered. “Something important.”

Ben sat forward. “Maybe you should wait until you’re stronger.”

“No.” George shook his head faintly. “I need to tell you now. It’s about Becky.” His voice caught. “She died.”

He waited for Ben to react, but Ben only nodded once. “I know.”

George stared at him. “What?”

“The neighbour’s camera caught her going into your house that night,” Ben said quietly. “The police searched your property. They found her body.”

Tears filled George’s eyes again. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. “She’d taken too many drugs. She died on my sofa.” His voice trembled with exhaustion and shame. “I already had a conviction hanging over me for my mum, even though all I’d done was ease her suffering. She begged me to help her end her life. What was I supposed to do?” His chest hitched. “And then when I found Becky dead, I panicked. I thought they’d blame me. Then I thought about the girls, and I...” He swallowed hard. “I buried her.”

Ben didn't flinch. He only listened. “There’ve been two uniformed officers outside this room for the past two weeks,” he said at last. “They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

George turned his face into the pillow for a second. “So they’ll charge me with murder?”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “They know Becky died of an overdose. You need to explain exactly what happened and why you did what you did.” He paused. “I spoke to a solicitor. I’ve appointed one for you.”

George blinked at him.

“He said, worst case, you may be charged with interfering with a body and preventing a lawful burial, or something along those lines. But he was very clear. You do not speak to anyone until he’s with you.”

George gave a faint nod. “To be honest, I’m relieved it’s out in the open.”

He looked at Ben, fear rising afresh. “What about the girls? Do they hate me?”

Ben’s expression changed completely then. “Not even slightly,” he said. “They’re already talking about getting you home and looking after you again.”

That undid George more than anything else had, and for the first time since all of this began, he felt something close to peace.

Chapter Forty-Four

Later that day, after Ben had left to collect the girls, the two detectives who had interviewed George before came to see him.

They told him much the same as Ben already had, but George said very little. He told them plainly that he would not be answering questions until his solicitor was present. They didn't push him for long, and when they finally left, the room fell quiet again.

Too quiet.

Alone with nothing but the low hum of the machines and the ache in his body, George felt the events of that night begin to circle in his mind once more.

Becky’s words had sickened him.

Still, they hadn't surprised him. That was precisely why he had stayed close to her for all those years—why he'd tolerated more than he should have. He had known for a long time that there was something rotten in her, something dangerous, and he had never once believed Lucy and Daisy were truly safe with her. He would not have let her hurt a single hair on their heads.

… He had barely been back in his own house that night when Becky followed him in.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Georgie?”

“Piss off, Becky. You know exactly what’s wrong.”

She had laughed then, ugly and careless. “It’s natural, isn’t it? They don’t even know how much money they’re sitting on. Silly little bitches will probably give it away for free soon enough anyway.”

They argued. George could still hear the venom in Becky’s voice. It had not just been the words themselves. It was the relish behind them, the cruel little laughs, and the way she had spoken about the girls as if they were not her children at all, only assets she had not yet cashed in.

He had told himself for years that Becky was a bad mother because she was selfish, because drink had hollowed her out, and because drugs had turned her into something meaner and uglier than she had once been. He had seen her neglect them, frighten them, and leave them hungry and cold. He had seen enough to despise her. But that night, standing in his house with her foul breath in the air and her eyes glittering with drink, drugs, and spite, he understood there was something even worse beneath it all.

She was not merely careless with those girls. She was capable of sacrificing them.

The thought turned his stomach.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” she had snapped when he stared at her for too long. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You know how the world works.”

“No,” George had said, his voice shaking with fury. “I know how you work. That’s different.”

She had laughed then, that cracked, ugly laugh of hers, and leant against the wall as if she had all the time in the world.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Nobody’s talking about chopping them up and selling them for parts.”

“You filthy bitch.”

Her face had darkened at that, though not with shame. Becky was long past shame. It was annoyance, pure and simple, that anyone would dare speak to her as though she were the lowest thing crawling. “They owe me,” she had said. “Everything in my life has been shit from the start. You think anybody ever did anything for me? You think anyone gave a toss if I was fed, warm, and safe? No. So why should I sit here and watch thousands of pounds slip through my fingers when those daft little cows don’t even know what they’ve got?”

George had stepped towards her so quickly that she actually flinched. “They are your daughters.”

“So?”

He had never forgotten that. Not the word itself, not the way she said it. Flat. Bored. As though he had remarked on the weather. So. That was all motherhood meant to Becky.

He had wanted to punch her then. The urge rose through him hot and sudden, so strong it frightened him. Not because she didn't deserve it, but because for one wild second, he thought he might actually do it. He could feel his hands curling, his whole body tight with the effort of holding himself back.

Instead, he turned away from her and went upstairs to the toilet.

He had needed distance. Four walls. A closed door. He just needed one minute where he didn't have to look at her face, hear her voice, or risk doing something he could never take back.

After using the toilet, he had gripped the edge of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His face had looked old. Grey. His eyes were bright with anger. He remembered thinking that if he went back downstairs and she said one more vile thing about Lucy or Daisy, he would not be able to help himself.

So he had stayed there a little longer than he needed to, breathing through his nose, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

When he finally went back down, Becky was at his table.

Bent over it as if she owned the place, one hand pressed flat against the wood to steady herself, the other dragging a line together with quick, practised movements. She didn't even try to hide what she was doing. She had pinched more of the stuff from wherever she kept it and was helping herself like a greedy child.

“For Christ’s sake,” George said.

She glanced up at him, eyes already glassy. “Oh, shut up.” Then she snorted it.

The sound of it made his lip curl. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffed twice, then straightened with a little sway. He remembered thinking she looked wrong almost at once. Not just drunk, not just high, but unsteady in some deeper way. The colour had drained from her face in seconds. Her mouth looked oddly loose. One hand reached for the back of the sofa.

“Something’s wrong,” she had murmured.

George didn't move.

She blinked at him as if he had suddenly become difficult to bring into focus. “George.”

Still, he stood there.

Then her knees seemed to soften under her. She half-fell, half-collapsed onto the sofa cushions, one arm clutching weakly at her stomach.

“Something’s wrong, George,” she said again, but the bluster had gone from her now. She sounded frightened. Small. “Help me.”

He remembered reaching automatically for his phone. The movement was instinctive, the sort of thing you did without thinking when another person was in trouble.

But then he stopped.

He could never quite explain that moment, not even to himself in a way that felt simple or clean. It wasn't hesitation exactly. It wasn't confusion. It was a choice, though perhaps not one made all at once. More like several thoughts crashing into each other in the space of a breath.

Lucy.

Daisy.

Becky’s voice saying they would give it away for free.

Becky’s shrug, that flat little 'so'.

He thought of the girls asleep in their beds while their mother sat downstairs planning how to profit from them. He thought of every bruise to the soul he had seen on Lucy’s face, every flinch, every look in Daisy’s eyes when Becky staggered through the door drunk and raging. He thought of hunger. Fear. Neglect. Cold rooms. Empty cupboards. Men at the door. Drugs in the house. Filth and chaos and danger, day after day after day.

And all the while, Becky had still found ways to sink lower.

The phone remained in his hand for a second. Then he put it back in his pocket. He sat down in the chair opposite the sofa.

Becky was staring at him now, breathing too fast, one hand clawing weakly at the cushion beneath her. “George,” she whispered. “No. No, no. Help me.”

The first jerk of the seizure looked almost small, just a sharp shudder through one shoulder. Then it took hold properly. Her whole body arched and convulsed. One leg hammered against the sofa. Her head knocked hard against the armrest. George sat frozen, hands gripping the sides of the chair, and watched the violence of it unfold. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Froth began to gather at the corners of her mouth and spill down her chin. A horrible choking sound filled the room.

It seemed to go on forever. Long enough for him to stand up and call for help. Long enough to roll her onto her side. Long enough to save her.

He did none of it.

His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, but his body stayed still. He watched her thrash and jerk and foam at the mouth, and underneath the horror of it, there was something colder, harder, more final.

He didn't see a mother in trouble. Not a poor lost soul. Not a woman worth rescuing.

He saw a threat. A danger to those girls that was as real as any knife or fist.

He thought that if it had been anyone else, he would have moved without question. Conrad. Ben. Irene, even. A stranger in the street. He would not have sat there and watched. But this was Becky, and Becky had crossed into some terrible place he couldn't forgive.

Eventually, the convulsions slowed. Her body slackened by degrees, twitching now and then, the breath rattling faintly in her chest. George could hear the clock ticking on the mantel and a fox screeching outside. His own breathing sounded harsh in the quiet that followed.

Becky didn't speak again.

He sat there a little longer, looking at her sprawled across the sofa, and felt no rush of panic, no desperate second thoughts, and no guilt sharp enough to make him snatch up the phone at last. Only a grim, exhausted certainty.

He didn't call for help or try to save her.

Eventually, he went upstairs to bed and left her there.

When he came down the next morning, she was cold and stiff on his sofa.

Even now, lying in that hospital bed, George knew there were parts of the truth he would never tell.

He would never let the girls know what their mother had planned for them. Never let those words take root in their minds the way they had in his. He would let them believe she died by accident, because in the end, she had. It had been an overdose. That part was true.

The fact that he might have been able to save her and chose not to was another matter entirely.

And that, George decided, was a truth he would carry alone.

Epilogue

Lucy

“Hurry up, Daisy, or we’ll be late.” I shrugged into my coat and checked my watch for what felt like the tenth time.

“Coming,” Daisy called from upstairs.

A second later, she came tearing down the stairs like an overexcited puppy, one shoe half on and a sheet of paper flapping in her hand.

“Do you think they’ll let me take this in?” she asked, holding it up proudly.

It was a drawing of the four of us sitting around the table in the garden. Me, Daisy, Ben, and George. Behind us, she had drawn the annexe, still only half built, with a bright yellow sun above it and flowers all over the lawn. In Daisy’s version of life, everything bloomed.

“I don’t see why not,” I said, smiling.

A car horn sounded outside.

“Come on,” I said. “Ben’s getting impatient.”

The drive to the prison was long, more than two hours each way, but it was worth every minute. I couldn't wait to see George, and I knew the others felt exactly the same.

In the end, he received a three-year sentence. I didn't think he should have got any time at all, not after everything we now knew, not after understanding why he had done what he had. But the law didn't care much for feelings, or context, or the ugly little corners of real life where right and wrong got tangled together. The law was the law.

Still, I had never stopped being grateful to him.

Mum had died in his house, and George had known what would happen to us if the truth came out too soon. He had hidden her body to buy us time, to give us a fighting chance. None of us knew then that Ben was our brother. Of course, if we had known, everything might have been different. We might never have gone into care at all. But by then it was too late for what might have been.

What mattered was what came after.

And somehow, against all odds, what came after turned out to be good.

One thing Mum had done right, though probably by accident, was to sign up for the life insurance through her work. Money had been taken from her wages every week, and I was certain she hadn't realised what it was for, because if she had, she would never have agreed to it. But she had, and because she died while she still worked there, we received a substantial payout.

Ben sold his little house in Macclesfield, and together we pooled everything and bought a three-bedroom house there with a massive back garden. It was the kind of place I used to walk past as a child and imagine other people lived in—proper families, warm ones, families who had enough food in the fridge and clean curtains at the windows and did not dread the sound of a key in the front door. Now it was ours.

Then Ben suggested building an annexe for George.

At first, I thought he was joking, but he was completely serious. The sentence didn't mean George would serve every day of it. With good behaviour and what he had already served, he could be home in as little as a year, maybe even less. So we had time. Time to get things ready. Time to build him somewhere comfortable, somewhere close enough that he could be with us but private enough to still feel like his own.

The thought of it made Daisy almost unbearably excited. She had already decided what colour curtains he should have and how many bird feeders he needed outside his window. She talked about it so often it began to feel less like a daydream and more like a plan.

I enrolled at college. Daisy started at a school near our new house and settled in far quicker than I ever expected. She made friends. Real friends. They were the sort of friends who came around after school, ate toast in our kitchen, and left muddy trainers by the back door. Watching her grow into that life felt like watching a flower finally turn towards the sun.

We met Ben’s adoptive parents, too, and they welcomed us in with such warmth that I didn't know how to handle it at first. I kept waiting for the catch, for the moment somebody would change their mind or decide we were too much trouble after all. But there was no catch. They were just kind in a steady, uncomplicated way that I was still learning to trust. They travelled often, but when they were in the country, we visited them every Sunday.

Life had become something I'd never dared imagine for myself.

It wasn't perfect, because I don't think any life ever really is. George was still in prison. I still had bad dreams sometimes. There were still moments when the past would catch me off guard—a smell, a shout in the street, a woman laughing too loudly outside a pub—and for a second I would be right back there again.

But those moments no longer owned me. That was the difference.

By the time we pulled into the prison car park, Daisy was practically vibrating in her seat. Ben laughed and told her not to sprint inside because the guards would only make us all wait longer. She promised she would behave, which usually meant the exact opposite, and we all got out into the pale afternoon sunshine.

I took one look at the grey building ahead of us and felt the usual ache in my chest. I hated that place. Hated the fences, the locked doors, and the way it swallowed people whole and gave them back in measured portions. But I loved what waited for us inside.

George.

We signed in, sat through the usual checks, and were finally shown through to the visiting hall.

The moment he appeared, Daisy was up out of her seat, waving her drawing in the air.

George shuffled in. He looked older than he had before prison, thinner too, but the second he saw us, his whole face changed. It softened, lit up, and became his again. Thankfully, he didn't have any real lingering symptoms from his stroke apart from one of his legs dragging a little. I hoped JimmyJay would rot in his cell for what he had done, but sadly, he'd only received seven years.

“There he is,” Ben said quietly beside me.

Daisy thrust the picture across the table the second he sat down.

“This is for you,” she said. “And that’s your annexe.”

George put a hand to his chest as though he were honoured. “You’ve even given me a roof. How generous.”

Daisy giggled.

He studied the drawing carefully, taking in every detail as if it were a masterpiece hung in a gallery.

Then he looked up at us. At all of us. And in his eyes I saw it, clear and shining.

Home.

Not the house. Not the annexe. Not even the future that was waiting somewhere beyond the prison walls.

Us.

We spent the next hour talking and laughing and planning, Daisy interrupting every five minutes with new ideas for George’s garden, Ben pretending to object when she decided he would have to do all the heavy lifting, and George claiming he intended to sit in a deckchair and supervise while the rest of us worked.

For the first time in my life, the future felt like something solid I could reach for.

When visiting time ended, it hurt to say goodbye, but not in the old hopeless way. Not like before, when every goodbye felt like another loss. This one carried something better inside it.

Expectation.

We would see him again in two weeks. And two weeks after that. And one day, not even all that far away, we would bring him home for good.

As we walked back through the prison gates and out into the fading light, Daisy slipped her hand into mine.

“Do you think he liked the drawing?” she asked.

I looked back once over my shoulder, although I couldn't see him anymore.

“He loved it,” I said.

And as we got into the car, with Ben at the wheel and Daisy chatting away in the back and the road to our new home stretched out ahead of us, I realised something simple and enormous. After everything we had gone through, we had made it. Not untouched or unbroken. But together.

And sometimes, I think that is the happiest ending anyone can really ask for.

The End

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