I can’t face the bus, so I walk up to Harrington Hills. The sun beats down on me, mingling sweat with my already disgusting scent. People cross the street to avoid me. Every stomp of my shoes against the pavement drives home the undeniable truth.
I don’t belong here.
The walk takes over an hour, but finally, I see the tower of the manor’s third story peeking between the tops of the jacaranda trees, the breeze blowing up from the ocean making the purple blooms dance in fairy-tale reverie. I duck into the wooded area and head for the door of the maintenance shed, digging in my pocket for the key. I know as soon as my hand rests on the door that something’s wrong.
I locked the door when I left this morning.
I always lock the door.
Yet it swings open at my touch, revealing the rows of machinery that operate the car lift and other features of the house.
Shit.
I contemplate backing out and calling Antony. But he’ll be at the club, preparing his fighters for the match tonight. He needs to focus. Plus, I don’t want him to see me like this. I reek. I need a shower.
Righteous anger bubbles inside me. This is my home. On today of all days, the violation of my personal space is too much to take. I pull Antony’s knife from my shoe and flick it open.
I slip off my shoes, padding forward silently on my stockinged feet. My eyes dart into the corners of the machine room as I step inside. The fans drop the temperature, and goosebumps rise on my skin.
No one in here.
I reach the other side and nudge the door into the tunnel. It swings open. I duck inside, pressing my back against the concrete wall. Adrenaline pounds through my veins as I creep along the tunnel to the car lift. My fingers grip the balustrade, and I haul myself up the spiral stairs into the garage.
In the gloom, the rows of cars appear menacing – like ranks of Roman soldiers advancing on an outnumbered foe. I pick my steps cautiously, peering behind each car, checking around for signs of an intruder. My body coils with tension, ready to strike.
I reach the other side of the garage. Nothing. Where are they? Who are they?
The door into the house is ajar. I know I closed that, too – I don’t want Queen Boudica playing in the machinery. A fresh wave of rage and panic assaults me as I hear a faint, pained ‘mew’ from the other side.
Queen Boudica is in there.
I bolt forward, my caution forgotten. I fling open the garage door. The garage opens into a wide hallway. On one side is a commercial kitchen where a personal chef would once have cooked for our family. On the other side, the chef’s living quarters and a laundry worthy of a Victorian poorhouse. I breeze past these rooms, following my kitty’s cries.
I turn the corner and gasp.
Queen Boudica lies in the middle of the floor, the marble around her smeared with blood. She lifts her head, those fierce yellow eyes swimming with pain, and gives me a pitiful ‘mew.’
The sound breaks my heart.
Behind her, scrawled across the wall of the central atrium in wobbly letters, are the words:
GO AWAY
27
Mackenzie
Cold, righteous anger embraces me. I rush across the room and scoop Queen Boudica into my arms, clutching her to my chest and feeling the racing patter of her heart. Blood dribbles from a slash across her abdomen – a knife cut, cruel and deliberate.
GO AWAY
The rage engulfs me, like falling through ice. I am frozen blood and bone. I am made of ice and vengeance. I am what this disgusting act has made me.
GO AWAY
I know who did this.
Alec. Alec, who swore he’d get me for his nose, for rejecting him. Alec, who wasn’t at school today, lording it over me with his buddy Noah. He could have waited for me to leave the house through the maintenance shed. The door is heavy and set on counterweights, so it swings closed on its own time. I’m always in a hurry so I usually leave it to shut on its own. He probably hid in the bushes and waited until I left for school, then snuck inside and hurt Queen Boudica. But how did he know about the maintenance shed? I’m careful to cover my movements, not even the paparazzi have discovered it yet—