A Girl Like Her - Talia Hibbert

Prologue

May 2016

Daniel Burne felt smug.

This wasn’t particularly unusual; he was often pleased with himself. But tonight, he was especially proud of his own brilliance—because the second-most beautiful, and eminently suitable, woman in Ravenswood was on his arm. Wearing his ring.

And the crème de la crème of the town was there to see it.

“Daniel, love,” Laura murmured, leaning in close. “Do you think your dad is pleased?”

Daniel’s gaze crawled over the room, past the chattering guests of the engagement party, until it settled on his father. The older man lounged against the mantle, ankles crossed, as if his only child’s engagement simply bored him.

Their eyes met, green clashing with green. Daniel studied his father’s face for less than a second. That was long enough to recognise the familiar disdain there.

“Yes, love,” Daniel said. “He’s just a bit reserved; that’s all.”

Laura relaxed beside him. “Oh, good. I wondered what everyone would think, since we kept ourselves a secret.” She smiled. It was a beautiful smile, the teeth neat and small. Irritatingly perfect. She patted his chest and added, “You naughty man.”

Daniel smiled back. He also slid a hand into the pocket of his freshly pressed, linen suit. Hidden from view, he dug his nails into his palm until he drew blood.

Instantly, he regretted it. There’d probably be stains on the silk lining now.

“Oh, I say!”

The exclamation cut through the party’s quiet music and the low hum of voices. All eyes swung to Margaret Young, who stood by the window, champagne in hand. She twitched the curtains back, sharp anticipation dancing across her powdered face.

The anticipation of a shark smelling blood in the water.

“We have a visitor!” Margaret trilled.

Daniel’s heart lurched. A cold sweat sprang to his brow. Surely, she wouldn’t come here. Not in front of all these people. Not when she knew how important this was.

“Daniel?” Laura’s voice was at once too distant, as if coming through a tunnel, and too loud. Her arm, tucked into his own, felt tight and confining. He shook her off and strode toward the window, ignoring her confused frown.

He would shut the drapes, shove bloody Margaret Young aside—

But, before he could manage either objective, two overdressed biddies pushed in front of him. They peered through the window, squinting into the growing darkness of a spring evening.

“Who is it?” one wondered aloud.

“You need spectacles,” the other drawled. “It’s one of those Kabbah girls. Clear as day.”

“Which one?” the first asked.

Yes! Daniel wanted to scream. Which fucking one?

“Oh, I don’t know. Whole family looks the same to me.”

Daniel’s patience, always whisper-fine, snapped. He bit out, “They look nothing alike,” and pushed through the growing crowd, forcing his way to the window and ignoring the outraged cries of old gossips.

He reached the cool glass panes to see a young woman—small, dark, soft-bodied and hard-faced—striding up the drive, dragging a cricket bat behind her. As he watched, she tucked the bat under her arm and clambered on top of his car.

His mint-condition, forest green, Porsche 911.

The woman straightened up, feet spread wide on the hood for balance. She turned to look at the window, and around him, Daniel heard a sharp intake of breath. As if she’d cursed them all instead of simply setting eyes on them. As if she were there for any of them, anyway.

She was looking at him. Only him.

Another woman might take this cliff’s-edge of a moment to shout out her grievance, bellow a war cry, at least scream. But this was a Kabbah girl in a rage, and so she was utterly and disturbingly silent. For a few long seconds, she stared at him.

Then she turned away and swung the bat.

She was strong and she was sure. The windscreen shattered on her first try. But she did not stop there.

Chapter One

February 2018

Ruth’s favourite place had always been her head.

Inside her mind, the sort of excitement she struggled to process in real life became accessible. She could slow it down and compartmentalise it, like a TV show she controlled utterly. And she could translate it, too. That was the best part.

Ruth’s stylus flew over the screen of her graphic tablet as she sketched out the story unfolding before her eyes. Not the eyes that saw light shining off the tablet’s pristine glass, but the eyes that saw entire worlds beyond this one.

She’d found the sweet spot. The zone. That precise point in time and space and possibility when a story began to flow like water, and the artist was able to keep up with the current.

In