CHAPTERONE
LILAC
I’m not a good person.
The gun in my hand would be a good sign without any other reference. But that’s a recent development, one that cost me dearly in New Zealand, a country that loves violence but hates weapons and expects a girl to fight her battles with… what exactly?
Mace? Also banned.
A knife? Sure, why don’t I use a blade to get up close and personal with Robbie McClure and his friends, each one bigger and more ill-tempered than the last. Not like they could tear me apart with their bare hands and rip it from my grasp before I got close enough to stab.
Oh, wait. No. That’s exactly what would happen. My bad.
I crouch underneath the exit stairs from the storage warehouse that runs along half of the Papanui cycle track. It used to process cereal and still stinks so strongly of yeast that the minute I’m done here—presuming I survive—I’m going to rub myself head to toe in anti-fungal cream.
Staying out of sight costs my leg muscles dear. Squats aren’t my favourite exercise at the best of times, and after midnight on a Tuesday doesn’t come close to qualifying for that award.
It’s the only way not to be seen from above, as they dismount the stairs, or from anyone on the road. Not that any drivers passing this way are in the habit of gazing around them. Eyes front. Attention on the street ahead of you. And if you hear a scream after dark in this part of Christchurch, well… let’s just pretend that you didn’t.
The city can’t claim its rightful position as the murder capital of New Zealand without a citizenry determined to look the other way. A factor I might need to rely on tonight.
I stiffen as footsteps clang on the steel steps above me. Rust sifts down to land on my clothes, my hair, adhering to the sweat beading on my forehead.
Four men descend to the tar sealed carpark. Zach, Trent, Caylon, and Robbie. At this time of night, their shoes on steel make a hell of a racket but are still no contest for the heavy beat of my pulse in my ears.
They’re close enough for me to hear their voices, sharp, sarcastic, baiting and catching each other in caustic battles of wit. A slap on the shoulder heralds Zach’s departure. Caylon takes his leave soon after, throwing a lit cigarette to the curb.
Trent remains to exchange a few words with Robbie before joining Caylon at his car; the latter taking the driver’s seat while the other hops in the passenger side.
Their vehicle departs, tyres briefly squealing on a patch of diesel, its iridescence shimmering under the nearest streetlamp. The spill was probably left there earlier by the same men, burnouts in the parking lot getting a tick of approval from the overload of testosterone in their brains.
I blink, waiting. Waiting for the last one, the one I want, to move. Walk to his car, walk inside, walk back upstairs. Just do something.
The scream in my thigh muscles matches the scream in my brain as I wait… wait… wait…
He heads for the downstairs door, and I want to shriek hallelujah. Iwouldconfront him out here in the open, but inside is so much better. Inside, there’ll be less chatter in my brain to stop me from doing what I plan to, what I need to, what I must do.
For me, but most of all, for Tessa.
I catch the door before it can swing all the way shut and Robbie McClure turns, something in his lizard brain picking out the difference even before he sees me standing there. His eyes widen—the only outward sign of discomfort.
“Move to the middle,” I tell him, biting the inside of my cheek as a quiver hits my voice. There’ll be plenty of time to fall apart later. Five minutes to be strong and then I can collapse into a soggy mess for the rest of my life.
Robbie’s steps echo across the concrete floor. Pallets are stacked with uniform spacing across the floor, forming fat piles to break up the cavernous area. I don’t want him to shelter behind them, so when halfway to the first, I tell him, “Stop there.”
He swivels slowly on his heel, as if it’s some kind of big reveal. As though I haven’t memorised what his face looks like, every mark on his naked body. Like I don’t bump against him every evening in my deepest nightmares. Don’t see his shadow fall across my dreams.
The devil is pretty, I’ll give him that. Well built, too, just like the trio of thugs he calls his friends. So pretty, he doesn’t need to slip incapacitating drugs into the drinks of slender girls at parties.
He still did.
Maybe when you’re close enough, his black heart corrodes the edges of his handsome mask. Maybe that’s why he values control over consent.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but am I meant to recognise you?”
“I don’t give a shit if you know me or not. I know you.”
“Right.” A smirk dances across his lips before a mask slips into place. Cold as a student flat in winter. “Mind telling me what this is about?”
