“He found me crying outside after I got fired and hauled me into his club, pointed to the uniforms, and told me I was hired. Is that the application you mean?”
“Good.” His hand slips slightly lower than my waist, fondling an entirely different part of my anatomy. “Just checking.”
The students are dismissed back to class, even though it’s now mid-lesson so the buzz of the pupils’ return will probably derail any education the teachers were trying to deliver.
I leave Lachlan outside his art class and join my history lesson. I sit as far back in the class as I can, letting the stress of the morning, of last night, flow out of me. In its place comes a nagging worry. My brain reassuring me that no matter how well things work out, there’ll always be something it can pick at. Some personal torment it can deliver.
It lasts all the way to the end of first period, then, when we’re released to our next class, I have the chance to check my phone.
There’s a text from my father.“Just landed in Hamilton. I’ll be in touch once I’m settled.”
My anxiety untwists in one smooth motion.
He’s safe. He’s alive.
Along with the text, there are a few missed call notices. I feel a low buzz of relief that I’d left the phone on mute. I want to know he’s okay but talking directly with him while my nerves are still so raw would have been a struggle.
The text is perfect. I should leave my phone on silent more often.
Under that is another message, the one promised by Patrick.“One day I’ll ask you for a favour to do with Lock. Say yes.”
A favour. Such vague language I shouldn’t have the slightest idea what it means but I might have an inkling. If I’m right, then once the pair align and take power, the first thing they’re getting rid of is any bloody collateral arrangements.
IfI’m right. Time will tell.
A familiar tread sounds in the corridor behind me and Lachlan slides his arms around my waist. “We have at least twenty seconds until second bell,” he says in a voice crammed full of mischief. “And I’ve got a list of things to fill it with.”
With a joyous laugh, I melt back against his powerful frame. “Better get cracking, then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LOCK
During the finalweek of the school year, I stop by Christchurch Women’s Prison to check-in with Kari.
The visitor’s area is tame compared to the images I’ve seen in a hundred different television shows over the years. The tables and chairs—moveable, not mounted—are spaced out with a children’s play area in the corner. Guards stand watch at either end of the room.
Kari sits at a table already, her long dark hair cut short in an easy-to-maintain style. That and the limited makeup mean her appearance is a shocking departure from the last time I saw her, standing dutifully in court, accepting her sentence.
A first-time drugs charge shouldn’t carry a custodial sentence, but Kari had been determined to get away from her family and decided that adding a few years onto any potential term by punching a court officer was the way to go.
Since she rebuffed all subsequent attempts by her counsel to appeal the sentence or offer any meaningful defence to the charges, she’ll probably serve out half the term imposed before being offered the chance of release.
“Looking good,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.
“Sure. The quality of the shampoo in here is incredible.”
The thing is, I’m not lying. Not using flattery to butter her up.
Everything about her manner is a vast improvement. She looks relaxed and mildly amused, an expression I can’t recall seeing on her face before.
I guess escaping her family is worth the bother. If our roles were reversed, she’d probably see the same.
Soren and Imelda tried to keep her in the family, but a few well-planted articles put paid to that. At the first inference that she might swap stories with the crown to reduce any penalty, they’d gone into damage control mode, excising her from the family business like any good doctor would remove a suspicious mole.
Her dismissal of any attempt at name suppression meant a catalogue of tabloid articles flew across the internet. With a family as Machiavellian as any prime-time television show, they have no shortage of fodder.
“I’m moving,” she says, giving me a nudge in the ribs and earning a black glance from the nearest guard. “They’re relocating me to Auckland.”
