They come freely down my face.
No one says a fucking thing about them.
Not the whole ride home.
And, as the car is pulling up to Elcott Abbey, and the front doors are heaved open for us before the Royce has even stopped to idle, I’ve already popped the button for the seatbelt and wrangled myself free.
The car stops—and the very second it does, I’m fumbling for the handle.
I don’t wait for a servant, not anyone, to open the door for me before I’m spilling out of the car in a frantic, stumbling heartbeat.
I race through the rain to the front doors.
My pace doesn’t falter, not once in my frantic rush through the manor for my bedroom before I’m bursting through the door.
The chamber is prepared for my arrival.
Flames stroke gently in the hearth, a tray is set out on the coffee table, a steaming teapot and cups and some biscuits.
I snub it, all of it, and storm into the walk-in wardrobe across the bedchamber.
From the shelves of bags, I snatch the biggest one, the Vuitton overnight bag, then chuck it across the room.
It hits the dresser before thudding to the floor.
I move fast.
I pack underwear, folded jeans, a dress, a jumper, then kick the bag into the bedchamber.
I need money, so I stuff my black card and some jewellery into the bag.
Then I pause.
My mouth still wobbles with the tears hitching through me, shuddering my bottom lip.
What else does one need to survive out there?
I look around my room, the lounge, the bed, the door to the ensuite.
Toothbrush.
Toothpaste.
Hand cream. Retinoid. LED mask. Collagen peels. Face massager. Cellulite massager. Ultrasonic fat burner. Under eye roller.
And all my haircare, serums and rollers.
The overnight bag is bulging by the time I’m hauling it out of the bathroom and back into the bedchamber.
A watery film distorts my sight. I consider my desk, papers and pens, then the bookshelf—and I head for the photo album Nonna made for me years ago.
It’s bulky, but I pack it.
Then—gaze latching onto the armchair—a fright lurches through me.
The book.
‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’.
