I look around slowly, taking in the flat.
It’s small. My bedroom wouldn’t even fit in this entire place. And it’s clear from the smell and the mould patches on the wall that there’s damp.
It’s not her fault, I can see she’s tried to make it homely. There are fake flowers on the windowsill, and a throw over the sofa. Little touches that don’t quite hide the rot underneath.
I move into the kitchen and open a cupboard, not surprised when I find it empty. I move to another, and there’s still nothing. Next, I check the fridge. It’s also empty.
My jaw tightens. The only thing in the entire space is a tub of powdered hot chocolate sitting on the counter.
That’s it.
A sharp, ugly anger settles in my chest. I wouldn’t let a dog live like this.
I stride into her bedroom without knocking. She spins around, her eyes wide with surprise, as she clutches something behind her back.
“When did you last eat?” I demand.
She hesitates, and my gaze drops. Her grip tightens around whatever she’s hiding.
I step forward, catching her wrist before she can move, and pulling the item free. It’s a photograph of a woman and child. A younger version of her, and the woman beside her has the same eyes, same smile.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snaps, anger flashing for the first time.
I almost smile.There it is. She’s not as fragile as she looks.
“Why were you hiding it?” I ask.
“Because it’s private,” she shoots back, snatching it from me and shoving it into her bag.
“When did you last eat?” I repeat, quieter this time.
She frowns. “Why?”
“Because there’s nothing in your cupboards.”
“I eat out,” she says quickly, zipping up her bag. “I just haven’t been shopping.” She gestures to the bed. “There’s not much to take. Just three bags and a box.”
I stare at her. She really thinks I’m buying her lie.
“You don’t have the money to eat out,” I say flatly. “In fact, you’ve got minus two pounds in your account.”
Her head snaps up, eyes wider. “How do you know that?”
“It was in the contract,” I say easily. “You agreed to background checks, financial reports.”
Her brow furrows. “I did?”
I bite back the urge to tear into her for not reading what she signed. Desperate or not, she should have read it.
“Get your things together,” I say instead. “You’re not coming back here.”
“But I—”
“Now, Wynter.”
She flinches.
I grab the bags from the bed and carry them through to the front door before she can argue again.
