Page 59 of Queen of Nothing

I make the mistake I avoided since spotting Dray.

I look back.

I pause at the mouth of the lane, and I look over my shoulder at the stall, at the furrowed-faced man pointing his finger right at me.

Oliver is angled my way, his expression stark, and the moment our gazes touch, a flash of recognition ignites his emerald eyes.

He pushes from the stall—

And that’s all he manages to do before I throw myself into the lane.

My boots come smacking down on the concrete ground.

Sal stiffens in my hold, rigid, but he keeps quiet, invisible for the game.

I know it in my gut, Oliver is chasing me.

Sal joggles in my iron embrace, side to side, up and down, but I can’t slow down. I can’t even pause to readjust my arms around him, just digging into his ribs.

I scramble down the lane, past the rear of the hardware store, then I swerve off onto another narrower, thinner lane.

The brick walls around the network of alleyways and lanes are tall. The smacking of my boots down on the hard ground echoes off the walls—and another running pair joins them.

The clack of Oliver’s expensive shoes striking the ground chases me.

I jerk off the second path into a claustrophobic alleyway, and I don’t stop to catch my breath or steady the dizzy waves churning through my gut.

I know the way.

I have learned these lanes and alleys like the slender keys of a piano, a shortcut to work. A ten-minute walk slashed down to just five minutes.

I come spilling out onto Stuart Street, just one over from Main Street, and without missing a beat, I rush across to the other side.

The lanes here cut behind the residential buildings, where all the bins are lined up. I stick to them. It keeps me off the roads where I might be spotted and recognised.

I don’t hear Oliver anymore behind me, chasing me, his shoes striking down on the hard concrete.

I can only hear my heart beating in my eardrums, deafening, as I stumble down the last lane.

We live just around the corner.

Maybe ten or eleven steps from the mouth of this lane.

And in that home, we have all our monies stashed.

Sal’s grip around my neck hasn’t eased. It’s firm enough to spring an ache up my spine. And the tears and slobber he’s getting all over my t-shirt is sending tiny flares of irritation through me.

But I know I’m just overwhelmed. That my instinct is to drop Sal and run, or to sit down right here—and brace myself for the wrath of my family.

At least then, I could go home…

At least then, I could leave this shitty, little life.

But I have Sal.

That might be all that’s controlling me, that’s cautioning me as I stop at the end of the lane and, slowly, peer around the corner onto the street.

The front door of our two-bedroom is a charming red, even if it is scratched and stained.