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“I’m really sorry, Miss Smith. We unfortunately weren’t able to locate Mrs Warren.” The detective gives me a quick look before turning to my foster parents again. “We assume at this point that she’s… deceased.” He almost whispers the last word like it’s a secret.

I’m literally sitting right here, dickheads.

“You mean she’s dead? Good. Not like she ever gave a shit about me anyway,” I scoff, folding my arms across my chest.

“Language, you little—” Steven—my so-called foster dad—scolds, raising his hand. I flinch away at the movement, but he quickly moves his hand back.

Yeah, keep your hands off me, bitch.

The detective clears his throat. “Is there anything else I could do for you?”

“No, thanks, mate,” Steven replies.

“Thanks for nothing,” Kirsty—the foster mum—mumbles under her breath.

Say it louder for him to hear, bitch.

I glare at them both as they walk the detective out. I know I need to leave, or Steve will put his dirty hands on me again.

My heart starts racing as I sneak out as quietly as I can and take a left through the shit-coloured halls into the kitchen.

The back garden door is open. Jackpot.

I rush towards the door, already being able to smell the green grass from here. I yank off my shoes and place them on the entrance mat by the door, then I step onto the dilapidated wooden boards and run down the steps onto the overgrown grass.

I wiggle my toes in the prickly blades before sitting down. The grass and weeds are so tall that they basically cover all of me out of sight.

As usual with our country's weather, it’s cloudy today, but the grass isn’t any less of a vibrant green to me.

I run my fingers through the stiff strands, marvelling at every shade on such a thin piece of plant.

Rustling sounds from behind me, and I spin towards it, already knowing it’s Malcolm from next door.

Pushing through the maze of grass, using both of my hands to separate it, I crouch-walk my way towards him. I can see his blonde hair peeking out through the foliage; he’s cuddled into himself.

He’s scared.

“Malcolm? What happened?” I ask.

He brings his small face up to me, and there are stains from crying covering his cheeks. His brown eyes are wide, and his body—smaller than mine—shakes as he sniffles.

“They took my shoes today,” he replies in his small, almost baby-like voice.

I quickly feel my cheeks burn with anger as I stand up straight and shoot daggers with my eyes at his parent’s house.

Malcolm was the first friend I made since being here—he was sad and needed help—and I knew what that felt like. I couldn’t leave him alone. Jac lives on the opposite side of town now. I don’t see him outside of school, which means both me and Malcolm are pretty lonely.

Malcolm’s three years younger than me, and from what I know, his parents don’t treat him very well.

I snarl before I turn to Malcolm and soften my face. I don’t want to scare him. I can get pretty scary when I’m angry.

“Wait here,” I say.

Running back towards the house, I quickly grab my shoes and make my way back over to him.

“Here.”

I crouch down beside him and tug his legs from out beneath his butt. I gasp when I see there are loads of cuts all over his feet, and he’s bleeding.