Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Gigi
Present day
My boots are soaked through from icy puddles, but I can’t feel my feet. I can’t seem to feel much these past few days. Just the cold, and the voice in the back of my skull – the one that sounds like Mum.
“You do anything for the ones you love.”
Her voice, broken and wheezing, plays in my head like a cruel mantra.
Years of hatred and loathing, all shattered by a simple sentence.
“I hope you can forgive me.”
Emotion clogs my throat, and I wrap both my hands round my neck, applying pressure. Perhaps to inflict pain and to assure myself I’m still here. That this isn’t some cruel, vicious nightmare.
The city is too loud. Too fast. A double-decker bus rushes past where I stand on the corner near Charing Cross station. Laughter cracks through pub doors that slam shut just as quickly.
The world keeps moving as if nothing has changed, but everything has.
The lights of the West End are vibrant and blinding, mocking my mourning and the loss of what we could have been if our lives weren’t tainted with Richard.
She told me to run, so I did, fleeing into London, blending in with the bustling streets, desperate to hide from his watchful eyes. The city’s big enough to disappear in if I keep my steps right. But with each reminder of why I’m here, I torture myself with the memory.
She’s dead.
The thought comes again.
She’s dead.
I turn down an unfamiliar side street, where the lights are less daunting. Not trusting the eyes I feel on my back, I duck my head, confronted by my own reflection thrown back at me in the puddles. Eyes hollow, mascara sits cracked on my cheeks.
I turn to the brick walls closing in on either side of me, finding the same horror story. A missing poster featuring a hefty price tag and my own face staring back at me, albeit without the screaming grief, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?” capitalised in bold letters.
The desperation is pathetic, and it has Richard written all over it.
I pass a man pissing in the alleyway between two dustbins. He yells something towards me, though I can barely hear it. I don’t flinch. I let him follow. Let him try, if only to see where it will get him.
When I can no longer hear his stream of urine, I peer over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed.
I come to a stop, leaning against the brick wall and pressing my forehead to the wet stone so I can close my eyes and breathe.
But her voice is there again, and now I can see her and the blood coating her body.
Even on that carpet I need to get dry-cleaned.
“Hey!” a voice slurs. I turn towards where the drunken man is making his way closer on uneven feet. “I recognise you.”
Oh God.
I turn, stuffing my hands in my pockets and scurrying away.
“You’re the girl they’re looking for!”
I throw over my shoulder, “Please leave.”
“Not for that reward, I won’t.” He snickers, gaining closer. “You must be pretty important.”
For fuck’s sake.
His distance decreases with each passing second.
The end of the alley comes into view, and I quickly round the corner, blending into the sea of people.
They move round me, barely noticing I’m there through the buzz of London roaring round us.
Sirens, laughter, the low bass of a club, and the Tube shrieking beneath our feet.
“Oi! Come back here,” the man calls out. “I need that money!”
I throw a left towards the entrance of an off-licence and slip inside. A bell jingles as it closes behind me, the overhead light humming above my head.
The man behind the counter doesn’t look up as I step inside, just keeps flipping through a dog-eared newspaper. I head to the back of the store, a flicker of movement outside the window catching my eye. Thankfully, the door remains closed.
Releasing that pent-up breath from my lungs, I move down the aisles, my gaze trailing over bottles of cheap vodka and warm wine. They’re covered in a fine layer of dust, most with an expiration date of last year.
At the end of the aisle, the shop assistant flips the sign on the window from “open” to “closed”.
“Hey!” I call out. “I’m still in here.”
The man says nothing, returning to his place behind the counter.
I sigh, heading forwards a few steps, accidentally knocking a bottle off the rack in the process.
Shit.
It thuds against the floor, rolling out of reach. I crouch down, reaching underneath the shelf and splaying out my fingers to reach it. I grab the bottle in my palm and stand, ready to return it back to its position beside the other spirits.
“Gigi?” a voice says behind me.
My pulse skitters, and my back snaps straight.
Slowly, I turn my head over my shoulder, taking in the familiar person merely a metre away.
But nothing about the man in front of me is anything close to how I once remember him.
Greg’s hair is askew, his brown eyes sunken and the colour absent from his face.
He looks exactly how I feel on the inside.
My head snaps down as his hand draws nearer to my elbow. I tighten my grip round the glass bottle and warn, “Try to touch me, and I’ll shatter this over your skull.”
“I’m your friend,” he insists. “You know me.”
“Do I?” I scoff, lowering my voice to a hiss. “You killed your dad. Why would you never tell me that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He throws his hands in my direction. “As if you haven’t hurt people yourself. Look at who you’ve become!”
“Jesus, Greg—” I cut myself short, trying to calm the racing of my heart. Defeated, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He says nothing, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his brown jacket. I watch the movement cautiously, not trusting anyone these days. Greg was once harmless in my eyes, yet the stories Harry graced me with linger at the back of my skull.
“I’m sorry about your mum—”
“Don’t.” My voice shakes.
“I heard what happened to her.”
“Please,” I beg. “I can’t hear it.”
But it’s merely a distraction – one I’m too late to discover.
That jingle echoes above the shop door despite the sign reading “closed”. But these are no regular walk-ins. It’s evident in the way the shopkeeper places his newspaper aside and slips out the front door.
Richard steps into my line of vision, his eyes finding me instantly.
I freeze, the people filtering in behind him going unseen as he stands in the centre. He smiles wickedly and slightly tilts his head, knowing I’m trapped in this small store.
My gaze turns shakily towards Greg. “Did you set me up?”
“They offered me a lot of money, Gigi.” A flicker of guilt is hidden in his gaze as he sharpens his jaw. “I’m not the enemy here. All they asked is that I keep you in here long enough.”
My attention moves towards the door. It shuts again, that jingle ringing a final time, sealing us inside.
Richard’s voice echoes from the front. “There’s nowhere to go, Gigi.”
Refusing to let my guard drop, I keep my eyes trained on my father, though I speak to Greg. “I hope the money’s worth it when they drag me away from here.”
“They promised not to hurt you.”
“Of course they did.” Disbelief makes me scoff. “Richard’s not a man to be trusted. I thought you’d know that.”
I shake my head, knowing the lies Greg has been dealt. It’s one of Richard’s narcissistic traits. Even from a distance, he smiles knowingly, patience keeping him still. A man standing near the adjacent aisle veers my focus, and before I can attempt a full glance, Richard starts striding forwards.
My heart drops from the brief distraction. Richard comes closer, closer, his fingers skating over my shoulder as I suddenly take off down the aisle to my right. Instinctively, I grab onto the skinny shelf filled with confectionery and pull it across the path. The food scatters to the ground.
“NO!” he yells.
I dart down another aisle, seeing B, my former colleague, jump into view. His knees are crouched, legs parted, attempting to block my escape. His eyes are alert and wild. He pants, “Gigi?”
His distraction lets me slip past. My heart screams for freedom, pounding against my ribs. I send more items flying to the floor, throwing open a fridge door and spilling out bottles of fizz, making them explode. I round the corner, nearing the door.
“Don’t let her leave!”
That voice.
The shock of the familiarity creates a fault in my step, and I narrowly miss a shelf.
My head whips to one side and the next, knowing I’m cornered in.
In a split-second decision, I throw myself to the floor and crawl underneath the shelving.
The metal slices a thin layer from my skin, piercing my back and tangling in my hair as I wrench my head away from the tiles.
I cry out, pushing through to army-crawl through the tight space.
A hand wraps round my ankle, dragging me backwards.
With a frustrated cry, I white-knuckle the shelves, keeping myself still. I launch my foot back, feeling the crunch of bone as the sole of my shoe hits the person’s face. In the moment of freedom, I quickly pull myself through.
Determined to attempt my final escape by curving round the aisle, I make a run for the door. But I skid to a stop, two figures standing right in my path. I scream, nearly smacking directly into them.
Richard’s face is twisted in anger as he holds Greg to his chest, clutching his T-shirt. I do a double-take at the gun pressed to his temple, but the distinct click of the safety is enough to make me freeze.
Greg whimpers, “Gigi …”
“I’ll fucking kill him,” Richard grits, spit flying with the threat. “Don’t think I won’t.”
Disbelief filters through me, limited to a harsh shake of my head. He wouldn’t. But the increasing fear inside of me rises like vomit.
“J-just like Mum, right?” My voice shakes. “You wouldn’t.”
Greg’s eyes find me, petrified, as his bottom lip wobbles.
A huff slips from Richard’s mouth. He recovers in a moment and quirks his brow, smiling a cruel grin. Realisation has every ounce of colour draining from my skin, numbness coating my entire body as his finger tightens round the trigger and he pulls.
“Please,” Greg croaks. “Gigi, I’m sorr—”
The deafening gunshot roars through the store.
NO. NO. NO!
A scream tears from my throat, loud and screeching, burning everything. The life drains from Greg’s vision quickly, his brown eyes glazing over with that unmatched shade of grey. Death. The colour is death.
“GREG!”
His body tumbles forwards like a rag doll, his knees crashing to the cold surface. I dart forwards with shaking hands to protect his face and neck before he hits the square tiles.
Shaking his frail, lifeless body, I cry, “Wake up!”
He’s not moving. He’s not fucking moving.
He’s dead—
I gasp for air, but there’s none left.
The blood from the gunshot wound pours quickly down the side of his temple. I shake him again and again, but it rushes out faster.
Richard huffs. “That’s enough.”
I peer up at him slowly, Greg’s blood staining my hands and fuelling the anger seeping through my bones. My body is blistering with bitter, hot anger. I launch myself forwards.
“HOW COULD YOU?”
Strong arms grip my elbows behind my back, keeping me still. B whispers quietly in my ear, “I’m so sorry, Gigi.”
A cry pours out of me with my sheer determination to hurt my father. I manage to slip an arm free to send a fist barrelling into his cheek. He grips his jaw just as fast as B manages to restrain me again.
Richard purses his lips, shaking his head. The heartbreak is far too powerful for me to even feel an ounce of satisfaction at the graze of his skin.
He huffs as if prepared to unleash further harm, but instead, he says, “You can come out now.”
Through the devastation lining my features, I feel my face moving into a frown. Slow and steady footsteps echo on the tiles, starting from across the aisle and drawing closer. They stroll casually round the corner.
My eyes pick up on the shoes first, the immaculate leather, before sweeping slowly up the suit trousers to where the person rests their hands casually in the deep trouser pockets. Then they slide to the matching jacket that sits on top of a freshly pressed white shirt.
I forget about fighting in B’s grip as I’m hit with a wave of shock.
It can’t be.
“Hello, darling,” Jamie Callahan, my ex-boyfriend, says, his mouth twitching into a sly, wicked grin. “Missed me?”