Page 1 of Wolf Trial

CHAPTER 1

SADIE

After discarding five murder methods, I decided I would strangle the woman with shoelaces. God knew I had enough of them. The customer from hell sent me into the store room in the back three more times, for a grand total of six, to hunt down a mythical Nike shoe for her beloved teenage kid.

By the time I got home, I deserved a medal for not murdering the parent or child, who left the shop without buying a single pair of damn shoes. I was ready to collapse on the sofa with a K-drama and reheated chicken nugget lasagna (don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.)

When I pushed open the creaky door to the shitty tower block flat I shared with my gran, a suspiciously fragrant aroma lured me inside. Gran didn’t cook. Ever. Something was off.

“Are you kicking me out?” I called across the small and aggressively silver velour living room into the kitchen visible through an archway painted pink. Gran could just be glimpsed on the other side, puttering around the counter and the oven. Not even the microwave. What the fuck was happening…?

She looked like my gran—silver hair cropped close to her head, a cherry-patterned bandana tied around it, and a matching dress skimming a body kept trim by Pilates and fuck knows what else she did at the community centre, some of it involving a pole—but there was a chance this was an alien situation. Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Southport Edition.

“Did someone die?” I continued my line of questioning, and received a scoff in reply.

Gran didn’t cook. She didn’t particularly clean or do laundry or dishes, either. Mostly she kicked up her feet on the sofa with a cocktail in one hand and Love Island on the TV. If there was a mess, I sorted it out. If I got hungry, I threw something together or microwaved whatever ready meals were on sale that week. This was suspicious. Downright weird.

“Of course no one died,” she huffed, turning so I had a full view of her eye roll. “Honestly, Sadie, you can be so dramatic. I just thought it’d be nice to eat a home cooked meal together.”

So it was a Stepford Wife thing, not an alien thing. “Are we trying to impress a new Salsa Hunk?” I stage-whispered, dropping my bag on the bottom step and toeing off the shoes that had been killing me all day. They were a size too big and rubbed my heels like crazy, but it was hard to argue with twenty pound off plus staff discount. Besides, they were magenta. I fucking loved magenta. “Say the word, and I’ll pretend to be an Olympic medal gymnast or an Oxford graduate. Dealer’s choice.”

“There’s no Salsa Hunk,” Gran replied, but a fond smile crossed her face. “Not yet, anyway. If I get my way…”

Gran was a player. She broke hearts left, right, and centre. There was a string of men of all ages across the North who pined after Jacks Blackhouse (her full name was Jacqueline, but she’d decided that made her sound old ten years ago, and old was anathema to Gran.)

“So, no one died, and there’s no man you’re trying to impress. And yet…” I peered around her at a pot bubbling on the hob.

“Moussaka,” she informed me.

“Ooh.” It smelled insanely good, especially after a draining day at work. “So, what’s the occasion? And don’t give me that bull about wanting to spend time with me. You’ve had years to spend with me, and we’ve never been a sit-down family meal type.”

“That hurts my feelings,” she replied, but she was smirking. “I’ve come into some money,” she said mysteriously. “This is a celebration.”

Please be the lottery, I mentally chanted. Please be the lottery.

“How much money?” I asked, trying to guard against hope. “Holiday in Blackpool money, or we’re moving into a mansion money?”

“Holiday in the Maldives,” she replied with a sly grin.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. Neither of us had ever been outside the UK—Hell, we’d never been to Ireland and that was only a hop across the sea. I didn’t harbour any illusions about being invited—I wasn’t that dim—but it didn’t stop the mental image of me sunning myself on a lounger, with peace and quiet all around, the ocean whispering the only noise for miles.

No customers snapping, no kids screaming, no same ten songs on a loop on the shop playlist, no boss threatening to dock my wages if I didn’t smile more and serve customers with a deranged Barbie personality. Just quiet, and tranquillity, and an opportunity to finally shut my brain off.

“When do you leave?” I asked, killing that fantasy by mentally driving a sword through it. I’d been on a Lord of the Rings kick lately, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to shove a sword into the face of my superiors, Eowyn style.

“Monday,” Gran replied, her smile only growing. “Go sit at the table, I’ll bring this over.”

I eyed her strangely—she was being nice—but I could guess what was coming. Or rather, what wasn’t coming back. Namely, my grandmother. She was running away to the Maldives, probably to hook a rich businessman and drain his accounts, to then hook a young heir and drain his accounts. And honestly, I couldn’t blame her. But the thought of being solely responsible for the flat’s rent and bills made me want to throw up, scream, and then throw up again.

I hung up my coat and sat at the table, not opposed to a hot meal that smelled that good. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d cooked for me. She did in the beginning, right after Mum died, when I was still a novelty and it was fun to have someone else around. But then I became a nuisance, always needing something—food, school uniform, shoes because I’d outgrown my old ones, a haircut because I looked scruffy, affection because I had a bad dream. Having a granddaughter around became old fast.

I wracked my brain for the last time she’d made a gesture like this. Maybe when she brought a cake to my sixth form graduation? It was vanilla strawberry when I preferred chocolate caramel, but I appreciated the kindness.1

I’d better make the most of spending time with Gran while I could. I was absolutely certain she was running off to the Maldives, never to be seen again. Vanishing into the ether, just like everyone else I’d ever loved.

For a moment, I allowed my fingers to brush the necklace Dad gave me the night before he did a vanishing act. Presumed dead and never seen again. It was a gold star with a green dome of emerald set in the middle, and even though I was furious with him, hurt because the last person in my life who loved me was gone, I hadn’t taken it off. My last connection to a man who either cared so little about me, he easily left me behind, or who’d died a tragic death, found by people who couldn’t identify him.

We’d waited for the police to bang at the door for weeks, then months. For their expressions to be sad, serious, as they said they had news about him. But there was nothing. No news, either good or bad. He was simply gone.