Page 2 of Cruel Games

One of the sour-faced guards returned my clothes and led me to a changing room, where I finally shucked the tracksuit and Herman Munster shoes in favor of skinny jeans, a tank top, and a leather jacket. By the time I’d gone through security and reached a waiting area lit by a flickering strobe light, the duty solicitor had gone.

An Indian woman stood and looked me straight in the eye. She was about five-five, the same height as me, with a similar, slender build. But unlike me, she wore huge, gold earrings and siren-red lipstick that seemed to compensate for her cropped hair.

“Lilah Hancock?”

My brows drew together. “Yes?”

She shoved her hand in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Sameera Reddy.” Her face split into a grin of professionally whitened teeth. “I’m from Richley Social services. Can we—”

“I’m not going to one of your shitty foster homes.” I held out my palm to stave her off. After two years of freedom with Sammy, I wasn’t about to put myself under someone’s grubby thumb.

Her face fell. “Actually, I have another offer for you.”

“An apartment?” I asked.

“No.”

“Have you spoken to my mother?”

“I did.” Ms. Reddy lowered her mascaraed lashes and thinned her lips.

My stomach tightened, and I braced myself for a verbal punch in the gut. Mother was a black belt in hurtful blows.

It didn’t take a genius in body language to translate what the social worker didn’t want to say. Mother still hadn’t forgiven me for getting Billy Hancock arrested. I refused to call him dad or father or even uncle. The man was a brute who deserved every second of his seven-year-sentence.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hancock wants you out of Richley. The Parole Board has fixed your stepfather’s release date, and she says it’s not safe for you here.”

“Right.” The maternal concern was unexpected. She’d always made a big show of not wanting me anywhere within a mile of her coke-head self. “Am I going somewhere else to study, then?”

“A headmaster up in Templar has offered you a place at his prestigious academy.”

“Where?” I drew my brows together. It almost sounded like Temple, one of the underground stations in central London.

“Scotland.”

Disappointment, as heavy as a bag of rocks, pulled my heart down to my stomach. Except for the occasional school trip to the south coast, I’d never left Greater London, let alone England. And how would a headmaster from a posh school even know about me?

Ms. Reddy’s bright lips spread into what she probably thought was an encouraging smile. To me, it looked like the kind of expression dealers of ‘class A’ made when they offered the final free sample guaranteed to get their victim hooked.

“No, way.” I pulled my gaze away from the woman and reached into my bag.

My phone lay beneath a sea of foil and paper chewing gum wrappers. I pulled it out and pressed the ‘on’ button. The battery indicator said thirty-one percent. Just enough to call an Uber to Sammy’s place, pick up my things, and leave.

“Miss Hancock?”

Ignoring the woman, I walked through the waiting room, past a loud family of red-heads trying to soothe a wailing baby, and out of the heavy, wooden door.

An overcast sky hung over the detention center’s tarmac courtyard, and a strong breeze hit the side of my face, blowing platinum strands into my eyes. Squinting, I scrolled through pages of apps to find the familiar black-and-white Uber logo.

As Ms. Reddy followed at my heels, yapping at me like a shorn poodle, I tapped the shortcut to estimate the fare from the detention center to Sammy’s place and winced at the price.

“Will you at least speak to Mr. Burgh?” asked Ms. Reddy.

“Why?” I muttered. “Is he going to pay me to join his academy?”

“There’s a small bursary—”