Page 95 of Depraved Boys

Silence stretched out between us, and the tension in the air thickened. I parted my lips to explain myself, but no words came out. All my speculations were so outlandish. They almost sounded like I was making excuses for having gotten drunk and reckless.

“What did you think you were doing?” he blurted. “That’s the same stretch of road that killed your mother and fa—”

“I didn’t do it.” My head snapped up, and I met his angry, hazel eyes.

Uncle Trevor flared his nostrils. “Then tell me what happened. Tell me how you went from a grieving girl determined to keep the family home to someone desperate to join your poor mother and father in heaven!”

“You think I’m suicidal?”

“Answer my question!”

I flinched at his sharp tone. Uncle Trevor was the cool relative. The easy-going one who never showed anger or impatience… At least not to Ashley and me.

“Sorry.” His lips pressed together in a firm line. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.” Then his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “But I have to know why you decided to drink-drive on the exact stretch of road where they died. What was going through your mind? You know better than this.”

I shook my head. “That wasn’t me.”

“What, then?” His brows drew together.

I swallowed hard. “Everything after Monday morning’s a complete blank. Maybe someone put me in that car and shoved it down the side of the mountain. I can’t remember anything after yesterday morning.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “You’re coming to stay with me.”

“But I have to go to—”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near that den of psychopaths.” The steel in his voice told me he would take me back to his apartment, whether I consented or not.

A sigh heaved out of my lungs, and I gave him a sharp nod. Until I remembered what the hell had happened, there was no point in returning. Whoever attacked me could strike again.

My mind conjured up images of Geraldine and Bianca, who probably didn’t want me to press charges about their assault during that awful initiation.

After a few days, I read through my discharge notes in the car. Although the neurologist had told me I had post-traumatic anemia, he had written it up on the records as retrograde amnesia caused by a traumatic brain injury. A cocktail of drugs rolled around in the pharmacist’s bag: a codeine-based painkiller, sleeping tablets, and mild anti-inflammatory medicines that also acted as a painkiller.

My condition would resolve itself without further treatment, but there was a follow-up appointment in two months. I stared out of the window at the array of shoppers milling outside The Lanes shopping precinct, wishing I could be one of the anonymous crowd. None of them worried about night-time abductions and murder attempts.

Uncle Trevor lived in a huge house converted into smaller units in Upperby, another suburb of Carlisle on the east side of the River Caldew. As soon as he opened his apartment door, the noise of shrieking children filled the air.

I followed him into the living room, a ten-by-ten space filled with overlarge sofas and a huge, flat-screen TV. The two and three-year-olds, Anne and Stevie, chased each over around the rug, while Peter, who was four, lay on the couch his back, kicking Aunt Hortense in the thighs.

“What’s happened to you now?” Aunt Hortense ushered Peter off the sofa.

“Don’t give her a hard time,” said Uncle. “She’s been through an ordeal.”

Aunt Hortense tried to pull herself off her seat with one hand but flopped down. I would have told her she was better off on the armchair so that she could use both arms as leverage, but she would probably snap at me for the unsolicited advice.

A wave of dizziness swept over my head, making me grimace and suck in a deep breath. “How long do you have now?”

Aunt Hortense groaned. “Tomorrow’s my due date, but the contractions started this morning.”

Uncle Trevor lurched forward and helped her up. “You should have said!”

“Someone had to help Willow. Besides, we still have a few hours before my waters break.”

Uncle turned to me. “Take the sofa. I’ll move the kids to their room.”

“You’re relegating us?” Aunt Hortense shouted over the strains of Ring a Ring o’ Roses.

“Willow has a serious head injury with post-traumatic anemia. She can’t be left alone for the next few days.”