Page 1 of Dirty Tricks

PROLOGUE

XANDER

I swipemyself through the rear gate to Kingswood School using my staff pass, groaning as the movement ignites a sharp ache in my ribcage. Blood makes my mouth taste of meat and metal until I spit it to the side, running my tongue over my teeth to clear away the leftovers.

My fucking stepfather and his fucking temper.

Me and Mum were fine for years, with him held pending trial, then locked away, then under strict release conditions. Even when the courts forgot to inform us of each new development, the grapevine did its job.

And today he did what we always knew he would. He tracked my mother, turned up on her doorstep with shitty petrol station flowers and an insincere grin, and refused to leave, despite her repeated requests.

She called the cops when he barged inside, but they still hadn’t attended by the time we fled. I’d fought him into the bathroom, holding the door closed while my mother threw our important belongings into the backseat of the car.

I could have sworn the narrow window was too small for him to climb through, but he managed. Most of the injuries I sustained were inflicted on the short stretch of path from the front door to where Mum had the car waiting next to the kerb, engine running.

A lucky kick to the groin had winded him, bending him double.

That was my last sight of him—hopefully my last sightever—stumbling after us despite the pain. His anger, his sense of entitlement more important than any injury.

A tickle creeps up the back of my throat and won’t leave until a cough tears my lungs apart, making my head spin and my knees buckle.

The right side of my chest is tender, my head aches from half a dozen different blows. Split eyebrow, split lip. My nose feels crunchy to the touch and far too malleable.

I spit onto the grass again. This time, it’s clear, and my spirits lift a little.

Bones will heal. Pain will recede.

Not like the deep gouges he left on my face five years ago. The ones that sent him to prison.

It took him five seconds to slice the lower half of my face to ribbons. Inflicting deep cuts from my nose to my throat, cuts that healed into puckered scars, twisting across my cheeks, my lips, my chin, making it so a pretty girl would barf if she looked at me. Even I struggle to face myself in a mirror.

He did that, but today he came and knocked on the door like his inadequate prison sentence wiped the slate clean. Like what he’d done didn’t have further consequences.

A wave of exhaustion hits, making me stagger. I’d love a large coffee, even a service station one would do, but I gave every cent I had to my mother before leaving her at the pickup point for the shelter.

Now I’m eighteen, they weren’t keen on me staying there with her, and I didn’t want to do anything to make it harder. I left her on her own and she won’t be able to contact me for a fortnight. I’ll respect their rules, but my heart aches with how much I miss her already. How scared I am for her.

Far more scared than for myself. I’m in no state for another fight, but Kingswood’s security means even my stalker stepfather will be kept safely on the other side of the school gates. I can camp in the equipment shed and no one will ever know.

But before I head there, I need to scrounge some food. Apart from the mouthfuls of blood I’ve accidentally swallowed, my stomach’s been empty all day.

When I reach the ground level grating for the student housing block, I glance around, checking there’s no one in sight, then tie a bandanna over my face. The crawlspace under the building is full of dirt, dust, and debris.

I wriggle like a worm across the grimy floor, using the light of my phone screen to navigate, stopping underneath a manhole cover.

It’s a tight squeeze through the gap, then it becomes even more awkward. The room above used to be a storage closet, but they converted it into student quarters shortly after I started working here, still unoccupied, but I’m trapped underneath the bed.

My fingers fumble at the catch of the baseboard along the side, then I slowly roll out, trying not to aggravate my injuries.

Once upright, I take a step… then freeze as light floods the room, blinding me.

A girl stands near the door, blocking my path. Her eyes are wide open, hand still resting on the light switch.

Shit.

I stare at her, barely daring to breathe.

“There’s none left in the cupboard,” she says in a low voice, a pleasant voice, a desperate-to-please voice. She stares at my collarbone, chewing on her wide bottom lip and hunching her shoulders.

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