Page 69 of Fire Fight

It’s half time. She’s probably in a line for a drink or the loos.

I head for the nearest refreshment stands, burning with impatience as I scan the queue, having to check and recheck because, like half the crowd, Cadence painted her face.

When I’m sure she’s not there, I head for the next one, then duck out of sight behind an upright banner as Harriet walks past, arm in arm with a girl I don’t recognise.

Harriet laughs, doubling over as her friend regales her with a story, pointing to the opposite side of the pitch where a cluster of their team supporters are building a human pyramid.

She looks well. A split-second glimpse isn’t enough to know but I tap my collarbone, trying to shake the pinch in my chest.

The last time I was near, her face was streaked with tears as she tried to hold back information, and I threatened to tell her parents all about her nasty drug habit.

A hollow threat. I couldn’t care less if she spent all her free time in an opioid den.

All I wanted was a name. A description. An address.

I had squeezed the bottle in my fist so tightly, the plastic cracked, the label half-obscured by sweaty smudges. Grief blinded me to the art of subtlety. When she still refused, I threatened her with my fists.

I’m a coward for ducking out of sight. No wonder Cadence railed over my lack of apology. Harriet is a low-risk, low-reward target.

With a grunt of effort, I force myself back in her path.

And she comes to an abrupt stop.

“Hey,” I drawl like the word is three syllables long, watching her eyes expand until they’re flashes of white in the dimness of off-pitch lighting. “It’s good to see you, Harriet. How have you been?”

She blinks, takes a step back, then shifts her weight to the ball of her foot like she’s waiting for the starters’ pistol.

Her friend’s gaze flickers between us half a dozen times, then she sticks out her hand. “I’m Molly. How do you two know each other?”

“He used to go to our school,” Harriet mumbles, shuffling to the side where she’ll have a clear path to freedom.

“I wanted to apologise—”

“Youwantedto?” Harriet frowns in mock confusion. “Was something stopping you?”

“No.” My eyes walk to the view over her shoulder, and I force them back to meet her rigid gaze. “I’m sorry I threatened you.”

“Right.” She gives a small shake of her head. “Get the fuck away from me.” The way Molly jerks tells me she’s not used to hearing that word from her friend.

“Sure.” I reach my hand out to rest on her arm. “I just wanted—”

She wrenches her arm away from mine. “Don’t touch me. You know, I heard Ashcroft had a spate of fires late last year. No prizes guessing why.”

I roll my eyes. One rubbish bin that got a bit out of hand. Hardly a national crisis. “Yeah, well, that’s not—”

“But I guess we should all be grateful you stopped setting fire to girls. Why they didn’t lock your arse safely behind bars for the next decade is beyond me.”

“It was for you, too. Isavedyou from taking drugs that—”

“You know nothing about it!” Her finger jabs at my chest, gouging it, her sharp nail painted blood red. “Cadence was the only person who noticed anything was wrong. The only person who stopped to help, and shedidhelp me.” Her lips curls, face so wracked with disdain I think she’s about to spit, but just shakes her head. “But I guess the truth is inconvenient when you’re on a pointless crusade. Have fun with that.”

And she’s gone, stalking past with a firm step, tossing her head and giving a snort when Molly makes a comment.

That went well.

I can’t stand the crowds, the noise, the excitement any longer and head for the rear of the bleachers, then further, going to my car.

A dark figure stands near my car when I enter the parking lot. They’re holding a cricket bat, and I have just enough time to think they’re at the wrong match before they bolt, sprinting across the lot and throwing themselves over the fence like the hounds of hell are chasing.

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