Page 12 of Good Bad Girl

But I do knowwhoI want to be, andwhereI want to go, and that’s worth something. As soon as I have saved up enough money, I’m getting out of here.

I select a new track from the playlist on my phone and turn up the volume, then I continue my secret scavenger hunt. I find threeminiature bottles of scotch in the bedside cabinet, so I drink one and confiscate the rest. Alcohol is against the rules.

Then I find the letters.

There must be fifty of them, written by hand on thick white paper. They are love letters, filled with affection, devotion, and tenderness, all addressed to Mr. Henderson’s wife. The most recent one was written yesterday.

She died five years ago.

I miss you being by my side at night. I miss holding your hand, hearing your laugh.

This is a version of the old man I have never known.

I saw a robin on the hedge today and it made me think of you.

I feel the heavy pain of his grief and loss with every word.

I do not know how to be me without you.

I read several of the letters before putting them back. Trying to equate the person who wrote them with the person downstairs is incomprehensible. I was wrong about the man I thought I knew, just like he is wrong about me. There is always a reason why people behave the way that they do. Sometimes bad people are just sad people in disguise.

There is a small glass display frame hidden away at the back of the bedside cabinet. I’ve become fascinated by what people choose to bring here, the things they want close by at the end. A life’s worth of possessions reduced to a single box of keepsakes in an unfamiliar room. I take the frame out for a closer look at two medals inside. One is gold and shaped like a star, the other is a silver cross and theinscription suggests that they are from the second world war. The things this man must have done for his country do not excuse his behavior now, but they do make me regret my own. I accidently drop the frame and the glass shatters.

It takes far longer to clean up the mess than it should, tiny bits of glass seem to be everywhere. When finished, I squeeze the medal and the small broken frame into the pocket of my tunic, hoping there might be a way to repair it. Then I start putting the rest of Mr. Henderson’s things back where I found them. I have never been good at being bad.

The music in my ears stops just as I’m starting to put back the cash I took from Mr. Henderson’s jacket.

But then I hear something else.

There is someone in the room.

They have been watching me.

“What do you think you are doing?” asks Joy. I turn around slowly, my hands hovering in midair as though I am scared of being shot. Joy is standing in the doorway looking too pleased with herself. She is a small-minded woman who is overly fond of wearing cotton-candy-colored twinsets; I see that today’s is blue. Her ringlets remind me of pigs’ tails, and her beady eyes look darker than usual. They are currently focused on the money I am holding. The money I was about to put back.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say in a small voice that sounds like an imitation of my own.

“Of course not. Never is. Mr. Henderson said you were stealing things from his room so I thought I’d come and check for myself. Looks like he was right. Empty your pockets onto the bed.”

“I can explain—”

“Empty your pockets.”

I do as she asks—what choice do I have—putting the ten-pound notes and the miniature scotches on top of the clean white sheets.

“Is that everything?” Joy asks, tilting her head to one side when I don’t answer. “Please don’t make me search you myself.”

The thought makes me shudder. I reach inside my pocket again and pull out some other things that do not belong to me. Everything except Mr. Henderson’s war medal and Edith’s bank card. Joy’s beady eyes are already bulging, don’t want her to start shitting kittens.

“Is it just room fourteen you’ve been stealing from?” she asks, her turkey neck starting to turn red with the stress and glee of it all. She calls all of the residents by their room numbers.

“I didn’t—”

She tuts and holds up a hand. “Don’t bother lying. I would call the police myself, but seeing as you working here isn’t completely official that makes things complicated. And now I have another gap in the roster to fill. You’re fired, obviously, and don’t bother asking me for a reference.”

I start to panic. Work is hard to come by without any ID, or a bank account, or a real name. “Please, I can explain.” Her face is a stop sign but I carry on anyway. “I can’t lose this job.”

“And I can’t employ a thief.”

---