Page 19 of Good Bad Girl

She bends down to look under the bed. Her mother’s old pink leather suitcase is missing, and all Clio finds are some half-eaten packets of custard creams, aRadio Timesmagazine, a single slipper, two paperbacks, and a Scrabble board. She has no idea where her mother has been getting these things from. By all accounts Edith never left her room, let alone the care home. She checks inside the bedside cabinet and is surprised to find some letters. The first is from a lawyer, and Clio’s hands start to tremble as she reads it. We don’t always know what we’re looking for until we find it.

At first Clio can’t quite process what the words mean.

Based on the evidence you have provided, we would be happy to assist you in reversing the power of attorney.

She turns the page and carries on reading.

As you know, we have a no win, no fee policy. Rest assured we are confident that we can get your home back and evict any existing tenants.

She checks the date on the letter before reading on, and sees it was sent this week.

And we have changed your will as instructed. A copy is in the post.

Clio drops the letter. This is something her mother failed to mention earlier. She opens the other envelopes that were in the bedside table, until she finds one with a thick wad of papers inside. She feels sick as soon as she starts to read them.

It is true. Her mother has somehow changed her will, and Clio feels a mix of hurt and rage. She skim-reads the rest of the document until she finds the important bit. Everything her mother still had—a small but significant amount of shares and savings—was supposed to be divided between two people and Clio was meant to be one of them. Now there is only one name in the will and it isn’t hers.

She takes one last look around room thirteen but sees nothing of value or interest except for a curious-looking notebook beside the bed. The front cover says “List of Regrets and Good Ideas.” Clio recognizes her mother’s handwriting. She turns to the first page.

LIST OF REGRETS

1. My daughter

Clio slams the notebook closed and puts it in her handbag along with the lawyer’s letters. If she can prove her mother is unhinged—which shouldn’t be too difficult—there might be a way to invalidate the new will. Satisfied that she hasn’t missed any clues, andthat there is nothing in the room to suggest or explain where her mother is now, she leaves the room. Clio hurries back down the carpeted stairs, but everything is still surprisingly quiet when she reaches the ground floor. It’s been hours since her mother went missing, and they clearly haven’t found her yet. The only person in the normally busy hallway is a smartly dressed young woman in her late twenties. She has shoulder-length blond hair with a single pink highlight on one side, and is wearing a tweed trouser suit over aStar WarsT-shirt. Clio needs to talk tosomeoneabout what has happened, and guesses this girl might be the night manager. She’s far too young for the job, but it can’t be easy finding staff to work in a place like this.

“Excuse me, are you in charge?” Clio asks.

The young woman half smiles. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Was it you who called about my mother?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

The effort it takes to remain polite is exhausting—the staff here have always been incompetent—but good manners tend to result in better results than bad ones, so Clio persists. “Well, do you know who did?”

“I can’t say that I do but—”

“You do work here, don’t you?”

“I am working but I don’t work here,” says the young woman, speaking in riddles and tucking the silly strand of pink hair behind her heavily pierced ears. She studies Clio in a way that Clio normally studies others and it is unnerving. Clio waits for her to say more but she doesn’t. Sometimes the gaps between a person’s words are more interesting than the words themselves.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” Clio says eventually.

“I’m a detective,” the woman replies, as though that should be a sufficient explanation.

Clio flushes with embarrassment and something else but soonrecovers. “Then youdoknow about my mother. She’s the one who has gone missing. I presume that’s why you’re here?”

The detective shakes her head. “I’m not here about a missing person. I’m here about a murder.”

Patience

I walk faster than normal across the cobbled street in Covent Garden. It feels as though I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and what I already know I am going to be accused of. But there is something else I need to take care of first.Someoneelse. If I can stick to the plan until tomorrow then maybe everything will be okay. I pop to the corner shop to get supplies, then head toward St. Paul’s church.

Not to confess. I need to collect what I have hidden there.

Covent Garden used to be covered in fields a couple of hundred years ago. Those fields were turned into an enormous fruit and vegetable market, which has since turned into shops and buildings which have become a tourist hot spot near London’s best theaters. There are very few actual gardens in Covent Garden these days, except for the magical one behind St. Paul’s church. It’s my favorite place to hide when real life gets too loud.

It’s known as the actors’ church, because of its location I suppose, in the heart of London’s Theatreland. I think I could havebeen a good actor: I’ve had plenty of experience. Most people play the roles life casts them in without even knowing that’s what they’re doing.

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