Page 22 of Good Bad Girl

Dickens runs up ahead, climbing the familiar one hundred and twenty-three steps. Edith needs to take them a little more slowly, so we stop for several breaks along the way. She uses the handrailto heave herself up, determined to reach the top. I take almost all of her bags as well as the old suitcase, and hold her other hand to make sure she doesn’t topple over.

“Almost there,” I say.

“I do hope so,” she replies, a little out of breath as I unlock the attic door.

“Oh my,” Edith gasps as she steps inside. “It’s like being inside an art gallery. A wonderful one,” she says, staring at all my papercuts, which cover every inch of the walls. “Ladybug, you should be very proud. You really are an artist.”

I feel myself blush. It seems strange to let someone see my work before I am ready to share it with people. It’s hard to describe the feeling I get when someone says they like what I have created—there is nothing quite like it. Sometimes it feels like magic, making something out of nothing with just some paper and a knife. I think we all start off as blank canvasses before the world paints us with thoughts and feelings we pretend are our own. And I like that. It means we are capable of change. Each piece of work is a labor of love and hate and pain and joy, and there is a little piece of me in all of them. I never sign my name, but since Edith started calling me Ladybug, I’ve been drawing one in the bottom corner of each papercut. Just to know they are mine.

Dickens heads straight for his dog bed, turns in a circle three times, then lies down and closes his eyes. I’m glad he knows to make himself at home and hope Edith will do the same.

“You can get changed back into your own clothes now if you want?” I say to her.

“I think that’s a good idea. I look like a hooligan or someone who chooses to be unemployed, wearing this thing, no offense. I’ve never likedhoodiesbut I confess they are rather comfortable. Can I have a little privacy while I change, dear?”

“Of course,” I say. Edith and her old suitcase disappear insidemy excuse for a bathroom. She reappears a short time later wearing a polka-dot dress and cotton cardigan. She laughs when she sees that I keep the milk out on the window ledge.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask.

“Why on earth would we drink tea when we have wine?”

I laugh too, and the sound it makes is strange, unfamiliar. I help her slide the suitcase under the bed—there is nowhere else to put it—then concentrate on opening the bottle of chardonnay. My heart sinks.

“I don’t have any wineglasses,” I say.

“You must have something we can use.”

It feels wrong to be celebrating after what happened earlier, but I pour some wine into a tumbler for Edith and drink mine from my mug. Doing so reminds me of my mother.

“Do you think we’ll get away with it?” Edith asks.

I choke on my wine. “Get away with what?”

She laughs. “Running away!”

“Oh, that. Time will tell.”

“I hope not but I suppose it might. Time can only keep our secrets for so long.”

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs startles me, as it always does. Edith looks equally scared when she sees my expression. I try to appear and remain calm—as though there is nothing to worry about—then I hold my finger to my lips and she nods in understanding. I flick off the lights that can be seen from beneath the door and we sit in the dark in silence. The moonlight from the window shines a natural spotlight on the door, and the night-light illuminates our anxious faces with moving stars.

Someone knocks once. Then again.

We can see their shadow beneath the frame.

“Hello?” says a man’s voice. “Is anyone in there?” I don’t answer. “I’ve got a large pepperoni, some garlic bread, and two chocolatebrownies. The address just said the attic above the art gallery. Is anyone home?”

“Yes,” I say, opening the door just enough to take the pizza I had forgotten ordering. “We’re home.”

Clio

“I’m leaving now,” Clio says to the detective. “You’ve kept me hanging around for ages and I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like look for your mother? I quite agree. Don’t worry, we know where you live if we need to speak to you again,” DCI Chapman replies. Everything about her—the blond hair with a strand of pink, her stick insect figure, her attitude, her age, her wrinkle-free, beautiful skin—irritates Clio to her core.

“Is there a reason why you are being so rude to me?” Clio asks, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Probably, you’re the expert. Isn’t everything linked to mommy issues these days? Please don’t take it personally, I’m told I’m rude to everyone.” The detective turns and leaves the room before Clio has a chance to reply.

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