Page 29 of Good Bad Girl

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I really am, but this place isn’t safe for any of us now. I need to pack some things and get us out of here. Then we can talk properly. How does that sound?”

“While you pack, I want to take Dickens for a walk. Like I used to.”

The girl stares at her. “Will you come back if I let you go?”

Let you go.

The words make it sound as though she is a prisoner, and Edith thinks maybe she is. Old age has made a captive out of her. She used to be so independent and free, but now she is dependent on others for everything. Edith doesn’t have any cash and she gave the girl her bank card. She has behaved like an old fool but she isn’t one.

“I need you to trust me,” the girl says.

Edith nods. “Idotrust you and of course I’ll come back. I’m sorry we had a falling out.”

The girl smiles and seems satisfied with her answer, even though it is a lie.

Edith cares very much about Ladybug but she has never fully trusted her.

How could she?

Edith has known who the girl really was since the first time they met.

Frankie

Frankie has to be extra careful from now on. She cannot get caught; she knows what happens to prison staff who commit crimes and go to jail. It won’t matter that she was a librarian. If the police can prove what Frankie did and she ends up in prison it will be the end of her. She must find her daughter and then she needs to move away and start again. She’s out of time and options.

Frankie has never been in Covent Garden this early in the morning before. She prefers it like this—quiet, without any crowds or noise, just the sound of her heels on the cobbled streets. She guesses it will take another thirty-three steps to reach her destination. It takes twenty-seven, so she wasn’t far off. Sometimes the truth is closer than we think.

She stops and looks up at the beautiful, old, narrow building, taking a moment to appreciate its age and architecture, including the tiny attic perched on top. Kennedy’s Gallery has “ESTABLISHED 1886” carved into the stone above its fancy-looking blue door, and Frankie imagines the same family working in thisbuilding for all those years, generation after generation, following in their ancestors’ footsteps. Walking in so many shadows must make it hard to see your own path. Frankie takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. The gallery isn’t open yet, but the lights are on and she can see someone inside.

When nobody answers, she knocks again. A little harder this time.

A well-dressed man with floppy hair squints in her direction.

“We’re not open yet. Come back at nine,” he shouts from a short distance, pointing at his expensive-looking watch. He speaks slowly, as though he thinks she might be a tourist, or dangerously stupid, or both.

Frankie stares back at him. The man is tall and tanned, with entitlement and fine lines drawn on his face. Midforties if she had to guess, which she doesn’t, because she knows exactly who this man is. They’ve met before, even though she is certain that Jude Kennedy does not remember her. Sometimes being forgettable is a blessing. Twenty years ago she came here and asked for his help. He didn’t help her back then. He just tried to sell her some lousy art and gave her his business card—which she kept—but she’s going to make him help her now. Jude turns his back on her, so Frankie makes a fist and pounds on the door again. He spins around, rolls his eyes like a teenager, then marches toward the entrance, before pointing at theClosedsign. He has hands that have never known hard work.

Frankie holds up the framed papercut she took from the pink house. He stares down at it then up at her. The out-of-season suntan seems to visibly drain from his arrogant face. “I want to talk to you about this,” she says through the glass door, seeing that she finally has his attention. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” he replies, looking down on her in every possible way.

She flips the frame around. “Then why does it have the name of this gallery on the back?”

Jude looks past her at something in the distance. When Frankie glances over her shoulder, she sees a police officer walking down the street on the other side of Covent Garden. For a moment she thinks the detective who turned up at the narrow boat this morning is having her followed, but she’s just being paranoid. The detective doesn’t really know anything; if she did Frankie would have been arrested already. There is a tinkle of a bell, and when Frankie turns back, the door is open.

“You had better come in,” Jude says, ushering her into the gallery. As soon as she is inside, he closes the door behind her again, using a series of complicated locks, bolts, and chains.

Frankie does not like being locked inside somewhere unless she has a key.

She takes in her surroundings. The gallery is bigger than its narrow exterior suggests, stretching away from the street. There is a surprisingly high ceiling and a mezzanine. The intricate spiral wooden staircase leading up to it looks as though it might have been carved from a single tree trunk. Almost every space on the gray walls is covered in artwork. There is something for everyone here, but the prices next to each piece mean that most people could only afford to look. Frankie is no art expert—that was her daughter’s passion, not hers—but she thinks this place is beautiful. It would make a wonderful bookshop.

“I don’t remember the piece of work you have there,” Jude says, interrupting Frankie’s thoughts. “But if I can help you, I will.”

All of his words sound like lies.

“I want to know about the artist who made this,” Frankie says, lifting her chin a little higher. People like him never respect people like her. “You must have records.”

“I’m afraid some artists like to remain anonymous.”

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