Page 47 of Good Bad Girl

“I know how you take it.”

“And maybe a cookie. If you have any. Somethingnormal, none of that vegan crap.”

And so it begins, Clio thinks as she retreats to the kitchen.

It was exactly like this the last time Edith was here. Her mother criticized everything and acted as if Clio’s home was a hotel. One she didn’t particularly like. It was as though she were doing her daughter some kind of favor by staying.

Just one night, Clio reminds herself while she waits for the kettle to boil.

She walks into her lounge carrying a tray with a cup of tea, a glass of water, and a plate of raisin and cinnamon oat snacks. But Edith is not there. Dickens is sitting on Clio’s couch, staring up at her and wagging his tail.

“Getdown,” she says, but the dog just stretches and makes himself more comfortable. She puts the tray on the table and lifts the dog onto the floor, holding him at arm’s length. “There are rules in this house. No sitting on the furniture, no chewing, no biting, no barking.” The dog tilts his head sideways. “No going upstairs—”

“And no fun,” Edith interrupts, walking back into the room. “This place looks more like a museum than a home.”

“Thank you,” Clio replies. “I like it.”

“Well, you always were a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“The spare bedroom is all made up for you at the top of the stairs. It’s been a very long day, I think I’m going to head up now.”

“You don’t think we should talk?” Edith asks. She takes the cup of tea from the tray, then she picks up one of the oat snacks and sniffs it. “What are these?”

“Cookies.”

Edith takes a tiny bite then pulls a face. “Balderdash. This is not a cookie.”

“I’m really tired, Mum. Can we talk some more in the morning?”

“I don’t think it can wait until then.”

“What can’t?”

“The dead care home manager. What if the police arrest the wrong person? I don’t want that on my conscience at my age.”

“Theyhavearrested someone.”

“Who?” Edith asks, eyes wide with worry.

Clio doesn’t think it is a good idea to upset her again and wishes she hadn’t said anything. “A detective decided to question me—”

“You?”

“Yes, but only because I happened to be visiting the care homearound the time it happened. DCI Chapman was convinced there were three suspects, and said thatIwas one of them—”

“Who did she arrest?” Edith repeats, glaring at her daughter.

Clio sighs. “Patience.”

“What? They arrested Ladybug?”

“Arrested and charged I believe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Edith shrieks. “This is all my fault. We have to go to the police right now.”

Frankie

Frankie parks the camper van opposite the police station in Covent Garden. She could be fined for leaving the van here—she already got a ticket today—but right now that’s the least of her worries. It takes thirty-three hurried steps to reach the main entrance. Thirty-three is a good number. It’s unique and some people think it symbolizes bravery. What Frankie is doing now isn’t brave, it’s just the right thing to do.

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