Page 57 of Good Bad Girl

“If you stop interrupting, I’ll tell you. May was a detective—like you, but older and wiser and better—and had this theory thatsomeoneat the care home was making deals with relatives of residents to bump them off. Either when the bills were too steep or they needed the inheritance in a hurry. She said there was a pattern, and she was going to tell her granddaughter about it next time she visited, but then a few days later May was dead. She didn’t get the chance to tell anyone what she knew. Maybe whoever killed Joy had a good reason for doing so.”

DCI Chapman stares at her for a long time. “Do you know who May’s granddaughter was?” she asks. Edith shakes her head. “Do you know May’s surname?”

“No, I’m not sure I ever did. Everyone just called her Aunty May.”

Detective Chapman tries to take another sip of coffee but the enormous cup is empty. “It’s an interesting theory but there’s no proof—”

“But what if therewasproof? What if Joywasresponsible for the premature deaths of residents at the care home and finally got what she deserved? Isn’t justice supposed to be about protecting good people from bad ones?”

“Please sit down. You really shouldn’t worry yourself like this—”

“I saw what happened and Ladybug didn’t kill Joy!”

“Then tell me who did.”

Frankie

Frankie stops dithering and steps inside the pink house. She didn’t imagine the sound of someone screaming, it was real, and it came from the consultation room she was in yesterday. The room she took the papercut from. What kind of person would Frankie be if she walked away when she knew someone was in trouble? Even someone she hates.

“You shouldn’t be in here!” the woman in the pink house shouts behind the closed door, and Frankie feels compelled to help her. The hallway is in complete darkness so she has to feel her way.

“I’ve got a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it,” Frankie says, bursting into the shadowy room.

Clio spins around and shines the flashlight from her phone in Frankie’s face.

Frankie stares back, taking in the scene.

There is a dog sitting in the turquoise armchair. Clio is holding a metal lamp in her other hand and staring at what Frankie is holding in hers.

“Are you planning to polish me to death?” Clio asks, still staring at the can of Mr. Sheen. “Right, well, that’s it. The final straw. I literally can’t deal with any more shit from anyone about anything. I’m calling the police.”

“No! Please don’t,” Frankie says, dropping the polish and holding her hands up as though afraid Clio might shoot her. “Your door was open, I heard you scream and—”

“And what? You thought you’d invite yourself in? It’s the middle of the night, what are you even doing here? If you’ve come back to steal some more art from the house, I don’t have any. I’ve had clients develop stalking tendencies before, but rarely after oneincompletesession. Whoareyou?” Clio asks. “Because I didn’t believe anything you said yesterday. Why are you watching my house in the middle of the night and who are you? Really?”

Frankie feels as though she can’t breathe.

Four walls, three windows, two chairs, one woman in the pink house.

She looks at Clio, then at the dog sitting on the turquoise chair. He tilts his head to one side and stares back. There were eighteen steps from the front door to this room. If she turned and ran now she could be in the van in less than two minutes. But Frankie came here in the middle of the night to find her daughter, nothing else matters.

“I need to talk to you,” Frankie says.

“Then book an appointment. Or better still, find another therapist.”

“It has to be you.”

“Why? Why does it have to be me?”

“Because I have to tell you something.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”

“I think you do and even if you don’t, I still need to tell you.”

“So say whatever it is you want to say then get out of my house.”

Frankie stares at Clio then closes her eyes and starts to count.

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