Page 68 of Good Bad Girl

“We are all made from stars, the result of explosions millions of years ago. You, me, everyone we meet, we’re all stardust and stories. Try to remember that,” Edith says. She closes her eyes and is very still. Her grip on Clio’s hand loosens. The machine makes a different noise and a doctor comes rushing into the room.

When it is over, and the doctor has confirmed that her mother is dead, Clio feels a wave of emotion she did not expect. It washes over her and drags her under until she feels as though she can’t breathe. Clio starts to walk away, then she runs.

Frankie

Frankie listens to the voice mail twice. When she is sure that she has understood correctly—that Liberty knows where her daughter is—she rushes out of the hospital and to the camper van. The journey from West London to the prison takes longer than it should in the morning traffic; there are too many cars being driven by too manypeople. Frankie counts the number of seconds it takes for a red light to change to green. When it doesn’t change fast enough she drives through anyway, ignoring a cacophony of car horns bleating their annoyance.

She eventually pulls into the prison car park and sees that her favorite spot is available. This is a good sign. It’s still early, the car park is empty, so she changes into her prison uniform in the front seat. Frankie lived in this van once upon a time, before she inherited the narrow boat. This van was her home when she was a bookseller in St. Ives. There isn’t much she hasn’t done in it: travel, eat, drink, sleep, take care of a baby girl she stole from a supermarket. You can do almost anything in a van like this.

Frankie notices that the belt on her uniform now needs to be fastened on a tighter notch—she’s lost weight. She looks in the mirror and sees that the shadows beneath her eyes are a shade darker than they were before too. Frankie doesn’t wear makeup; her mask is skin-deep. But she doesn’t look or feel like herself today.

She climbs out into the cold morning sunshine and is about to lock the camper van, when the side door suddenly slides open, revealing someone crouching behind it. Someone who must have been hiding back there for well over an hour while Frankie drove, and undressed, and counted the number of seconds it takes for red lights to turn green.

“Hello,” says Clio.

Clio

“So this is where you work, is it?” Clio asks, taking in Frankie’s uniform, before staring up at the imposing prison walls behind her. Frankie doesn’t speak—she appears to be in a state of shock—so Clio continues. “I saw your van when I came out of the hospital. It’s hard to miss. I didn’t expect the doors to be unlocked, but when they were I decided to take a look inside. It’s probably the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done, but I’m not exactly feelingmyself. I did just watch my mother die.”

“Edith is dead?”

“How do you know my mother?” Frankie doesn’t answer. “Never mind. I heard you coming back to the van and I panicked. Then I hid and now here we are, outside a prison. Which seems appropriate because I’m starting to believe that you did steal my baby.”

“Please don’t call the police.”

“Is the girl in the photo you showed me really my daughter?”

“Yes,” Frankie whispers.

Clio stares at her, as though looking for clues on her face. “If thatistrue—”

“It is.”

“Thenwhy? Why did you take her? Because that is the question I have asked myself over and over again since the day it happened.”

Frankie thinks very carefully before she answers. “Because all children deserve to be loved.”

“You think I didn’t love my daughter?”

Frankie stares at the ground. “I know you didn’t.”

Clio waits for her to make eye contact again but she doesn’t. “Why did you give me this?” Clio asks, holding up the silver ladybug ring.

“I told you. Proof. It was on a little chain tied to the baby’s buggy the day I took her. I thought if you saw it, you would know that I was telling you the truth. I’m fairly sure the ring was never mentioned in the newspapers,” Frankie says. “I’m sorry but I have to go. She is all I care about, and someone in there knows where she is.”

“Wait,” Clio says as Frankie turns to leave. “You stole the papercut from my house because you thought your daughter made it?” Frankie nods. “But why did you leave an old ten-pound note, one that isn’t even in circulation anymore, in its place?”

“Because that’s how much your mother paid me.”

“What?”

Frankie checks the time. “I really do have to go.”

Clio stares at the Mickey Mouse watch on Frankie’s wrist. “Where did you get that?”

Frankie yanks down her sleeve, hiding both the watch and theShhtattoo. “Stay, go, call the police if you want. I don’t care about you anymore.” She starts to walk away.

“Please, wait.”

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