Page 12 of Corrupted Queen

What the hell is happening to me?

5

Alexis

“You don’t come with much, do you?” Debbie asks, surveying me as I deposit a worn duffel bag onto the bed. Harry’s stroller is parked in the corner. This is the sum total of my worldly belongings.

“Being in hiding has forced me to downsize,” I reply, sinking onto the edge of the bed. It is a cloud compared to the stained, spring-loaded mattresses I have grown accustomed to. “I found the fine china kept breaking when I made a run for it.”

Debbie chuckles.

“Thank you again for letting me stay here,” I say with full sincerity. “You know better than most the kind of danger I’m in. I’ll be out of here as soon as I start making enough money to stay in proper hotels.”

“Aye, well.” The corners of her bubble-gum pink lips lift. “A dingy motel is no place for a bairn.”

I study her expression, sensing that there is more to her charity than she says. I was surprised when she offered the place to stay, especially given her recent run-in with the Walsh crime family. I try not to be too suspicious, but it doesn’t help knowing that she has set me up at least once before.

There is nothing in the tilt of her darkly lined eyes or the pull of her cheeks to suggest anything but sincerity. Debbie claps her hands to her hips, which are clad in a pair of forest-green trousers to match her forest-green blazer, and whistles through her teeth.

“I don’t know about you, hen, but I’m starving,” she says. “I’ll cook up some scran.”

Her coiffed blonde head bobs out of the room. I go to the stroller and lift Harry out, setting him on the floor to play with his stuffed flamingo while I boot up my computer and unearth my voice recorder from my bag.

I settle onto the floor next to Harry and start playing the first recording, an interview I collected from a low-level drug dealer I gained access to via the glassy-eyed girl at the motel. I ended up staying there an additional week while Debbie made arrangements for me at work and set up a crib, and it turned out to be a useful base for conducting my investigation. I learned about the drug dealer from the glassy-eyed girl, the lone survivor of the purple heroin trifecta, and the next time he came around to supply her, he agreed to do an anonymous interview after she vouched for me.

I found it interesting to learn that purple heroin is not just being sold to dealers, it is being actively and aggressively pushed on them. Kris—my anonymous drug dealer’s nom de plume—reported that his suppliers are no longer able to obtain standard heroin, and their supplies of other opiates are dwindling. He didn’t know why this was the case, but I speculate that either the purple heroin kingpin supplied the other drugs before and has now stopped, or they are choking out the competition.

By the time I finish typing up the transcript of the interview and my notes, Debbie comes back into the room to announce that lunch is served. I take Harry and join Debbie in the kitchen, where she has set out two plates (and one small bowl) of mac and cheese. The smell wafts to my nose and I groan out loud. I have not seen a dish this tempting since I was back at the mansion, where Gabriel’s private chef Victoria concocted culinary delights for every meal.

“I don’t have a high chair,” Debbie says. “I feel a bit silly, but it’s been so long since Lily was little that I forgot all about it. I figure we can eat on the couch and then I’ll nip out after lunch for a high chair.”

I am overwhelmed. I have been on my own for weeks, looking after myself and Harry while constantly looking over my shoulder, and it has been exhausting. To suddenly have someone swoop in to take care of me is an icy shock to my system.

“Debbie, this is too much,” I say, blinking back tears.

“Don’t get all emotional,” she scolds. “You’re going to write an article for me that will break this purple heroin crisis wide open and put theUnionback on the map.”

Despite her words, there is a softness in her eyes that I don’t understand. She has been my boss for years, but our relationship has always been strictly professional. We sometimes chatted when the office went for cocktails after work, but for the most part, Debbie was my boss and I, the journalist struggling to climb higher up the ladder.

I wonder if this can all be attributed to guilt, or if maybe she is still a little raw from the threats against her daughter and perhaps sees a little of Lily in me. I doubt she will ever tell me.

“I’m just glad you’re giving me some actual news to cover,” I chuckle, grabbing mine and Harry’s bowls.

“You should be,” Debbie says, following me into the living room. “We’ve had Vicky Oberman covering the so-called puff pieces for the past couple of months and she’s utter shite.”

Laughing, we sit and eat, and I savor every mouthful. I cannot remember the last meal I had that tasted this good. When we finish, Debbie clears the bowls away and announces her departure for the shops.

“Shall I take the wee-un with me?” she says. “It could be nice for you to have a little time to yourself.”

My initial reaction is a resounding no. Harry has been attached to my side for weeks and the thought of dislodging him, if only for a couple of hours, drives a spike of horror through me.

Then again, Harry has been attached to my side for weeks. And it has been exhausting.

The prospect of a brief respite from motherly duties is tempting, but ultimately I can’t stomach it, especially not with someone who has betrayed me before. I trust Debbie, but with things as they are, I just don’t feel comfortable letting him out of my sight.

I thank Debbie for her offer but decline. She nods understandingly, and in a few minutes, Harry and I are alone in the apartment. Harry is struggling to keep his eyes open, so I take him to the crib and lay him down for a nap, standing over him as he falls asleep.

The more he grows, the more Harry looks like his father. He has Gabriel’s eyes—chocolate with specks of golden caramel—and dark curly hair that really could belong to either of us. Distinctly Gabriel, however, is the dimple in Harry’s little left cheek. I will never hold this resemblance against my son. He’s perfect.

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