Page 28 of Corrupted Queen

Who am I kidding? Harry’s much safer at the mansion than he would ever be with me on the streets.

I clear my throat. “All right. Harry can stay here.”

Gabriel goes back to playing with Harry. The matter is settled.

* * *

An hour later, I’m at the front door of Clara’s apartment, shifting nervously from foot to foot while Gabriel’s driver, David, leans against the car and lights up a cigarette. It was impolite of me not to call first, but I didn’t want to give Clara the chance to make up an excuse.

I buzz her apartment and wait patiently, but there’s no answer. I jam my finger into the buzzer again, this time not letting up until her voice crackles through the speaker.

“Who the hell is it?”

“It’s Alexis. Can I come in?”

There is a long pause before, finally, the front door clicks open to admit me. I step inside, stomach fluttering with trepidation. There is a reason that Clara has been so elusive. I only hope I’m not too late.

I climb the stairs and arrive at Clara’s front door, knocking lightly. I brace myself for whatever I am about to find on the other side, but nothing could prepare me for what I see.

Clara opens the door, looking up at me through bloodshot eyes. She is a shade of her former self, the ghost of my best friend. Her curly blonde hair is pulled back into a tired bun, and her skin is pale, almost waxy-looking. She wears an oversized black hoodie and sweatpants, which eclipse her slim figure.

“Clara!” I exclaim, trying not to sound overly horrified. “It’s good to see you.”

“Now’s not a good time,” she murmurs, avoiding my gaze.

“Please let me in.” I purse my lips beseechingly. “I miss you.”

She sighs, glancing back into the apartment, and then opens the door. I step inside, and the first thing that greets me is the stench. I look to her kitchen in the corner, where dirty dishes overflow from the sink and a fly buzzes above the overstuffed garbage can. I wrinkle my nose as I follow Clara into the apartment, which used to be a verdant oasis of greenery. Now my gaze tracks from one brown, desiccated plant to the next.

“How have you been, Clara?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

Clara slumps onto the sofa. The shame emanating from her is palpable. Not only is her apartment a disgrace, but the evidence of her relapse lies littered all over the coffee table and the floor below. I pretend I don’t see the discarded beer cans and wine bottles and perch on the sofa next to her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Clara replies, eyes flicking toward her closed bedroom door.

I lay a hand on her shoulder. “Clara, we’re friends through the good times and the bad.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she repeats, shaking her head. Her eyes swim with tears, and when she lifts her hand to wipe them away the baggy sleeve of her sweatshirt draws back, and I catch sight of a sickly green bruise on her wrist.

I reach out tentatively, but she eyes my curious fingers and yanks up the sleeve of the sweater.

“I fell,” she sniffs, looking toward her bedroom door again.

“Is Killian here?” I ask.

As if I needed only utter his name to summon him, the door to her room slams back from its hinges and I get my first look at Killian. My first thought is that he shares an alarming resemblance to the junkie I interviewed in Newark a few weeks ago—purple bags like bruises under his eyes, pale skin, a sort of twitchy way of moving that makes me nervous. He’s wiry, though his white wifebeater hangs off him in a way that makes me think he used to be bigger.

“You’re Alexis,” Killian hisses, eyes sparking. He flexes his shoulders, causing the many tattoos on his skin to bunch and twist.

I look to Clara, whose lip is quivering. She is staring at him with an expression I can only describe as pleading.

“Where’s the kid?” Killian asks, stalking closer. I notice several red pinpricks at the crook of his arm. He’s an addict, probably purple heroin.

“I didn’t bring Harry,” I say cautiously.

Killian shrugs. “You win some, you lose some.”

“Clara?” My eyes go to her as I back away from Killian.

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