Page 77 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
I roll my eyes and hand him the screwdriver.
‘You’d better be, because I might end up dead for this.’
‘Let’s hope whatever is inside is worth it then,’ I say.
He braces himself and forces the screwdriver between the doors, grunting as his muscles tense. I’m just about to launch into an ‘It’s no use’ spiral when I hear a resounding crack.
My heart leaps into my throat as I wait for someone to find us, to bring me to Priscilla the demon-woman who will probably lock me in a dungeon and tell Dad I’ve fled back to London.
Nothing happens.
Dramatic much?
Roman eases the cabinet open, and we peer inside.
Bottles and boxes all neatly arranged. I recognise some labels, while others are foreign to me. There are painkillers, bloody strong ones too. But other medications, too. I don’t even have my phone at hand to Google the names.
I grab a bottle and read the prescription. My dad’s name is there, clear as day. And the physician is the private one my family has used since I was born. The one who asks no questions.
No poison.
‘Oh,’ I whisper.
Roman leans in close, reading over my shoulder. ‘Not what you were expecting?’
My brain stumbles off into a new maze of possibilities, and I feel a headache at the edge of my vision, like a gathering storm.
No poisoning. No villain. But, what?
‘I need to talk to my dad,’ I say, already making for his office.
Roman follows. ‘Maggie, it’s probably not the best time.’
‘Now. Before I lose my nerve.’
We find Dad in his bedroom, dressed in his kilt and long socks, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking shattered.
His aftershave clings in the air, melding with the scent of furniture polish amongst the sea of dark wood. It isn’t a room I’ve entered often. While I was closer with my family than many other families I knew in our arena, there has always been a tiered system. And parental spaces were off limits to us children.
Rightly so, I guess. The three of us were absolute menaces growing up.
‘Dad. We need to talk. Right now.’ Adrenaline propels me forward.
His eyes snag on the handful of pill bottles I hold. To my surprise, his shoulders sag, and he lets out a weary sigh.
‘The two of you best take a seat.’
Oh God, that’s not something you want to hear from a parent.
I can’t sit. Instead, I pace the floor, the pills rattling with every step.
‘I broke into the cabinet. Priscilla has been crushing pills and mixing them into your drinks. Then I heard you saying how tired you’ve been, and I put two and two together?—’
‘And got a hundred,’ Dad sighs.
‘But I don’t recognise all of these names, so how do you know what she’sreallygiving you.’
‘Maggie.’ My name is as much of an admonishment as anything else.
