Page 245 of Double or Nothing

“Sure thing.”

I drag Jack’s case through the hallway. Its wheels sound too loud against the immaculate floor.

Every step takes me further from him. Further from Bryce. Further from them.

I see the lift doors closing. Jack’s raised hand. Bryce standing beside him, watching me leave.

A ridiculous part of me expected him to be waiting in the lobby. Breathless from the stairs. Finally ready to tell me what I’ve been waiting years to hear.

But he wasn’t.

Of course he wasn’t.

He shouldn’t be. Not with so much at stake.

Damn this whole absurdly shitty situation.

My old bedroom is exactly as I remember it and nothing like me. Pale walls. Cream carpet. A delicate floral chair by the window that looks even worse than some of the crap on the upcycling show. Mum has arranged the dress, shoes and jewellery for tonight. So thoughtful and premeditated.

A costume for the part of Alice Rose Parker.

I leave Jack’s case beside the bed without opening it.

If I see the mug, I might pick it up and leave again. And I can’t do that. I can’t.

When I return downstairs, all made up in Mum’s preassembled attire, the drawing-room doors are open. She’s chosen well, actually. I look the part. Made up and tailored to perfection. I feel like a Parker as I step inside.

Dad is standing beside the fireplace with a drink in his hand, looking relaxed and satisfied. Smug.

Christopher has his back to me.

He’s taller than I remember. Broad shoulders, with neatly cut dark hair and a fitted beige suit.

Beige, for fuck’s sake.

Another upcycling flashback.

Everything about Christopher is polished, just like it always was. A psycho under a charade of perfection.

Dad notices me first.

“Here she is.”

Christopher turns and his regular smile arrives immediately. Older. Better practised. But still his.

I hate his dark eyebrows. The way his eyes used to glint under them when he was being a piece of shit.

The memories return in hammer blows.

Christopher hiding my sketchbook because he thought it was funny when I cried. Breaking the wing from one of Mum’s collectable porcelain birds and leaving it in my bedroom. Trying to kill my poor fucking cat with a slingshot.

Prick.

Everything about him still screams prick to me.

“Alice!” He crosses the room and kisses my cheek. His aftershave is sharp and unfamiliar. “You look wonderful.”

I don’t even give him a thanks, just a half smile.