Chapter 1
Faolan wasn’t supposed to be in this home.
That’s what she overheard Mrs. Chatham mutter on the phone last week, not realizing Faolan was curled up beneath the window in the corridor outside the office, knees pulled to her chest like every other time before that. Another “placement disruption.” Another “failed match.” Another adult sighing like she was a stubborn screw that wouldn’t fit into a square peg.
“Too stubborn.”
“Too whiny.”
“Cries all the time.”
She’d stopped unpacking weeks ago.
The group home in Manchester smelled like floor cleaner and burnt toast. The other girls either ignored her or stared too long, like she was an exhibit at an old-fashioned carnival alongside the bearded lady and the Siamese twins. The older boys were cruel in a way that reminded her of her mother’s friends after they’d been drinking. She had been in five homes in the last two years, maybe six—she’d lost count after they split her from her brothers.
Cormac and Callum. Always talking about football and the next meal. They were loud and rough and always smelled like grass and sweat, but they were hers. They were her shields from all the dangers she didn’t know about six months ago.
They’d kept the world away with their combined fists and fury.
Now she was alone, and the world was seeping in. She had turned nine last Tuesday, and there was no one here who knew.
Except for him.
His name was Ellis. He was fourteen, like her brothers would be right now. He always had scuffed knees and untied shoelaces. He had a scar under his eye and a laugh that came out through the side of his mouth. He walked her home from school each day, just like her brothers used to, and sometimes, when he tilted his head to grin at her, she felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
Today had been a good day.
She’d played football and hadn’t fallen once. Her cornflower-blue eyes—her mother used to call them “electric” when she was lucid for one short second—had lit up when they won. She even scored, and nobody shouted at her afterwards for letting the team down.
So, when Ellis said, “We’re all going for ice cream. You should come,” she surprised herself by nodding. It was hard to let go of all that Callum had drilled into her head the night before they took them away.
It felt like forever since she had ice cream.
They went to the corner shop down the road, the one with the rusty sign of an iceberg in the sea, where the ‘I’ in ‘Ice Cream’ had stopped lighting up. The bell above the door jingled when they stepped in, and the man at the counter gave her a kind smile. He had an accent and a large moustache, which made him look like a walrus, but he was nice. His eyes were soft, his handscareful as he scooped the pistachio—the pale green flavour she always liked best—and added an extra scoop just for her.
The lady beside him winked. “For that goal, eh?”
Faolan flushed and took the cone. Ellis had proudly told them all about it. The slippery sweetness dripped in the afternoon warmth, and she licked it before it melted all over her fingers.
Ellis didn’t eat his right away; he just watched her with that warm look in his eyes.
They turned off the main road, heading toward the rows of dull brick homes that smelled like chip grease and laundry. But today there was something else there. Something that made the fine hairs in the back of her neck stand up.
That’s when Faolan felt something was wrong.
Her legs felt funny, like jelly. Her stomach flipped, and she felt like she was going to throw up—like she had after going on that roller coaster ride many years ago. The world tilted slightly, like a teacup being slowly knocked over. She blinked at Ellis, and his face…it wasn’t how it had always been.
There was something new in his eyes.
Something that didn’t belong.
She reached out, trying to steady herself, but her hands didn’t listen. It felt like she was reaching for something far away. When she leaned on him, he didn’t smile or tousle her hair.
He looked at her like she was the catapult he had won from one of the other boys.
Faolan knew things; she knew the sound of a belt being unbuckled in anger. She knew when to duck a slap. She knew how to read faces, especially the dangerous ones.
She needed to move, to run and get away.
