Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
Oops! Questa immagine non segue le nostre linee guida sui contenuti. Per continuare la pubblicazione, provare a rimuoverlo o caricare un altro.
Tell me where you are?
I exhale, tugging my beanie down tighter over my hair with one hand as I grip my phone in the other. The white swirls of my breath cloud my view as I type.
I'm not expecting a response, but I can't stop hoping for one. The cold air bites at my skin, and the smell of fried food and petrol fumes burn my nose as I cross the road, ignoring the roaring of car engines lingering in traffic, and the commotion of people on the surrounding street. I keep my head down. I don't naturally stand out and I've spent enough time around the Heights to know how to fade into the background. I turn off the main street and follow the path up to the block where Owen lives.
Or is it lived? Would he ever have a life again here, in this place?
It hadn't been hard to slip away. I'd been exhausted from the day at school and no one has really expected me to do much more than sleep since. It helps that everyone is so distracted, and it suits me right now. Dad especially — despite Owen's name being released as a person of interest, there are no more leads, no clues as to where he could be hiding. They'd found no more evidence or witnesses to Damian's death. I had sent Owen message after message, demanding to know where he was, and what was going on, but I got nothing but silence. He'd told me all he wanted to say the morning after Damian's death. I tried not to think of an alternative where Owen couldn't respond. Where Davey had already found him.
The tower looms ahead of me as I walk up the path. Its gargantuan form blocks the sun, throwing cold shadows that raise goosebumps on my skin. Lazarus Heights hasn't changed since the last time I'd been here, all those months ago. My chest tightens as I remember the indifference of Owen's words, the shards of ice in his eyes. He'd broken my heart and once again I question why I'm doing this. Why am I trying so hard to find him? Why do I need to prove he didn't kill Damian so badly? But still, I don't stop. I don't turn back. I reach the metal-lined door. It's coated in dirt, and I see my blurry reflection distorted with the dents and scratches. Misery hangs in the air here, it feels substantial. I can taste it on my tongue. There is no other place that feels like the Heights, where hopelessness and defeat feel like it has seeped into every brick, every cracked window, every person.
I yank my collar higher up my neck, inhaling deeply. Tension flutters across my skin. I unlock the outer door of the building and slip in. I ignore the door leading to the lifts and stick to the stairwell where I know for certain there are no cameras. The air is stale here, lights strum overhead, and my footsteps echo as I make my way up to Owen's floor. The smell of piss and something chemical churns in my gut. My steps are heavy and laboured. I don't have the energy for this, but I'm running out of options — I need to find Owen before someone worse does.
Breathing hard, and ignoring my body's screams for oxygen, I press on. I slip out onto the fifth floor; the door swinging shut behind me. I storm down the hall, needing to get into Owen's flat quickly, not wanting to be seen by anyone. I hear sounds coming from the flats as I pass, but I ignore the noise. I recognise the din of the young family across from Owen's - five kids squeezed into a two-bedroom flat. The parents were always smiling, even if their eyes were lined with purple. The old couple a few doors down who were trapped in their flat every time the lift broke, which was often. Nobody knew, but Owen would leave bags of groceries outside their door. He did bad things that everyone knew about, but nobody saw the good. I don't think they ever wanted to.
