(possibly) in love with the
local bad boy, and falling out
with a dangerous serial killer
. . .
Prologue
I’m running, running blind.
Into the dark. Into the woods.
Ricocheting off branches,
tripping over tangled tree
roots, gripping my arm as I
stumble on, sobbing. Are
those his footsteps coming
after me or is it the wind? A
bird? An animal?
I come to a flying halt and
crouch down in the dirt,
trying to listen. Is he
following me? But my
breathing is so loud and
laboured it’s all I can hear.
That and the wild drumming
of blood in my ears. My heart
is no longer a caged bird but
a dozen bats trying to burst
free. I close my eyes and try
to sink down into the dark.
My fingers burrow through
sandy soil, damp leaves. I
want to claw my way deep
into the earth, roll beneath
the leaves and bury myself. I
want to sob and scream and
melt and turn to smoke and
vanish. When I open my eyes
the world spins, recedes then
rushes back in.
‘Ren!’
His voice yells my name.
Over and over. Filling my
head with the sound of it and
tearing apart the night.
I need to stand up. I need
to run. But I’m frozen. My
back is slammed against a
tree. My lungs are beginning
to close down. I try to suck in
a breath but it gets stuck and
all of a sudden the sky looms
darker and larger overhead,
the stars fuzzing out of focus
and dissolving into the
blanket sky.
A crunch.
I shrink back as far as I
can, feeling the bark of the
tree scratch a bloody trail
across my shoulder. I bite my
lip, choking off the scream
that is fighting to burst out.
He is out there, holding his
breath as I hold mine. Ears
pricked, eyes scouring the
darkness. I can sense him
there waiting, just a few feet
away, his head tilted as he
listens, and I can no longer
balance my weight on the
balls of my feet. My knees
are going to give, my arms
are shaking.
Tears are slipping
noiselessly down my cheeks
as my eyes dart left and right
strafing the darkness. I can’t
see anything. It’s pitch black
out here. In the distance the
roar of the ocean seems to be
calling to me, whispering my
name, urging me to make a
run towards it.
A twig snaps to my right.
I haul myself to standing
in that same second and then
I am running, ignoring the
shooting pain in my arm and
the sting of branches slashing
at my face. All I can hear
now is a roaring in my ears.
And behind me, coming
closer, his breath, his
footsteps and the heat of him
rising like a mist. My feet hit
something soft. I’m on the
beach. The trees have given
way to sand dunes. The ocean
sounds wild and close. If I
can only make it there . . .
because where else is there to
run to? And then suddenly
my foot hits something
sharp, a rock buried in the
sand, and I’m flying, falling
fast, and I land hard, my
ankle twisting, and I let out a
yell that I try to smother with
my other hand. I roll onto my
back, kicking at invisible
hands. I try to draw my legs
up to my body, to curl into a
ball, but my ankle explodes
in pain and I can’t move it.
And I whimper, not because
of the pain but because fear
floods my tongue and it’s as
foul as earth and it’s fear
which is closing up my throat
as surely as his hands sliding
around my neck and
squeezing.
I want my mum. And I sob
her name out loud into the
darkness, and over the sound
of the ocean roaring I hear
his breathing, loud and heavy
and excited, coming close.
But the thought of my
mum is enough to push back
the fear and let the rage in.
And I’ve never felt such rage
before. It almost cancels out
the fear, roaring inside me
now as deep as the ocean.
I start scrabbling
desperately for something –
anything – to use as a
weapon.
My hand sinks into the
dune, trying to find the object
I tripped on, and my fingers
close around a rock, heavy
with jagged, sharp edges. I
draw it into my lap and sit
there clutching it as the tears
stream down my cheeks.
My breathing is coming in
little gasps now. I’m
struggling to force air down
into my lungs – they’re on
fire from the inside, smoke-
filled and layered with ash.
My fingers are starting to
tingle. My lips are going
numb.
And then he appears, a
dark shape against the sky,
and the rock slides out of my
hand and falls with a muted
thud to the sand. I open my
mouth to scream but I can’t
because my throat has
squeezed shut and there’s no
air left in my lungs.
And the last thing I see,
before the darkness drowns
me completely, is him.
1
I’ve never held a baby so
when he hands me this
squalling red thing I just
stare at it.
‘Can you take Braiden?’ he
says.
The baby has a name. This
doesn’t make holding it any
less terrifying. But I reach
out and say ‘sure’ and next
thing I know I’m holding a
baby. And mother of all
surprises, the baby – Braiden
– stops crying. He not only
stops crying, he reaches for
my hair with fat little fists,
tugs on a loose strand and
gurgles happily at me.
I am holding a baby. I grin.
The whole way here on the
plane I have been preparing
for this moment. The
moment where my summer
plan of nannying falls apart
like a stage set collapsing as
the people I’m nannying for
discover that my only
experience of children is
having been one once (and
technically, legally, I
suppose, still being one).
But now I’m holding th
e
baby and it’s not screaming
and I haven’t dropped it on
its head yet and I’m thinking
as I bounce him up and down
that maybe, just maybe, I can
get away with it so they don’t
throw me out and send me
back to England on the next
flight.
‘See, he loves you,’ the
dad says. ‘I’ll be back in just
one second.’ And he
disappears.
I stare after him in a state
of mild panic. It’s one thing
to hold a baby and another
thing entirely to be left
holding the baby.
‘OK, OK, Braiden,’ I start
to say in a sing-song voice
that I’ve never in my life
used before. ‘I can do this, I
can do this.’ I drop my voice
back to its normal range. The
baby’s face is now
scrunching up and going
bright red and he’s looking
kind of startled. Probably, I
think, because his dad has
just handed him to a
complete stranger and
walked off.
‘He’s doing a number
two.’
I turn around. ‘Hey,’ I say
to the little girl with red hair
who’s just appeared in the
doorway. ‘You must be . . .’
‘Brodie,’ she finishes, then
points at her brother. ‘He’s
doing a number two.’
I glance back at Braiden
who is now fist-pumping
wildly and thrashing his legs
against my stomach. ‘Oh,’ I
say, as the stench hits my
nostrils.
Nice. I think of how I am
going to describe this
moment later to Megan.
Pooed on by a baby within
minutes of arriving. She’d
tell me with a wryly arched
eyebrow that one way or
another I always get shat on.
‘You need a diaper,’
Brodie informs me, crossing
her hands over her chest and
squinting up at me.
‘You want to show me
where they are?’ I ask,
thinking that maybe I can
also get her to show me how
to change it. Because I don’t
have a clue. I should have
YouTubed all these things
before I left but for one
reason or another I didn’t.
Brodie leads me into a
bedroom – belonging to her
parents, I assume, because
there’s a double bed on top of
which are a couple of half-
unpacked suitcases, a laptop
case, a newspaper and a stack
of folders.
Brodie reaches a freckled
arm into a changing bag on
the floor and pulls out a stash
of diapers, a tub of
something that looks
alarmingly medical and some
baby wipes. She puts them on
the bed and stares at me
expectantly.
I clear space, pushing the
laptop far, far out of the way
and wondering silently if the
bed is the right place to do
this. The duvet cover is
white. It feels like I’m
testing fate.
I lay the baby down
carefully on top of a plastic
mat thing which Brodie has
helpfully laid out for me.
Braiden blows a bubble out
of the side of his mouth. It’s
kind of cute. And then I catch
another waft and my eyes
water. I do a quick study of
his outfit, locate the handily
placed poppers and peel it
back. There is poo. There is a
lot of poo, oozing like mud
out of the sides of his nappy
(let’s not call it a diaper) and
who knew poo could ever be
that consistency? Or that
colour? I’m stunned. Too
stunned to move.
‘Do you even know what
you’re doing?’ Brodie asks,
her eyes narrowing at me in a
disturbing display of
suspicion coming from a
four-year-old.
I weigh my answer. ‘No,’ I
finally say, glancing quickly
at the open door. ‘But if you
help me out on this one I will
do my very best to make it up
to you.’
She studies me like a
lawyer and then bounces over
to me, grinning. ‘Deal.’
She unsticks the nappy and
opens it and we both stagger
backwards.
‘You’re cleaning the poop
though,’ she says, handing
me the wipes.
I wipe and smear and then
I wipe some more. Babies’
thighs have all sorts of
crevices, I discover. And the
instinct I had over not doing
this on a white duvet turns
out to have been correct, so I
end up trying to wipe up the
smears on that too.
When I’m done, Brodie
hands me a clean nappy and
shows me how to do it up. I
reseal the poppers on the
Babygro feeling more proud
of myself than when I passed
my driving test.
‘Oh my goodness.’
I spin around. There’s a
woman in the doorway and I
am guessing from the red
hair that she is the mother of
the pooing baby and the
precocious four-year-old, and
therefore my new boss.
‘Did Mike leave you to
change Braiden’s diaper?’
she says. ‘I am so sorry. And
I’m sorry I wasn’t here to
welcome you when you
arrived. I just had to run to
the store. We only just got
here ourselves.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t
worry. Brodie here helped me
out.’ I wink at Brodie and she
grins back at me.
‘It’s Ren, isn’t it?’ she
asks, putting her handbag
down on the bed and shaking
my hand. ‘It’s so lovely to
meet you. I’m Carrie Tripp.’
‘Hi,’ I say, shaking her
hand. ‘Nice to meet you too.’
‘Did my husband at least
show you to your room?’ she
asks.
I shake my head.
‘Mike!’ Mrs Tripp yells at
the top of her voice. She
turns back to the bed and
picks up Braiden. Mr Tripp
walks into the room at that
point.
‘Hey, honey,’ he says,
seeing his wife. ‘You met
Ren, then? I was just taking a
quick call.’
Carrie raises an eyebrow.
He gives her an innocent look
as if to say, what? And then his wife shakes her head and
laughs and I think to myself
that I’m going to like these
people. I’m going to like
being part of their family for
the summer. Even if poo-
filled nappies are the trade-
off.
‘Brodie, can you show Ren
to her room, please?’ Carrie
says.
‘Sure,’ Brodie says and she
slips her hand into mine.
Sumário
Title page
2
Copyright page
3
Contents
7
Tormenting Lila
9
Three days later
138
Meet Ren, Tyler,
Parker and Jesse
this summer in The 145
Sound, out August
1st.
Prologue
148
1
161
Document Outline
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Tormenting Lila
Three days later
Meet Ren, Tyler, Parker and Jesse this summer in The Sound, out August 1st.
Prologue
1
Table of Contents
Tormenting Lila
Three days later
Meet Ren, Tyler, Parker and
Prologue
1
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Sarah Alderson, Tormenting Lila
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