Page 7 of Cruel Games

Beyond them were few high-rise buildings from when Richley tried to break away from London and become a city. Just from its name, Templar Academy sounded dull and full of snobs.

Mr. Burgh leaned across the table. “Where else will you go if not with me?”

“Kingston has good schools, same with Bromley, Croydon, and Sutton.”

“All of which are within driving distance of Richley!” he hissed.

I reared back and scowled into his dazzling, blue eyes. The old man was getting unusually riled up for someone he’d only just met.

“Delilah,” he said.

“Lilah,” I snapped. “No one calls me that.”

“Very well,” he said between clenched teeth. “Lilah. London isn’t safe for you.”

“How did you find out about me?”

The annoyance slid off his face, and he tilted his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“I mean, with all the juvenile delinquents out there, why did you pick me?” I leaned forward and gave him a saucy wink. “It was my mugshot, wasn’t it?”

Mr. Burgh’s face went slack, as though I’d turned the air blue with a barrage of swear words. He stared at me with a level of disbelief that sent ants crawling through my brain.

What the fuck was his problem? It had only been a joke. What was he, religious?

I turned back to the window and watched the train pass the M25 motorway that formed the border of Richley. Swathes of green countryside stretched out into infinity, illuminated by an afternoon sun that hung halfway toward the horizon. I peered at the stunned old man and tried not to shrink into my seat. It wasn’t like I needed the approval of a stranger.

The train stopped at another station, and a group of people with suitcases boarded.

After several moments of silence, Mr. Burgh said, “Your mother contacted me soon after your arrest, saying she was worried for your life.”

My mouth dropped open. Mother and I had barely spoken since Billy’s arrest. She’d kicked me out, left me to the mercies of foster care, hadn’t intervened when I’d reported one of the foster dads for coming to my room at night, and hadn’t said a word when I’d moved in with a twenty-five-year-old Sammy at the age of fifteen. Why the hell did she care for my welfare now?

“What did she say?” I whispered.

“That girls like you end up in one of five ways. Dead, imprisoned, battered, hooked on drugs, or prostitutes.”

Angry heat rose to my cheeks. I might have been punched in the face by my ex, enjoyed the odd joint, and spent a few days in a juvenile detention center, but neither of them knew me. Mother could hardly talk, considering she snorted coke and stayed with Billy Hancock even when he slapped her about.

I wasn’t anything like her. The moment Sammy had done the same to me, I’d lashed out.

“When I’m eighteen, I’ll go to the London College of Fashion. I’ve got the grades. As and Bs in my GCSEs.” These were the exams kids did at age sixteen. I’d done the best out of everyone in the school, thanks to those evenings spent revising in the sewing room while Sammy went out with the lads.

“Grade A in Art and Design, Business Studies, and Design and Technology.” Mr. Burgh counted off my results on his long fingers. “Bs in the other subjects. If you had studied at my academy, you would have achieved A-stars.”

“So?”

“What do you want to do with your life?” he asked.

“Start my own fashion label.”

His gaze raked my leather jacket and machine-embroidered tank top. My lips tightened. It wasn’t as if the police had allowed me to wear my best when they’d dragged me out of Sammy’s place on suspicion of attempted murder.

Mr. Burgh pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have a well-equipped Fashion and Textiles department, run by Miss. Benson, who retired from Dior. She also runs the after-school tailoring club. Will you at least come to the academy and meet her?”

I straightened. What did I have to lose? It wasn’t as if I had a home or a source of income anymore. If they were all dickheads, I still had enough time and money to return to London. “Alright. I’ll take a look.”

Chapter 4