Page 166

I crawled across the floor to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of soft sheepskin Ugg boots from the bottom. My mother had given them to me at Christmas.

Mummy!

The pain from my thumping head expanded and filled my chest.

Oh no.

I’d had a good day yesterday, my grief contained. I lay on my back on the floor and clutched the soft boots to me.

“Here you go, Emily. Happy Christmas.”

She wore her ridiculous apron embossed with a big red Rudolph, and she kissed me on my head and stroked my hair. The boots were all the rage at school, fashionable and expensive. I’d thought I’d fit in more if I wore the right boots to school.

“Wow, Mum, thanks!”

My last Christmas with my family. Desperate for every detail, I ran through what I could remember of the day, determined not to forget. My father’s silly Christmas tie, Billy and his new Man City football kit and the football from Uncle Dylan, my mother’s delight at the pale-pink scarf I’d bought for her, the noisy Christmas dinner with crackers, bad jokes and silly hats and my father’s specialty—the lighting of the Christmas pudding with brandy. How I’d taken it all for granted, the normality and ordinariness of it. Tears slid down my temples as I stared up at ceiling, and the weight of my grief pressed me into the floor.

Dylan had been there, the strange, intense, attractive man who was my mother’s sort of stepbrother, though not so strange now.

Now, he was all I had. All I had, apart from Tristan.

I’m here. I’ll never go. Tristan’s words echoed through my mind, bringing me comfort.

I sat up and put my boots on. They were soft and warm. Slowly, I stood and found my feet weren’t too uncomfortable. I shuffled to my bedroom door and stared down at my laughing, smiling family beside my bed.

“I miss you guys so much,” I whispered.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I headed for the kitchen. I needed something for my head.

The kitchen was empty. I dragged one of the chairs over to the sink and climbed on it to retrieve the bag of medicines from the middle cupboard.

They were gone.

Hell!

Of course, Dylan had moved them after the bottles-on-the-floor incident. Where could they be? My head was pounding and I needed painkillers.

I heard the front door close, and Dylan wandered into the kitchen in his running gear. He was wearing earbuds. He took one out of his ear, and from his wide-eyed expression, I could tell he was surprised to see me.

“What are you doing up there?” he snapped.

“Looking for painkillers. I have a terrible headache.”

His mouth pressed into a hard line. “Remember how this feels,” he growled.

What?

I shrank from his anger, startled and hurt that he had snapped at me, and to my horror, tears pooled in my eyes. I realized I was stuck. I couldn’t get down as my feet were too sore to jump. I bit my lip trying to hold back my tears.

Dylan gazed at me impassively. “Are you going to get down?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked coldly.

Why is he being so mean?

“My feet,” I said, embarrassed.