She wiped at her cheeks. “The Backstabber. That’s what my dad used to call him. He was supposed to be my dad’s friend, but after Mum died, he accused my dad of making mistakes at work, of being drunk.” It was a relief to say it out loud, to feel listened to. “He got my dad sacked, in the end. And he—he—”
“What, Lara? What did he do?”
“He kept trying to buy our house from us. That’s what he was after, all along . . .” She covered her face with her hands, forcing herself to stop talking before she blurted out anything more incriminating—that that was why she was here, the day she and Markus first met: she had been spying on her beloved former home, to see whether it was the Backstabber who’d finally succeeded in buying it.
“Hey.” Markus shuffled closer to her, and even that single word managed to comfort her. He touched her lightly on her arm. “You can always come and stay with me, you know. In London. If your mum’s cousin, or whatever she is, doesn’t mind . . .”
And so, the following weekend, she told her mother’s relative she was going to meet up with an old friend, and she took the train to London. Markus cooked for her in his student flat, and he made her laugh, until she forgot about her sadness for the first time since her father died.
And a couple of weeks later, when she went back for a second visit, Markus opened the door with a charmingly sheepish expression.
“What is it?” she said. (She can tell when his emotions are high, even when he tries to hide it. She knows this is a sign they’re meant to be together.)
He waited until the door was shut, and then he blurted it out.
“I’ve broken up with Kat.”
“Oh, that’s—I’m so sorry.” She tried to look sympathetic, but her heart swelled with a joy that felt tainted—like relief mixed with triumph. The young woman in the orange crop top still had Raven Hall, but she’d lost Markus; perhaps there was some fairness in the world after all. “Why?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Ah.” Markus scrunched up his face. “We weren’t that well suited, really. We wanted different things in life . . .” He hesitated, as though tempted to say more, and she leaned closer to him.
“I think,” she said, “we’re well suited. You and I. Don’t you think?”
“Lara.” There was an apology in his smile. “I really like you, but if we’re going to do this, we have to take it slowly. I’m four years older than you. You’ve been through a tough few years, a lot of trauma. I don’t want to . . .”
She tried to kiss him then, but he held her back gently.
“Seriously,” he said. “I mean it. Slowly.”
“But I’m eighteen.”
“I just . . .” He searched her gaze. “I feel like there are things you’re not telling me.”
Her heart lurched. He knew. She didn’t try to deny it. In fact, she almost blurted it all out, then and there: that her name wasn’t really Lara; that the home she’d lost was Raven Hall.
“There is something I haven’t told you . . . ,” she began.
But he drew her into his arms, as if she were some injured creature he’d found by the shore of the lake. “It’s okay. There’s no rush. I won’t ask you any more questions. Let’s just get to know each other, until you’re ready, okay?” He’d stroked her hair softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
While he cooked them dinner that evening, she pottered around his flat and cleared away all evidence of the former girlfriend. Hair bands, magazines, a silver earring, an alarming pair of black lacy knickers, and—worst of all—a photo of Markus and Kat together, sitting in the garden at Raven Hall. She collected it all into a carrier bag, and, when Markus wasn’t looking, she stuffed the whole lot into the kitchen bin.
That was two months ago, and she’s spent almost every weekend with Markus since. And he’s been true to his word—he hasn’t asked her any more questions. But as she cuts across the field now in the baking afternoon sun, she smiles to herself. She’s going to tell him everything next weekend. She trusts him completely; she knows he’ll understand why she lied.
She was planning to do it this weekend, but he rang her a couple of days ago, full of apologies. His mum’s health is deteriorating, so he’s gone to visit his parents instead. She doesn’t mind. She completely understands, but the prospect of an empty weekend unsettled her, so she decided to pay one last visit to Raven Hall. Mostly, she wants to say a final good-bye to her beloved home. But it’s true; she wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of the girl in the orange crop top looking just a little bit miserable.
She jumps across a ditch and pushes through a hedgerow, and she’s back on the road, just beyond the village. It’s still a fair old walk to Raven Hall from here, and she glances over her shoulder at the sprawling yellow-brick house at the tail end of the village. It’s the local B and B, and she remembers that the owner used to spruce up old bicycles, ready for guests who wanted to explore the flat Fenland countryside, or just to cycle to the pub. She’ll save herself a lot of time if she can borrow one, and she’ll return it within a few hours—they’ll never need to know.
She creeps up the B and B’s drive, eyeing the collection of battered bikes in the open-fronted bike shed, and she spots one that looks ideal. But as she’s easing it out from between its neighbors, she hears the creak of a door, and she swings around to see a young woman with a baby on her hip standing at the side door of the house, clutching a basket and staring at her.
Her heart thumps as she searches her memory. This must be Stephanie Blake—she remembers her vaguely from school. She was a couple of years older, and always seemed a kind, quiet sort.
Stephanie raises her eyebrows as if waiting for an explanation.
“Is it okay if I borrow it?” She tries to smile. “I’ll bring it straight back. I promise.”
Stephanie nods slowly, and then she tilts an ear to the open door.
From indoors, a man shouts, “Steph? Bring some raspberries in too, will you?”
“Okay, Dad.” Stephanie gives her one last, assessing look, before hurrying away around the back of the house.
The bike squeaks a little, but it’s a lot better than nothing, and Stephanie’s kindness stays with her as she pedals away. Is it possible, she wonders, that for every bad person in the world, there’s a good person? For every cruel, greedy man like the Backstabber, there’s a thoughtful, generous woman like Stephanie? For every spoiled, careless girlfriend like Kat, there’s a warmhearted, patient man like Markus? Is there some kind of moral balance in the universe?
She pedals harder, the rubber handlebar grips clammy under her palms. She wants to be a good person too. But frequently, she feels so furious about everything that’s been taken from her: her mother, her father, the house that was meant to be her birthright. She knows a good person would accept this fate and walk away, but here she is, sneaking back yet again to spy on her former home, wishing ill on its new owners, and knowing she’d seize any chance to get her house back, no matter what the consequences.