Either way – whether someone was hiding in the woods nearby or not – she had two options: wait and see if they appeared, or keep moving and hope they didn’t.
She chose the second.
Grimacing from the pain, she limped as she ran through the forest towards the road. Her woollen hat slid to one side and she yanked it off, gripping it tightly until she’d made it into the middle of the crossroads. Only then did she stop and look back.
She saw nothing but empty woods.
Panting hard, she bent double, resting her hands on her knees. Her lungs ached from the exertion and the cold.
And there was still a long way to go. They could come after her at any moment – she had to keep moving.
She turned in the direction the map in her head pointed her. The one-lane road was bordered by tall hedgerows, bare and bristling at this time of year. Beyond them, muddy pastures and fields were quickly disappearing in the fading light.
But the road was smooth and, if she was right, the town was a couple of miles down this road. She pulled her hat back on.
All I have to do is keep moving and not have a nervous breakdown on the way.
To pass the time, she went over her escape in her mind.
It had been so easy, in the end. Almost as if they’d wanted her to go.
After grabbing Isabelle’s phone from her desk, she’d hurtled up the stairs. In her pocket, the small device had seemed as heavy as a block of concrete; as hot as fire. She was certain people would somehow see it through the thick blue fabric of her skirt.
On the landing, she’d shoved through the crowds of students chatting and laughing to reach a narrower staircase to the girls’ dorm. She’d kept her eyes on the floor in case her guilty expression should betray her.
‘Psycho,’ somebody said behind her, low and mocking. The cut-glass accent was unpleasantly familiar.
Allie didn’t look up. She didn’t need to – she’d know Katie Gilmore’s voice anywhere.
‘Get out of her way or you die next,’ somebody else said and they all laughed.
Fighting the urge to punch Katie in the face, Allie kept her eyes on the floor, counting each step under her breath. The numbers soothed her as they grew.
… fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-n…
‘Allie.’
She jerked to a halt, eyes fixed on the pair of soft, cream-coloured sheepskin boots in her path.
Slowly, she raised her gaze.
Jules, the girls’ prefect, stood in front of her, razor-straight white-blonde hair just brushing the tops of her shoulders, arms crossed disapprovingly. ‘Isabelle sent me to look for you.’
Allie’s heart skipped a beat. Unconsciously her hand drifted to her skirt pocket, where it clutched the stolen phone.
How had she already found out?
Somehow though, despite the adrenaline racing through her veins, her voice was steady. ‘What does she want?’
Jules gave her a strange look, as if she hadn’t expected that question. ‘I don’t know. She just said she was looking for you, and if I saw you to send you to her office.’
Relief washed over Allie like cool water. Isabelle doesn’t know about the phone. Yet.
The realisation made her bolder. ‘Right. Well, you’ve delivered your message, Jules, so your job is done.’ She took a step towards the prefect. ‘Isn’t your boyfriend waiting for you or something? Shouldn’t you be with him?’
Jules didn’t flinch but a red flush stained her neck, creeping to her face.
Ever since the winter ball, Jules and Allie’s ex-boyfriend, Carter, had been an item – the Cimmeria power couple. Allie had got used to seeing them walking down the hall with Carter’s arm draped loosely across her shoulders; his dark hair juxtaposed strikingly against her blonde head. Like chess pieces – the black king with the white queen.
It still made her stomach churn each time she saw them.
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Allie,’ Jules said evenly.
‘Oh good. Well, I’m going to my room for a second then I’ll run right downstairs to talk to Isabelle, like a good little girl.’ Allie knew it was petty to be bitchy to Jules but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She wanted a rise out of her – she longed for a screaming match. Or a fist-fight.
But Jules refused to engage and, shoving past her, Allie hurried on to her room, closing the door with a bang. She didn’t have much time. Isabelle was bound to notice her phone was missing and it wouldn’t take long for her to figure out who’d taken it.
The room was in chaos. Dirty clothes lay strewn on the floor, along with papers, bedding and rubbish. When she’d got out of the infirmary Allie had told Isabelle she didn’t want the cleaners in her room and the headmistress had reluctantly agreed. Now the place was a tip.
Just the way Allie wanted it.
Kicking off her skirt and sensible, school-issued shoes, she yanked on a pair of black skinny jeans. She’d lost weight after Jo’s death and they hung a bit loose on her but they’d do. Hastily lacing her red Doc Martens up to her knees, she grabbed a dark coat from the wardrobe and rummaged through the clutter on the floor for her hat and scarf. She was still shrugging on her coat as she dialled a familiar number.
‘What?’ The voice that answered her call was aggressive. But to Allie the thick London accent sounded like home.
‘Mark.’ Her voice was urgent but low. ‘It’s me.’
‘Allie?’ His tone changed. ‘Holy… How the hell are you?’