The road smoothed out as they passed the sign for Ipswich, the letters flashing by too fast for Skye to read twice.

  Her stomach growled. Loud enough that she felt it in her throat.

  She pressed a hand to it, embarrassed anyway. “I’m hungry.”

  Alice blinked, then turned in her seat. “Oh my God.”

  Dad exhaled sharply, like the sound had just landed something he’d been carrying. “I’m sorry,” he said. Not defensive. Just straight. “We should’ve eaten properly. Toast isn’t... food.”

  Skye shrugged, trying to make it smaller than it was. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not,” Dad said. Then softer, “We were distracted.”

  Skye nodded. That made sense. Adults got distracted by big things. She accepted the apology because it felt honest.

  They drove another half mile before Skye said, tentative, “Can we get McDonald’s?”

  Alice snorted. “Iconic.”

  Dad glanced in the mirror. “Yeah. We can do that.”

  Skye’s shoulders loosened without her permission.

  The yellow arches appeared like a promise you didn’t have to explain. Dad swung into the drive-thru lane, indicators clicking loud in the enclosed space.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Skye leaned forward between the seats. “Chicken nuggets. Six. And fries. And—” she paused, recalculating—“apple juice.”

  Alice grinned. “I’ll have the same, but Coke.”

  Dad nodded. “Milkshake?”

  Skye hesitated. “Chocolate.”

  Alice bumped her knee lightly. “Obviously.”

  Dad ordered without rushing, voice steady, like this was just another normal thing people did on normal days. Skye watched the speaker box like it might talk back.

  They rolled forward to the first window. Card machine beeped. Receipt printed. Everything obeyed the rules.

  At the second window, the window slid open.

  Warm fryer air rolled into the car, salty and damp.

  “Hi—”

  The voice stopped.

  Skye recognised it before she recognised the face.

  Ben.

  He looked taller. Thinner. His hair shorter. His voice lower in a way that made her chest do something strange.

  “Oh,” he said, staring past Dad for half a second. “Uh— hi.”

  Dad’s posture changed instantly. “Ben.”

  Alice froze.

  Ben’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. “Alice? Wow. Hi.”

  Alice nodded once, small and careful. “Hey.”

  Skye stayed very still.

  Alice’s arm came up without looking, a loose barrier across Skye’s chest like she was blocking sun glare. “Look away,” she murmured, barely moving her lips.

  Skye did. She stared at the dashboard clock instead. The numbers glowed wrong—too clean.

  Ben laughed awkwardly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Dad nodded. “Same to you. How’s your mum?”

  Ben’s face softened. “She’s... yeah. She asks about Linda. A lot.”

  Dad’s jaw tightened. “She’s not doing great.”

  Ben winced. “Yeah. I figured.” He hesitated. “Tell her Mum says hi. She still talks about that night. Says she owes Linda everything.”

  Skye’s chest warmed despite herself.

  She remembered that night. The ambulance lights. Ben crying on the sofa while Mum spoke very fast on the phone and didn’t panic at all. Appendicitis, Mum had said. Ruptured. Lucky.

  Ben smiled a little. “I’m at uni now. Engineering.”

  Skye’s breath caught.

  Engineering.

  She gripped the seat. That was what he’d wanted. Before.

  “That’s brilliant,” Dad said.

  Ben ducked his head. “Yeah. It’s... hard. But good.”

  The food appeared on the counter in a brown bag. Skye leaned forward instinctively, forgetting everything for one stupid second.

  Her fries slipped.

  “Shit—” she blurted, scrambling.

  Alice sucked in sharply. “Skye—”

  Dad’s heart jumped into his throat.

  Ben frowned. “Who’s—”

  Skye looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  Ben’s face emptied.

  Not screaming. Not shouting.

  Just... wrong. Like someone had pulled the floor out from under his thoughts.

  His mouth opened. Closed.

  Dad moved fast. “Thanks,” he said, too quick, grabbing the bag. “Have a good shift.”

  Ben didn’t answer.

  The car lurched forward.

  In the side mirror, Skye saw Ben still standing there, one hand on the counter like he needed it to stay upright.

  They didn’t speak until they were back on the road.

  “I’m sorry,” Skye said immediately. “I’m sorry I—”

  “Skye.” Dad’s voice snapped.

  She flinched hard and grabbed Alice’s sleeve.

  Then Dad breathed out. Long. Controlled.

  “I didn’t mean to shout,” he said. “I’m not angry. It was... bound to happen.”

  Alice rubbed Skye’s back in small circles. “It’s okay.”

  Skye whispered, “He knows.”

  Dad shook his head. “He doesn’t know what he thinks he saw.”

  “That’s not the same,” Alice said quietly.

  Dad nodded. “No. But it’s enough.”

  Skye stared out the window. Buildings slid past—old shops, shuttered fronts, signs peeling like they’d given up mid-sentence. She could see them properly now. Not blurred. Not foggy.

  “What if he tells someone?” she asked.

  “He won’t,” Dad said. Then, honest, “And if he does, they’ll explain it away.”

  “How?”

  “People want things that make sense,” Dad said. “They’ll choose any story that lets the world stay the way it was.”

  Alice frowned. “You don’t even buy it.”

  “No,” Dad said softly. “I don’t.”

  Skye hugged the bag of food to her chest, feeling the warmth through the paper.

  “That scares me,” she said.

  Dad glanced at her in the mirror. “Me too.”

  The car rolled on toward Ipswich.

  And Skye ate her nuggets slowly, watching the world pass by, knowing now—really knowing—that being seen was a risk, and being hungry had been the easy part.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Miles away, a different kind of door was opening.

  ———

  Jamie

  Jamie kept his smile soft.

  Not the grin that showed teeth. Not the one that got him punched inside. This one was practiced — humble, apologetic, almost shy. The sort people trusted without realising they had.

  The handcuffs bit into his wrists as he was guided to the table beside his solicitor. He let the metal show. Let them see it. Suffering mattered here. Optics mattered.

  He hadn’t shaved in days. On purpose. The faint shadow on his jaw made him look thinner, older. The scar along his knuckle — a souvenir from a disagreement in the exercise yard — caught the light when he folded his hands. He didn’t hide it. Men who had been hurt were easier to forgive.

  Across the room, the Kingsleys sat together in the public seating. Black coats. Expensive tailoring. Grief worn like jewellery — quiet, unmistakable, curated. Their wealth prickled at the back of Jamie’s mind. People like that had reach. Influence. They worried him in the way only predators with resources did.

  He glanced once.

  Mrs Kingsley stared straight through him.

  Good.

  The panel entered — three members, not robed, not dramatic. The Chair took the centre seat. Everyone stood. Then sat. Order without ceremony.

  “This is a public hearing of the Parole Board,” the Chair said evenly. “We are here to assess whether Mr James Waters can be safely managed in the community.”

  Safely.

  Jamie almost laughed.

  The Chair consulted the file. “Mr Waters, you were convicted five years ago of causing death by dangerous driving — the deaths of Skye Harper and Lexi Kingsley.”

  Hearing their names still did something to him. A tightening. A warmth.

  Lexi had screamed.

  Skye hadn’t.

  His solicitor spoke smoothly. “My client understands the gravity of his actions and the harm caused.”

  Jamie nodded at the right moment. Eyes down. Shame performed.

  The Chair continued. “We note sustained good behaviour in custody. Completion of accredited offending behaviour programmes. Ongoing therapy. No recent adjudications.”

  The solicitor smiled faintly. “Mr Waters has worked hard to change.”

  Change.

  Jamie leaned forward slightly, hands clasped, voice measured and soft. “Madam Chair... not a day passes where I don’t think about that night. Every night I see their faces. I wish — genuinely — that it had been me instead.”

  He let his voice catch. Just enough.

  In the gallery, Mr Kingsley scoffed. A sharp, ugly sound. “You fucking coward,” he spat. “If you meant any of that, you’d have killed yourself.”

  The room erupted — murmurs, a gasp, someone whispering Jesus Christ.

  “Order,” the Chair said firmly. No gavel. Just authority. “Any further outbursts and we will clear the room.”

  Jamie lifted his head slowly. Hurt. Noble.

  “It’s alright,” he said quietly. “They’re right to hate me. I killed their child.” A pause. “Just as I killed Skye Harper. Just as I destroyed her parents. And... my ex-girlfriend.”

  Alice’s name stayed in his mouth, unspoken. He liked that part best. The private ownership of it.

  “I understand,” he continued, “that some losses don’t end. They just... wait.”

  The Chair noted something down.

  Jamie sat back.

  He noticed then what everyone else eventually did: the empty seats.

  “No representation present for the Harper family,” the Chair observed neutrally.

  Jamie felt a flicker of irritation. Curiosity. Skye Harper’s parents had never missed anything important before. Funerals. Sentencing. Anniversaries.

  Interesting.

  The Chair concluded, voice careful. “Having considered the evidence, the panel is satisfied that your risk can be managed in the community under strict licence conditions.”

  Mrs Kingsley made a sound like something tearing.

  “We therefore direct your release on parole.”

  Jamie lowered his head. Relief. Gratitude. Redemption.

  Inside, his mind was already busy.

  Alice first. Always Alice. In so many versions — loud, quiet, careful, accidental. He had five years’ worth of rehearsals.

  The Kingsleys were crying now. Messy. Undignified. Money couldn’t buy this moment back.

  Jamie stood when instructed, chains clinking softly.

  As he was led away, he glanced once more at the empty Harper seats.

  Still warm.

  Still waiting.

  And somewhere behind his eyes, the night rewound — headlights, impact, silence — sharpening into memory.

  He let it surface the way he always did—slow, deliberate—because memory was a reward if you handled it properly.

  Five Years Ago

  It had been an hour after Alice.

  After she’d said no. After she’d fought him like she thought rules applied. After she’d cried and run and left him buzzing with unfinished need.

  She’d told him everything earlier that day. Casual. Unthinking.

  She wants independence.

  She handled herself today.

  She’s walking home after detention.

  Skye Harper. Alone.

  Jamie already knew Lexi was suspended. That was why he picked her up.

  Lexi climbed into the car shaking with fury, ranting about teachers, parents, humiliation. He let her talk. He always let people empty themselves out for him.

  “She ruined me,” Lexi said. “That fucking freak.”

  Jamie smiled at the road. “I know.”

  Lexi leaned closer, needy. “You’re the only one who gets it.”

  If you only knew.

  He told her where Skye would be walking. Told her it wasn’t fair. Told her Skye needed to understand consequences. Lexi believed him because Lexi wanted someone else to blame.

  She didn’t see that Jamie had already decided she wouldn’t be leaving that road.

  Witnesses were messy.

  And Lexi—loud, emotional, cracked—was already irritating him.

  He dropped her near Combs Ford and drove on, parking where the street dipped and the lamps thinned. The engine idled under his palms. His heart felt calm. Focused.

  He imagined it while he waited.

  Skye tied up somewhere quiet. Skye crying for her sister. Skye learning what she was before she died.

  He imagined it while he waited—how easy it would be to turn her fear into a lesson and call it justice.

  The details tried to rise.

  He pushed them back down, not from kindness, but from discipline.

  This would be quick.

  Clean.

  Merciful, if you believed the lie hard enough.

  This—this—would be quicker.

  Merciful.

  Skye appeared like a problem asking to be solved. Small. Careful. Notebook under her arm like it could protect her.

  Lexi stepped out and started shouting.

  Jamie turned the engine on.

  The sound rolled low and predatory through the street. He flicked on the headlights. White light swallowed them.

  Skye froze.

  Lexi shoved her, hard enough to feel powerful but not lethal. Skye stumbled, tried to speak, tried to explain herself like explanations ever mattered.

  Lexi struck her—panic, rage—and Skye went down, her head snapping sideways as she collapsed toward the road.

  That was when Lexi looked back.

  The car was already moving.

  “Jamie—” she shouted.

  He accelerated.

  The car hit Lexi first—caught her at the hip, flung her forward, her scream tearing loose as she struck the asphalt. Then Skye slid under the bonnet.

  Jamie felt the resistance. The weight. The unmistakable lift as the tyres passed over a body.

  He stopped.

  Steam curled in the headlights.

  Lexi was alive. Crawling. Screaming his name.

  That sealed it.

  He reversed.

  When it was finished, the street had gone wrong—objects misplaced, sound hollow. Skye lay still. Lexi did not.

  Jamie got out shaking, breathing too fast, shouting for help like a man who’d arrived too late.

  He knelt beside Skye, leaned close, and whispered where no one could hear.

  “Your sister will follow,” he murmured. “I promise.”

  Sirens came eventually.

  Jamie stood, staggered back, played shock for strangers, let someone wrap a coat around his shoulders. Then, when attention broke, he slipped away.

  He drove until the lights blurred.

  Now, years later, free again, Jamie smiled.

  This wasn’t a crime.

  It was a correction.

  And corrections lasted.

  ———

  Skye

  Skye liked car parks.

  They were open and flat and predictable. White lines. Numbers. Arrows telling you where to go and where not to. When Dad pulled into the space beside the row of shops, Skye unbuckled before the engine was even off.

  “We’re here,” she said, pleased.

  Alice glanced over her shoulder. “Easy, turbo. We still have to survive fashion.”

  Skye smiled. She didn’t mind shopping—not really. She just didn’t like changing rooms. Too bright. Too echoey. Too many mirrors all at once. But walking into a shop and picking things out felt... normal. Like something people did without thinking.

  Dad cut the engine and sat there a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning the car park before he opened his door. He locked the car with a firm click that sounded final.

  “You know,” Skye said as she climbed out, “you need to shave.”

  Dad blinked, then laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him. “Do I?”

  “You look like you’ve been lost at sea,” she said seriously.

  Alice snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

  Dad shook his head, still smiling as they crossed the tarmac. It struck Skye, suddenly, that it was the first time she’d seen him smile like that since she’d woken up. The thought made something warm and strange settle in her chest.

  They were almost at the first shop when Skye felt it.

  Not a sound. Not a thought. A pressure, like the air had leaned closer.

  She slowed.

  Near the far edge of the car park, half-shadowed by a delivery van, stood a man in a dark coat. Long. Old-fashioned. He wasn’t doing anything—just standing there, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed like he was waiting for something to finish.

  For her.

  Skye stopped walking.

  The man looked up.

  Not directly at her face. At her shape. Like he knew where she was without needing to see her properly.

  Her skin prickled. The sound of the car park dulled, as if someone had turned the volume down a fraction too far.

  She blinked.

  The space beside the van was empty.

  Skye’s heart kicked. She turned in a small circle, searching angles, lines, places a person could reasonably be.

  Nothing.

  “Skye?” Dad said. “What is it?”

  She hesitated. Words mattered. Wrong ones made things worse.

  “I thought,” she said carefully, “someone was watching me.”

  Alice stiffened immediately. “Where?”

  Skye pointed. “There. But he’s gone.”

  Dad’s posture changed. Not dramatic—just tighter. More contained. He stepped half a pace in front of them, eyes sweeping the car park with professional precision.

  “Inside,” he said calmly. “Let’s go inside.”

  He didn’t say it was nothing.

  That mattered.

  The shop doors slid open with a soft electronic sigh, cutting off the open air. Music hummed faintly overhead. The smell of fabric and detergent replaced petrol and cold.

  Skye exhaled without realising she’d been holding her breath.

  Alice leaned closer. “What did he look like?”

  “Black coat,” Skye said. “Tall. Like... not meant to be here.”

  Alice frowned. “Did you feel weird?”

  Skye nodded.

  Alice didn’t question it. She just took Skye’s hand and squeezed once. Solid. Anchoring.

  They drifted through racks, fingers brushing sleeves, guessing sizes the way you guessed answers on tests you hadn’t revised for. Alice held things up against Skye’s shoulders, tilting her head.

  “You’re... the same,” Alice muttered, like the words tasted wrong.

  “I’m always the same,” Skye said.

  “Cheeky.”

  Skye found something truly awful—neon stripes, enormous sleeves—and held it up. “This.”

  Alice laughed, sharp and surprised. “Absolutely not.”

  Skye smiled, pleased. The sound of Alice laughing still felt new, like something fragile you had to be careful with.

  Dad hovered near the front windows, pretending to study a display while watching reflections instead of mannequins.

  Skye caught her reflection in a mirror by the changing rooms.

  She leaned closer.

  Same face. Same scar on her chin. Same eyes. Nothing... wrong.

  That frightened her more than if something had been different.

  Alice appeared beside her without comment, resting a hand on Skye’s shoulder. Not fixing. Just there.

  At the till, the cashier smiled automatically. “You alright, girls?”

  Skye nodded. Alice answered. Dad handed over the card.

  The bell above the door chimed again.

  “Simon Harper?” a man’s voice said.

  Skye felt Alice’s hand tighten.

  Mr Clarke stood just inside the entrance, flanked by his two daughters. He looked older than Skye remembered. Everyone did. His face lit with recognition when he saw Dad.

  “Didn’t expect to see you,” Mr Clarke said. “You back flying, then?”

  Dad recovered quickly. “On time off,” he said. “Needed a few days.”

  Mr Clarke nodded, accepting that easily enough. His gaze slid to Alice.

  “Alice,” he said warmly. “You’re looking well.”

  Alice smiled, polite and thin. She shifted subtly, placing herself half in front of Skye.

  Mr Clarke’s eyes followed the movement.

  “And who’s this?” he asked.

  Skye stepped forward before Alice could stop her. Hiding took energy. She was tired.

  “I’m Lindsey,” she said quietly.

  Mr Clarke stared.

  Not shocked. Not convinced.

  Conflicted.

  “That’s... funny,” he said slowly. “You look exactly like—”

  “Skye,” Alice said quickly. “Yeah. Everyone says that.”

  Mr Clarke’s eyes flicked to Skye’s chin. The scar.

  Skye touched it reflexively. “Bike accident,” she offered.

  Mr Clarke smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Course,” he said. “Funny coincidence.”

  Dad collected the bags. “Good to see you, Mark.”

  Mr Clarke nodded. “You too.”

  As they left, Skye felt his gaze stay on her back—not accusatory. Unsettled.

  Outside, Dad moved fast. Doors. Clicks. Engine.

  They pulled away, the shop shrinking behind them.

  Skye leaned back, heart racing now that it was allowed to.

  “Mr Clarke didn’t believe us,” she said.

  “No,” Alice agreed. “But he didn’t believe the other thing either.”

  Skye considered that. People wanted answers that made sense. Even if they didn’t quite fit.

  As they drove, Skye watched the town slide past—shops, boarded windows, old signs faded into ghosts of themselves. She saw it more clearly now. Like the world had been waiting for her to look properly.

  “I’m still hungry,” she said suddenly.

  Alice laughed weakly. “You’ve always been like that. Death clearly didn’t fix it.”

  Dad smiled in the mirror.

  Skye pressed her forehead to the glass, watching reflections overlap—her face, Alice’s, the road ahead.

  She understood something now.

  Being alive wasn’t the hard part.

  Staying hidden was.

  And somewhere, just out of sight, someone was still watching.

  She didn’t look back.

  Not yet.