I remained frozen, not understanding how this was happening.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he began to mutter, running his palms down his face as he shook his head. “What have I done? What have I done?” King repeated his words over and over, his entire form shaking.

He went to his mother and dropped to his knees, pulling her into his embrace. “No, Mum, wake up. Wake up.”

Tears filled my eyes and ran down my face. This was all too much. Too much. This couldn’t be happening. I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? Should I call the police? Should I not call the police? I felt like calling Lee, but I wasn’t sure I should be involving anyone else in this situation.

King’s father had just killed his mother.

And King had killed his father.

It was a Greek tragedy come to life, and I felt like I’d suddenly stepped out of reality and into a dream. I’d woken up this morning to the sun shining. It had been just another ordinary day, but not anymore. I wanted to rewind the clock so I could erase it all. But that wasn’t possible. King was crying now, holding his mother to his chest and just letting the tears flow. The sounds of his weeping filled the room. A cold sweat covered my skin, and my heart was thrumming a mile a minute. My hands were shaking. I took a few steps forward until I was beside him, and dropped to my knees. He didn’t even register my presence until I put a hand on his shoulder.

He stopped crying.

Silence filled the room.

He turned his head.

He stared at me in horror and realisation that I’d been a witness to everything that had just happened. His face contorted, and so many emotions flickered past I could barely count them. Shame. Pain. Loss. Fear. More shame. So much fucking shame I could barely breathe with it. He reared away from my touch like it had burned him, his mother’s body slipping from his arms as he stood, backing away.

“King,” I said, a crack in my voice. “Oliver.”

He began to shake his head, his eyes huge with fear as he took in the scene. And then he was gone. It took me a moment to get to my feet and run after him. I dashed from the kitchen, down the hall, and to the front entryway, where Bruce’s muscle still lay crouched on the floor in pain. I ran outside, looked up and down the street, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I returned to the house, searching each room to make sure he wasn’t still inside. The place was empty. I walked back down to the kitchen, my gut recoiling at the sight of Bruce and Elaine’s bodies and all that blood. I’d never get it out of my mind, would never be able to wash my memories clean. I had to do something, had to act. I saw the phone on the wall and knew calling the police was the right action. King beating his father was self-defence. He wasn’t in his right mind. Bruce Mitchell was a criminal. Bruce was the one with the gun, the one who killed Elaine. Any jury in the country would be able to see that.

I walked to the phone, picked it up, and started to dial nine-nine-nine. I was on the final nine when I heard a weak cough and looked to my left. My heart soared when I saw Elaine’s eyes flutter open and her chest move up and down with her breathing.

She was alive!

There was so much blood I wasn’t sure how it could be possible, but it was. I hit the final nine on the dialling pad.

“Nine-nine-nine emergency services, how may I help you?”

“I need an ambulance,” I croaked out. “I need an ambulance right away.”

Part Two

After

Sixteen

London, six years later.

My hands were shaking.

All I was doing was holding a piece of paper, and my bloody hands were shaking. I was standing by the open window, trying to get some air, but it wasn’t working. I felt woozy. I had to sit down. I’d already read the letter three times. So I read it again.

Dear Alexis,

I hope you don’t think my letter intrusive, but I found you through the agency you run and some of your past modelling work. My name is Lille Baker, and I’m an artist. I work in a travelling circus, the Circus Spektakulär. We perform all over, but right now we’ve stopped to do some shows in London.

I’ve wanted to send you this letter for weeks, but I held out. I had to wait until we were close enough for you to come. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just email you. Or call. Letters are sort of a lost art form now, right? But what I have to tell you is of such great importance that I felt an email would be too impersonal. A call too abrupt.

I apologise. I’m going off topic. So yes, the circus.

It’s run by a woman named Marina Mitchell. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Anyway, Marina has a brother. His name is King, Oliver King. He stays with her most of the time; other times, he wanders on his own. I suppose you could say he doesn’t really have a home. King carries around a picture of you, Alexis. It was taken six years ago on a beach in Rome. Do you remember? He treasures this picture, goes crazy if anyone tries to take it.

Why is the picture so important to him?

Did you love each other once?

Do you ever think of him, wonder about him?

I’m sorry. I ask a lot of questions sometimes. It’s just that I worry for King. He’s been on a destructive path for years, and I fear that if something drastic doesn’t happen soon, he’s going to kill himself. He drinks far too much, more and more each day, it seems. I try to help him, we all do, but there’s no point trying to help a person who doesn’t want it. Then I think, if you came, if he could see you, then maybe he would want to be helped. Maybe he’d have something to live for. I see glimpses in him, Alexis, glimpses of a fascinating mind, of a great man from whom circumstance has stolen everything.