I glanced at Troy. He was still fast asleep, sitting with his back against the wall, his legs outstretched, his head now tilted back. At least he didn’t snore. How I envied him. He had family who were probably trying to move heaven and earth to get him home safely.

I had no one.

My mind was spinning. I kept trying to stomp my lacerating thoughts into oblivion, but they sprang up like choking thorny vines, twining round me to squeeze the air from my body. Every so often, I managed to catch my breath, and with it some scrap of perspective, but such moments were few and far between.

My own mother arranged to have me kidnapped.

My own mother …

How much did she ask for me? A million? A couple of hundred thousand? A couple of thousand? Maybe a couple of hundred with a bottle of cider thrown in on the side. How much was I worth to her? My own mother let her boyfriend, Pete, and his scuzzy brother grab me off the street, bundle me into a van and bury me in this rank, dank cellar.

I didn’t know what to do with that fact.

And now she’s dead, shot full of holes.

I didn’t know what to do with that either.

I didn’t need to close my eyes to relive the moment Mum was shot, the bloodstains blooming across her top before she sank to her knees and hit the ground. She died right in front of me. Books, TV dramas, films – none of them had even come close to portraying what it’s really like to watch someone die. There was something about the … finality of it that no one could prepare you for. I’ve never seen anyone die before. I never want to see it again. Ever.

Why did Mum do it?

Was that all I was worth to her? Some numbers to the left of a decimal point in her bank account? To buy what? A designer handbag? A beach holiday? A new car?