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Gone

Leona Deakin
Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. Reading Group Questions
  76. Read More
  77. I

Cover

Mind Games

About the Author

Leona Deakin started her career as a psychologist with the West Yorkshire Police. She is now an occupational psychologist and lives with her family in Leeds. This is her debut thriller.

Dedication

For my sisters, Elizabeth and Joanne.
Thank you for inspiring me to write.

Epigraph

We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm.

Winston Churchill

When evening closes Nature’s eye

The glow-worm lights her little spark

To captivate her favourite fly

And tempt the rover through the dark.

James Montgomery

1

Fourteen-year-old Seraphine Walker’s blonde hair fell in pretty ringlets. She wore a tight-fitting school jumper and a short skirt. There was something immediately enticing about her. But, like glow-worms shining hypnotic torches to draw in their prey, Seraphine Walker was not all that she seemed.

The school bell rang. Seraphine dropped her pencil. It hit the ground with a soft clack and tiny droplets of blood splattered from its point across the polished wooden floor. The caretaker lay beside the pencil, his hands to his neck and a crimson circle oozing from his crumpled body. He was almost certainly dying.

It looked beautiful. Was that disrespectful? Probably. But so was standing here watching every breath produce bubbles of blood that splashed across his chin.

Seraphine knew she should look away. But she couldn’t. It was fascinating. She was struck by the urge to kneel down, to get closer, to see if the wound was neat where her pencil had met his skin, or loose and ragged. Logic told her it should be the former. She’d stabbed him quickly and decisively, so it should be a clean wound. She wanted to know for sure. Just a little bit closer.

‘Seraphine? Seraphine?’

Mrs Brown was running across the sports hall. The Art teacher’s huge bosom bobbed up, down, up, down, as her corduroy skirt whooshed against her boots. Her expression was one of panic and fear. Seraphine was surprised. She’d expected anger. Seraphine looked at Claudia, who sat sobbing, her arms wrapped around her legs and her head shaking against her knees. Mrs Brown sped past her without acknowledgement. Claudia raised her head and cried louder. Her eyes were red and her cheeks streaked with tears, but her expression was strange. No relief whatsoever.

Seraphine was good at reading people. Really good. But she couldn’t always understand them. Why did they cry? Why did they scream? Why did they run?

And so she watched. She studied them. She mimicked. And fooled.

2