Once the dust has settled a little, I’ll make some initial overtures to Thorpe regarding my father and his estate. Of course, I won’t put it as bluntly as that. I’ll just say that this experience has made me reassess my life and explain that I want to explore the connection with that side of the family. It’s too late to know my father, I’ll say as I dab my eyes with a tissue, but I want to know where I come from and who he was. There is nobody else left in that family, except Lara. And Lara isn’t even a blood relative. She’s an estranged wife, and one that I graciously spared at that. I knew from the moment I decided not to kill her that she would be my gateway. I will approach her with such charm and grace （ha!） that she will be on my side from the start. Two women wronged by Artemis men, both of us trying to lead lives away from their heavy presence. Women supporting women, that’s what we like to see. Perhaps we’ll even become friends, though a connection solely made because we were both damaged by brothers seems like an unhealthy foundation for lifelong kinship. But then again, forging a connection over hatred can be stronger than anything else. Stronger than bonding over a love of ceramics or a passion for avant garde opera. We would have a much tougher bond. The money is important, but the goal was always the annihilation of the family. But that didn’t mean I would be content with nothing. And if she wouldn’t play ball, there were other options. She’d been spared, but that was always negotiable. And now you’re up to date. I’ve spent a further eight days in Limehouse and I have one more to go. Today I was told by a bored-looking guard I’d not seen before （the turnover of staff is high, probably because who in their right mind wants to wrangle a bunch of angry women for twelve hours a day for minimum wage when you could work in a Starbucks and wrangle slightly less angry women but also get free lattes?） that I should expect to be released at 3 p.m. tomorrow on the dot. Since the guard had no care for my privacy, she told me this in front of Kelly, who has now insisted on having a party of sorts for me tonight, in the games room. As part of the preparation, she made me go to her friend Dionne’s cell to have my makeup done, something I hotly protested but was bounced into anyway.
I finish this from my cell, unable to sleep. I faintly remember this excitement from childhood, when Marie would creep across the room on Christmas Eve with a stocking for me. Like all children, I would try to stay awake, waiting for Santa to bring me my loot. Unlike most children, I succeeded and realised the con early on. It didn’t faze me much. I still got the presents, despite the subterfuge. Tomorrow I will spend the morning readying myself – staying calm and conserving my energy. But tonight I am all over the place, thoughts running wild, adrenaline surging. As I thought, my makeover was an experience I won’t be repeating. I emerged from Dionne’s cell after an intense twenty minutes with a face that vaguely resembled a blow-up sex doll and hair that had been backcombed within an inch of its life. The only excuse I have for allowing it is that I was high on the fumes of my freedom and knew that there could be no photographs of the night in question. Despite my complete success in making precisely no friends during my stay, a fair few women turned up to the party, lured by the distraction and the promise of soft drinks and cake. There was no cake as it turned out, but it limped on for forty-five minutes anyway, as Kelly told everyone how much she’d miss me and I took care not to return the compliment. I doubt it drove the message home, Kelly has the hide of a knock-off Birkin bag. When I retreated back to my cell, I got into bed, pretending to be asleep by 8.30 p.m. I’m writing this under the covers. Even with mere hours to go until I leave, I can’t risk encouraging Kelly to attempt one last deep and meaningful. Tomorrow morning I shall pack up my meagre possessions and get ready to re-enter the world. A world which will be very different for me from now on.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I dreamt about my mother last night. It wasn’t a nice dream; I don’t often have nice dreams. I never have horrific nightmares either, normally I just get transported back to difficult or sad moments in my life and relive them until I wake up. I suppose I don’t possess a huge amount of imagination, but I respect my practical brain for not diverting me with night-time adventures. I won’t bore you with the memory my sleeping mind dredged up, but I woke missing Marie more intensely than I had in years and feeling further away from her than usual. Every plan and every murder kept me feeling connected to her, as though she were right beside me powering me on. But she’s not in here with me. Not that I blame her. This is not a place for lingering souls. A ghost would take one look at Limehouse and apparate through a wall immediately. If Marie is hovering around, stuck between this world and another, I hope she’s haunting Fortnum & Mason or flitting around Harvey Nichols rearranging the mannequins.