You shouldn’t have told him.

I sat like a statue, listening with building rage while Caleb and his friends made their plans. The anger bubbled under my skin, like a pot about to boil over.

Last night I’d gone to sleep with calm in my heart and a satisfied weariness in my body, knowing that Caleb knew about everything that had happened, and that he seemed to understand why it made me react the way I did. I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, tempted by the thought that maybe this guy was different.

Then I woke up, and he wasn’t there.

And I stared at the ceiling and thought over everything that had happened since I met him. Caleb had stormed into my life under the guise of protecting me, taken over my little cabin, and moved me into his friend's house. There was this constant, overriding assumption from everyone around us that I’d become his mate, like it was just inevitable, like I didn’t have a choice.

Did I really need all this protecting? Was I so hopeless that he thought I needed to be watched every minute like a naughty child? If I did become his mate, did I really want a relationship that was based on me being a damsel in distress? Sure, it was nice to think of him out there, looking out for me. He was the first person in my life who’d ever done that. Thinking of it made a lump rise in my throat.

But was that what I wanted? Caleb had distracted me from my real reason for coming to Crookshollow. I had a book to write. Every minute I spent with him made the horror of Old Garsmouth fade a little. It felt so good, but it wasn’t right. I needed that pain. I needed those memories – for my book, and because they were a part of me.

I was still thinking about it all now, while they were sitting around deciding my fate. If I wasn’t Rosa, the oppressed, the girl whose house got burned down, then who was I?

The discussion petered out as everyone settled on tasks to do. I was the only one who didn’t have a task. This was my story, and yet I was the only one without any agency. The lump of anger in my stomach flared higher, mixing with a horrible, sickening churn when I thought of walking away from Caleb and all this.

I stood silently as all the boys left, my whole body all twisted in knots. Caleb came over to me. “You okay?”

No. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Sure. But you don’t need anything else from me?”

I need to be more than just a girl who needs saving. “No. I’m fine.”

Caleb brushed his lips across mine, and I longed to wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, to lose myself in his kiss. Instead, I stepped back, and said in a flat voice, “Good luck.”

His blue eyes flickered over me, then looked away. “Yeah, sure.”

He shuffled off down the hall, glancing over his shoulder at me as he followed Ryan and Marcus around a corner. His face looked drawn, full of hurt. I did that. I hurt him.

I wish my stomach would stop churning so much.

The front door slammed, and they were gone. I felt like I might throw up at any moment.

Alex set me up in Ryan’s office with a shiny laptop and a cup of fresh tea. “Just ring the bell over there if you need anything, and Simon will come running,” she said. “I’ll be in the studio, and I’m in the middle of a huge installation, so you might not see me for a few hours.”

I opened the laptop and found my file on my cloud backup. I reread over my last couple of paragraphs. The protagonist was at the police station, giving her statement. But the police officers kept twisting her words and making horrible lewd and racist comments about her.

My fingers poised over the keyboard. The scene floated in front of my eyes, the memories as fresh and visceral as they were the day it happened. All it would take is a little twist here, a tweak there, and my life became a fiction.

I started to type, but the words felt wrong. Everything sounded clunky, stilted. I couldn’t get the pacing of the scene right. There were too many heads talking without any sense of real tension. I couldn’t convey the sheer panic of it – the feeling of terror when you realised the people who were supposed to be protecting were on the side of the criminals who’d just burned down your house. And there were four of them and one of you and they were staring at your chest with a glint in their eyes—

I shuddered. Focus, Rosa. Get it on the page.

This is what Caleb is doing to me.He’s robbing me of all my creative expression. And I have to get this book written. I have to tell this story.

Rage bubbled up inside me. I deleted everything I’d written, and started typing again. But it was no good. If anything, it all sounded worse.

What I needed was inspiration. I needed to read the words of another great writer, words rich with pain and desperation. But I only had a couple of my books with me, and I’d foolishly grabbed ones I’d already read. I hadn’t had time to replace my ereader. Some lover of literature I was.

I scanned the bookshelves in Ryan’s office, hoping for something that would suffice, but they contained volumes of art history and natural science, and all of Dan Brown’s paperbacks. Ick. There was nothing with a Man Booker Prize sticker on it.

I thought of the stacks of beautiful books beside my bed at the cabin, all those pages of strong, heart-wrenching prose, stories of black lives in tatters. Words carved from the ashes of pain and horror. The images on the spines of strong black women telling their stories, staring out from the paper, just daring the reader to cross them, to deny them.

I wanted so badly to be one of them, but with Caleb in my life, I felt like I was failing them all.

It was foolish to even think about going back to my cabin. Caleb said it wasn’t safe. Just the thought of running into his stepbrothers again made my stomach churn. But what was the alternative? Sitting in this opulent house, writing my book thanks to the benevolence of white men?

That wasn’t my story.

I needed my books. They were my books. And I wasn’t going to wait around for permission to go get them.

Be bold, Rosa. Be bold.

I rang the bell. A few moments later, Simon materialised in the doorway. How had he got there so fast? Did he have a transporter, like on Star Trek? Hell, I was hanging out with shapeshifters; nothing was off-limits now.

“I want to go to the bookstore in the village,” I said. “Will you drive me?”

“Master Ryan said you were not to leave the house.”

“Master Ryan isn’t the boss of me. And he actually said I wasn’t to go anywhere alone. I won’t be alone. You’ll be with me.”

“I should have Lady Alex accompany you—”

I shook my head. “She’s working, and I don’t want to disturb her. We’ll go there and come straight back, I swear. It’ll take twenty minutes at the most. And it’s not as though anything can happen. Even if those werewolves are back, they’re not going to be able to do anything in the middle of the village, with all the people about. And if you’re so worried, we’ll even take one of Clara’s anti-bad-wolf charms in the car with us.”

Simon looked dubious, but he was a man who spent his entire life obeying orders. “As you wish, ma’am.”

I was already slinging my coat over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Bookstores are the happiest places on earth.

As soon as I walked through the door of Spellbinding Books, I felt instantly at home. The store was housed in a narrow terrace between a chemist and a tarot reader. Crooked bookshelves lined every wall and stuck out at odd angles into the tiny room. Haphazard stacks of books stretched as high as the ceiling, and handwritten signs made a poor effort to differentiate the chaos into genres and sections. Another sign on the narrow staircase indicated further treasures could be found upstairs.

I picked my way around two teenage goths fawning over a hardcover copy of Interview with a Vampire, and headed up to the second level. In a small alcove off the main room, I found just what I was looking for – literary fiction, with a single shelf dedicated to “POC fiction.”

I scanned the titles and authors with reverence, pulling out several books to buy. I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck at Raynard Hall for – not that I was complaining – but if I had lots to read, maybe I’d start to feel more as if I were working toward something.

My arms full of books, I moved away from the alcove, checking out the other fiction titles for sale. They had a beautiful hardback copy of Colson Whitehead’s The Intuitionist. I wondered if Luke might enjoy it. I added it to my stack.

As I was moving through the displays, a man and woman – white and in their fifties, judging by their greying hair and conservative clothing – entered the room, and went to the alcove. The man jabbed his finger at the “POC authors” shelf. “What a load of PC nonsense,” he scoffed.

My chest tightened. Here we go.

“Why do they need a whole bloody section? You don’t see us asking for a white authors’ shelf,” the woman said. “It’s bloody racism, is what it is.”

You don’t get a shelf because you have the whole bloody store, I fumed silently. This is exactly why I have to write my book, exactly why I can’t let Susan and Sam and everything get away with it—

Caleb’s kind face flashed before my eyes, reminding me that not all white people were out to get me. I took a deep breath, and decided to approach them.

“I mean, look at this one.” She yanked a copy of Diana Evans’ 26a off the shelf and waved it around. “What a load of rubbish. The only reason this stuff gets published is to fill up some quota—”

“Excuse me,” I said, pointing to the book she was holding up. “I think you’d really like that, if you liked The Sparrow Sisters. It’s about these twin girls who—”

“Like you would know.” Her eyes flashed back at me. “You don’t read Ellen Herrick. She’s not black.”

“I have, actually, and—”

The woman tossed 26a onto the floor with disgust. “This shouldn’t even be in here. You should get your own bookshop if you’re so desperate to read this dreck; leave the rest of us to enjoy real literature.”

“Explain to me how that book isn’t real literature—”

“You bloody immigrants,” the man swore. “This isn’t your country. Why are you always trying to take our jobs and force your culture on us?”

My blood boiled. “Excuse me, not that it’s any of your business, but I was born in Leeds. And so what if I was an immigrant? People have been moving around on Earth for millions of years. It’s pretty rich being lectured by a white guy about forcing culture.”

“Colonialism is what made this country great. We had a responsibility to stop you blackies worshipping devils and spreading disease—”

“It destroyed hundreds of indigenous cultures, and most of the time it was the English who brought disease.” My face felt hot. The ball of rage that had been sitting in my stomach ever since I’d woken up swelled to double its size. I couldn’t believe these people.

The woman touched his elbow. “Don’t engage her, Robert. She’s just trying to make you feel guilty that you’re successful and she’s probably on the benefit. BMargaretin isn’t BMargaretin anymore with all these goddamn foreigners running the place.”

“I’m not on the benefit! I have all the money I could ever want because some racist bastards like you burned down my house and murdered my cat!” I screamed at them.

“Ma’am.” A hand waved in my face. It was the elderly proprietor. He looked deeply apologetic. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Me? But they’re the ones who—”

“All the same. I’d like you to leave the shop.”

I looked around, and realised there were three other white customers in the room, all staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. “Fine.” I dumped my stack of books on the floor, wincing as the beautiful covers thwacked against the carpet. “I was going to buy all those, and all she’s going to get is another copy of Dan Brown’s latest blockbuster. But fine.”

My hands shaking with anger and fear, I clattered down the stairs, the woman’s laughter echoing in my ears. Hot, angry tears stained my cheeks. I’d made a fool out of myself, for no reason. I was never going to change those people. It was pointless even trying.

I stepped out onto the street, and fumbled for my phone to call Simon to come pick me up. A hand grabbed me from nowhere.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice growled in my ear.

“Caleb?” I whirled around, ready to wrap my arms around him and calm myself from the altercation. “I’m so glad to see you. How did you know where I—”

“We got back to the manor, and you weren’t there. Alex had no idea where you were, but Simon was gone, so we followed the GPS in the car using Ryan’s security system. Rosa, this is insane. Why did you leave the house? I told you not to leave the house.”

His face was a raging storm. Behind him, Luke, Ryan and Marcus were standing with their arms folded, looking either worried or annoyed. The four strong, white faces staring back at me suddenly became threatening. They weren’t the faces of friends, but of people who would hurt me.

Panic rose in my chest. My throat started to close. No, not now. Please not now.

“I needed books,” I said quietly, trying to force back the emerging panic attack. I took a step back, but Caleb only charged forward, his face inches from mine.

“Ryan has a whole library in his house. One of those wouldn’t do?”

“It’s filled with rich, white guy books.”

“Fucking hell, not this again.” Caleb threw up his hands in exasperation. His gaze fell on my hands. “You don’t even have any books, Rosa. This is bullshit. Just tell me the real reason you came here.”

“I …” My hands started shaking again. “There were these people, a man and a woman, they were horrible to me. They said these awful things about me being black and an immigrant and that black writers don’t deserve to be in the bookshop at all and I kind of snapped and yelled and dropped all my books everywhere and—”

My hands were shaking really bad now, and the words dried on my lips. My head spun, and I grabbed his arm to steady myself, my nails digging into his flesh. Behind him, Luke was saying something, but his words sounded far away, as though I was hearing them underwater.

Caleb must’ve read my grip on him as an indication to leave, because he started to drag me toward Ryan’s car. He said something, his eyes blazing, but my ears were roaring with the sound of my own heartbeat, and I couldn’t hear him.

Caleb shoved me into the passenger seat. I clutched my stomach with shaking hands, hoping to keep my breakfast down. Please, please, don’t throw up.

As Caleb pulled the car away from the curb, and I watched the Spellbinding Books sign fade into the distance, the panic attack subsided, leaving me shaken.

“You look agitated,” he said, gripping the wheel tight. His voice sounded strained.

“I am. I—”

“Rosa, you can’t let what people say get to you. People say a lot of dumb stuff, and most of it, they don’t really mean. Getting upset does not help matters.”

His words stung. “So that’s it? I’m just supposed to let white people say shit to me and it’s my fault that I’m upset?”

“That’s not what I meant at all. I think you’re being way too sensitive, because Angus and Robbie are after you and you’re scared, and because of what happened to you in Old Garsmouth—”

“Throw it back in my face, why don’t you?” I was trembling again, but this time it was from anger. How dare he? How dare he try to put this all on me. Some white people are openly horrible to me, the woman he supposedly loves, the woman who’s supposed to be his mate, and he’s blaming me for my reaction. ”Oh, no, they couldn’t possibly be the ones in the wrong, because they’re white. It must be the black girl who just misunderstood.”

“This isn’t the time to be worrying about this shit, not with my stepbrothers on our tail. You were right, whoever graffitied your cabin was human, but his trail went down to the stream, and then we lost it. We’re going to try and follow my stepbrothers’ scent trials from where they left Crookshollow, but they’re nearly two days old now, so they’re going to be faint—”

“How can you say this isn’t the time for this? When is it ever a good time for racism? But it happens, Caleb, and I have to—”

“Dammit, Rosa—argh!” A car pulled out in front of us. Caleb slammed on the brakes, and we jerked to a halt with only a millimetre to spare. The car sped away, and Caleb leaned over the steering wheel and yelled out the window. “Learn to drive, you fucking black bastard!”

Shock reverberated through my whole system. He didn’t just say that. He did not just stay that.

But he did. The words hung in the air, turning everything wonderful between us into dust. Caleb stared at me, and his whole face sagged. He opened his mouth, as if he might be able to swallow the words again. But he couldn’t. It was too late.

The truth hit me like a freight train, the pain of it tearing through my whole body. I knew who he was. He was exactly the same as all the rest of them.

“Stop the car,” I said, my voice steady, firm.

“Rosa,” he said, his whole face dropping.

“Caleb, stop this car right now.”

He must have heard the finality in my voice, because he pulled over to the side of the road, and parked. His hands on the wheel appeared white, and they twitched as he put the handbrake on. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just worried about you, and I—”

“Goodbye, Caleb.” I grabbed the door handle, my fingers fumbling for the seatbelt. I won’t cry. I was so past crying now. Everything felt oddly calm, serene. I was doing what I had to do, what I should have done four days ago.

“Rosa, please—”

I flung the door open, and a gust of cold air caressed my face. I pulled myself to my feet, the movement visceral, like tearing off one of my own limbs. “I never want to talk to you, ever again.”

I slammed the door, and sprinted away from him, not daring to look back.

* * *

You’re such a fool. You thought you’d finally found someone who understood you, who was ready to love you for who you were but it was all a lie.

Now that I’d left Caleb behind me, the rage I’d felt toward him slipped away, replaced by pure, horrific sadness. I wanted nothing more than to head back to my beautiful cabin and have a good cry, but that wouldn’t work. Caleb would think to follow me there, and the words DIE, BLACK BITCH were still scrawled across the wall. I don’t think I could bear to see them again right now.

I need a drink.

I remembered Caleb mentioning a local pub, so I wandered aimlessly around the high street, searching for it through tear-stained eyes. Not far from Bewitching Bites, I found it, down the end of a tiny alley. It was past 2 p.m., and the place was nearly deserted. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

I hovered in the doorway, afraid. Should I really go in there, looking like hell? I’d just broken up with Caleb, was this really what I wanted to do?

You can’t break up with him. You were never going out in the first place. You were shagging him and he was trying to control you.

I don’t need Caleb to protect me. I can do it just fine on my own, the way I’d been doing for twenty-two years before I met him.

Be bold, Rosa. Be bold. Go and get yourself a drink.

I walked up to the bar and slid into one of the stools, staring at the rows of spirits stacked behind the counter, their labels blurring through my wet eyes. The thought occurred to me that I’d have to start looking for a new cabin in another forest. There is nothing else to do now. I couldn’t stay in Crookshollow, not with all these memories.

At least I still had my money. It couldn’t buy me the respect and kindness of other humans, but it could damn well buy me some peace. I’ll go to London, get on the first plane to somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe I’ll do what they all want me to do, and fuck off to Africa.

My stomach rumbled. I picked up the enormous plastic menu and hunted through my options, fighting to keep my tears at bay as a young publican hovered in front of me.

“Hi, I’d like to order your full English breakfast, with a side of extra hash browns. And a glass of merlot … no, better make it a bottle.”

He gave me a sideways look as he scribbled down my order. “Sure. Are you waiting for someone? Do you want me to get you a second glass?”

“No. I do not want a second glass.” I turned the menu over. “Is this true? All your desserts come from the Bewitching Bites bakery?”

“Yeah. We used to make ‘em ourselves, but Belinda at the bakery is too damn good.”

“Then I’ll have a slice of the Heaven & Hell cake, as well.“ I patted my pockets. I had my wallet with me, but I’d left my mobile phone back at the manor. “And could you call me a taxi, please? I need to get to the train station after I’ve finished eating.”

My car was also still at Raynard Hall, and I wasn’t about to go back to get it. I’d take the train into London, then get on a plane from there.

“Sure thing.” He darted away, and came back a few minutes later with my bottle and a wine glass. “Have a seat anywhere. I’ll bring your food over.”

I slipped into an empty booth in the darkest corner of the pub. From there, I had a view of the front door, so I could see if anyone who I didn’t want to talk to chanced to come in. I poured myself a glass and gulped it down, then poured another. The wine tasted like vinegar. I wondered if anything would ever taste good again.

Ten minutes later, my new best friend the publican delivered a tray of sorrow-drowning food. “I’ve booked your taxi for half an hour’s time,” he told me, handing me a card with the details. “I’ll give you a wave when he arrives.”

“Cheers.” I lifted my glass to him in a limp gesture of thanks, then proceeded to angrily eat my way through an enormous plate of sausages, baked beans, bacon, mushroom, black pudding, and eggs.

The food sat in my stomach like a huge, undigested lump. Every time I pictured Caleb, all red in the face, those angry, hateful words falling out of his mouth, I wanted to throw it all up again.

It’s your own fault. You fell for his whole protective schtick. You believed he could be different.

But he wasn’t different at all. Now you’re alone again, and broken, and stuffing your face with cake. At least he can’t burn your house down this time.

I stared at the ceiling, wishing like hell that things could be different, that I could rewind and freeze time to this morning, when I was falling for a hot, sweet, funny guy who totally wasn’t a dick.

I feel a presence over my shoulder. I whirl around, ready to tell Caleb to fuck right off. Bu it was only my bartender, looking almost apologetic. “Your taxi’s arrived. He’s up on the high street. The driver’s name is Barry.”

“Thanks.” I shovelled the last mouthful of cake into my mouth, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.

A chill ran down my spine as I stepped out into the alley. I whirled around, but there was no one behind me. No one else was in the alley, either. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. You’re just paranoid because of all the running and hiding you’ve been doing over the last couple of days. Caleb’s made you like this. It’s time to be bold and stop being afraid.

There’s no one here with you, except possibly ghosts. Crookshollow probably has a lot of ghosts.

I put my head down and set off in a brisk walk. At the top of the alley, I caught sight of the taxi. It was parked across a disabled space and a yellow line, with all the audacity only a cabbie could muster. The driver was hunched forward over the wheel, a wool cap pulled low over his face. He didn’t look up as I sank into the backseat.

“Barry, was it?” The driver nodded, still not looking at me. “I’d like to go to the train station.”

He grunted a reply, and pulled out into the street.

While we weaved through traffic, I pulled out my wallet and inspected its contents. I had my passport, fifty quid in cash, and all my cards. I would be able to buy a cheap phone at the airport, so I could at least call my parents and tell them what happened. Everything I needed to start a new life was right here with me. I was going to be okay.

I don’t feel okay. I don’t think I’ll ever feel okay again.

I looked out the window, and spotted the end of the train platform zooming past. Bloody useless cabbie.

“Um … Barry. We’ve gone past the station. Could you turn around up here, please?”

From the boot behind me, I heard a scraping sound. As I turned around to see, a shadow loomed out of the boot and lunged at me. Something cold and metallic pressed against my throat. “Move, and you’re a dead woman,” a voice hissed in my ear. A voice with a very familiar Scottish accent.

It was Angus.