Burn Like An Angel (Harrowdean Manor #2)

12. Xander

CHAPTER 12

XANDER

ROSES – THE COMFORT

Thick black hoodie flipped up to offer me protection, I stare straight ahead at the bald guy in front of me. He’s distracted, intently studying the coffee menu on the wall while flipping his car keys in his hand.

Clueless.

The perfect mark.

Spending the better part of a decade in foster care teaches you life skills. Just not ones that are necessarily advertised. When you’re competing with twenty plus kids for basics like clothes and toys, the art of stealing becomes second nature.

“Next!” a haggard barista calls.

Before he’s even moved to place his order, I’ve already pulled my hand from his back pocket. I stuff the loot into my hoodie and quickly turn to leave. The sour-faced teenager wearing headphones behind me pulls a face.

“Changed my mind.” I shrug at her.

The trick is to walk away slowly—with confidence and like I have all the time in the world. Baldie’s in for a shock when he attempts to pay for his overpriced sludge. The idiot shouldn’t stash his valuables in his back pocket.

I melt into the morning crowd, happily going about their daily routine. Dog walkers. Postmen. Delivery drivers dropping off boxes of newspapers and fresh produce to the numerous corner shops. The picturesque scene makes me fucking sick.

I’m headed for the outdated internet cafe two streets over that I spotted earlier on. None of us escaped Harrowdean with our belongings, let alone mobile phones. We’ve been totally cut-off from the world.

Using a walking map I pilfered from the holiday park’s office, I volunteered to find the nearest town and get us back online. We already needed food, clothing and more medical supplies—requiring me to swipe some cash.

Before I set my sights on greater targets in my early twenties, I honed my skills as a street thief. I don’t care what kind of person that makes me.

The rich take from the poor all the livelong day, and we don’t kick up a fuss. Why shouldn’t it work in reverse?

“Morning.” The cafe’s owner waves me in. “Just here for coffee, or you want internet?”

I adjust the heavy backpack on my shoulder. “Two computers. Half an hour should do.”

The fact that this place exists at all speaks to the elderly demographic in the town it took me two hours to find. I haven’t heard of anyone using internet cafes like this in the last decade. I was convinced I’d be stuck using the public library.

“Two?” he repeats.

Nodding to his plugged in phone, I slide an extra note over. “Your charger as well.”

His grey brows raise. Sighing, I add another note. He palms the crisp twenties, any further questions drying up. I accept the charger then follow his pointed finger to the back of the cafe. Two monitors sit next to each other.

Sinking into the chair, I fish the two phones I’ve managed to lift from my hoodie. Baldie wasn’t my first mark; I had already targeted a distracted parent wrestling two kids from her flashy Range Rover outside the supermarket. It was easy to lift her phone and cash.

I keep the screens angled slightly to prevent any prying eyes. It’s child’s play to commence a hard reset on both phones. I snap the SIM cards in half before sliding in new ones I purchased earlier.

Two working phones.

We’re in business.

While the phones reboot, I pull up the search engine on my second computer. Ripley and Lennox were itching to join me, even though she can barely walk. The least I can do is report back with news.

I quickly tap in Harrowdean Manor then watch the breaking news stories populate. We holed up for two nights, until the food ran out. That’s long enough for word to spread.

As I suspected, the official story is vague in the extreme. Details are sparse enough to satisfy the public’s demands for action but conceal the truth about how the riot came to an unceremonious end.

Deadly riot at psychiatric institute ends in violence.

Hostages rescued, multiple casualties reported.

Sir Bancroft II to make a public statement as criminal investigation gathers speed.

Scoffing under my breath, I scan through the final story. The silver-haired son of a bitch will soon charm the media. He always does. Even with the evidence pouring out of Blackwood, it took Harrowdean revolting to get the world talking this much.

Yet he’s still a free man.

And there’s still no justice.

The mention of Warner’s employer, Sabre Security, catches my eye. I don’t expect a full breakdown of an active criminal investigation, but these Sabre people seem to be kicking their feet.

There’s some crap about cooperating witnesses from Blackwood but nothing more. It’s infuriating. Why do we accept the existence of evil so quickly but discount the truth just as fast when it stares us in the face?

Because it’s uncomfortable.

It’s a mark of failure as humans.

We treat the truth with contempt when it doesn’t tell us what we want to hear. It’s far easier to turn the other cheek, to pretend like suffering doesn’t exist all around us. We keep scrolling, drinking down the easy to stomach content we’re drip fed instead.

At the bottom of the article, there’s a number for a tip hotline. I type it into the first now-unlocked phone then study the half-empty cafe while waiting for the line to connect.

“Sabre Security,” a perky voice chirps. “You’ve reached Operation Nightshade’s tip line. Tara speaking.”

“Tell them to print the truth,” I whisper angrily. “Some of us don’t have time for your investigation to gather speed.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Who am I speaking to?”

“And tell your idiot boss to look beneath Kingsman dorms.”

“Sir, if I can just?—”

“Each institute has a Zimbardo wing. You need to tear them all apart.”

Loaded silence. I’ve got her attention.

“Priory Lane. Blackwood Institute. Harrowdean Manor,” I lay them out, one by one. “All gone. You have the evidence you need to shut the remaining institutes down before Bancroft decides to clean house.”

A scrabble on the other end makes me pause before hanging up. They’re probably tracking the call. No matter, I’ll be gone soon enough.

“This is Theodore Young,” a new voice announces. “Your call has been escalated to me. Tell me, what might we find beneath Kingsman dorms?”

“Ask the pink-haired bitch who tortured my friend. She knows all about it.”

The sudden intake of breath is curious. I have no clue who the woman that saved Ripley and Lennox is, only that she works for the prestigious security firm. We only have jagged pieces of a much larger puzzle.

His breath rattles down the line. “We’ve had plenty of hoax calls. Prove to me you’re trustworthy.”

“Trustworthy?” I check to ensure that no one is listening. “What about the trust put in a faceless corporation to protect the unwell? Or the trust put in you to bring them to justice? Don’t talk to me about fucking trust.”

“I’m in a position to help if you have information,” he tries to placate. “This is a fast-moving situation, and I understand several patients from Harrowdean remain unaccounted for. Are you one of them?”

“What, amongst the dead bodies Incendia has piled up?” I laugh hollowly. “They’re hunting us with helicopters and guns. How do I know you’re trustworthy?”

His sigh stretches across several seconds. Bad day at the office, clearly. If Theodore is looking for a shred of sympathy, he better not hold his breath. I’m willing to cooperate, but only for the right price.

“We can offer protection,” Theodore replies. “Will that earn your trust?”

“Empty words won’t. We’ve heard this spiel before, and it amounted to nothing in the end. I need assurances this time.”

“I’m not sure I can give that to you over the phone. We should arrange to meet at a rendezvous point. My superiors will want to hear your testimony.”

“So you can hand us over to Bancroft and take his hush money? I’ll pass.”

His voice drops to a low whisper. “Off the record, that evil bastard Bancroft is going to get what’s coming to him. I’ll personally see to it. The pink-haired woman? She’s dead. He’s going to pay for that.”

Ah. His reaction is an emotional one. Curious indeed. That would’ve repulsed me before. Now I find myself wondering how I would react in similar circumstances. If Ripley’s death would impact me so viscerally.

Agony constricts my lungs at the thought.

Grief? Fear? Regret?

It’s exhausting, telling all these emotions apart.

“I have others who deserve to be included in this decision,” I eventually concede. “We will discuss your offer. How can I reach you?”

Theodore rattles off a phone number, different from the public line I found online. I quickly tap it into the spare phone and end the call before he can utter another word. Another SIM card snapped and discarded.

Shoving everything into the overflowing backpack, I haul ass to leave the internet cafe. If he’s committed to earning our trust, Theodore won’t follow the location my call inevitably gave his team.

I make it back to our hideout far quicker than my trek into the nearest town, skin prickling with the need to lay eyes on the three people I left behind.

Shoulders aching from the weight of the goods I’m hauling back, the holiday park is still deserted when I arrive. It will be for another month or two. Even though we boarded over the smashed window with several cardboard boxes I found, we can’t stay much longer. It’s too risky.

I knock on the door three times then twice more. There’s a wait as footsteps move inside. The curtain twitches, showing Lennox’s tired face before he clicks the lock to allow me inside.

“Fuck, Xan. You’ve been gone for hours.”

“It’s not exactly around the corner,” I grumble while stepping in.

“We were getting worried.”

In the cramped living area, Ripley lays on the retro, flower-print sofa with her legs stretched over Raine. He’s fiddling with those ridiculous sunglasses he wears, the pair clearly mid-conversation.

“Xan,” she breathes a sigh of relief. “All clear?”

“Yeah, no trouble. Just a long walk.”

“Did you find what you need?”

“Enough to restock and get us online.”

I reach into the full backpack to pull out a grease-stained paper bag. Ripley squeaks when the paper bag sails through the air and collides with her chest. The smell of baked goods permeates the cramped space.

“What is this?”

Avoiding her stare, I resume pulling items out. “For you.”

I lay out more bandages and gauze. Pain relief. The phones and charger. A few clean shirts and miniature toiletries. Sanitary towels. And as much food as I could feasibly carry.

“Wait.” Raine holds up his hand. “It’s… Hmm, I smell sugar. Fresh dough. Maybe icing? Oh, I know! I know!”

“Cream-filled doughnuts,” she tells him. “Good guess.”

“Good nose,” he corrects.

Ripley pulls out a golden doughnut, casting me a very suspicious look. “Apparently, Xander is an excellent guesser too.”

I clear my throat, organising the packs of dried ramen. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lennox leans against the bright-orange cabinets, looking between us both. “What am I missing?”

“Apart from the fact that this man has made it his mission to stalk me relentlessly ever since he arrived at Harrowdean? And probably months in Priory Lane before that?”

My mouth tugs up in a satisfied smile. I wasn’t sure she’d realise my choice of flavour was deliberate.

“I hate doughnuts,” Ripley explains. “Apart from one kind.”

“Cream-filled?” Lennox guesses.

With everything laid out on the table, I finally level her with a look. “Your choice of doughnut flavour is relevant information to me. And I dislike the unknown.”

“Is that the stalker’s manifesto?” Raine smothers a laugh.

“I’d say so.” Lennox rolls his eyes.

Ripley sighs. “I suppose I’ve heard worse justifications.”

Her voice is laced with sarcasm, but the tiny, reluctant smile tugging at her mouth screams of amusement. It makes my thundering pulse do all kinds of strange things.

“There weren't even any doughnuts in either institute.” Raine frowns at the bag placed in his hands. “So how did you find that stupidly specific information out?”

“Trade secret,” I deadpan. “Check the manifesto. I’m sure it’s in there.”

They all burst out laughing. Unable to stop myself, I join in. It’s an odd feeling—one that pulls at my belly and abdominal muscles in an unfamiliar way. I haven’t used those muscles for this purpose much.

“Xander’s worrying tendency to overstep every boundary known to man aside.” Raine pulls out a doughnut. “Did you find anything out?”

I take a seat at the kitchen table. “It’s as we thought. The story’s all under wraps. Whispers about the investigation but nothing solid. Bancroft’s still preening for the cameras and spouting shit.”

“You lifted these?” Lennox gestures to the phones.

“Yeah, wiped and ready to go. There are more SIM cards in the bag. Cash too.”

Nodding, Lennox takes one of the phones to start fiddling with. “Good.”

I removed the thick bandages around his hand yesterday, applying a lighter pad with gauze instead. The dressing on his face is gone too, leaving a fresh, pink slash across his cheek behind.

“I called Sabre Security.”

My words cause Raine to drop his doughnut. He curses to himself while Lennox sets the phone down so he can give me his full attention.

“Why?” he growls.

“Testing the waters. We need to know what our options are.”

“Xan, I thought we agreed?—”

“I didn’t cut a deal or make any agreements with them. The person I spoke to offered a secure rendezvous to exchange information. The same protection offer. I’ve got his contact number.”

“Who was it? The director?” Ripley asks.

“No, someone called Theodore.”

“Theo?” she repeats, eyes narrowed. “I know that name.”

We all wait for her to cycle through her thoughts. Ripley dusts off her sugar-speckled fingertips, the doughnut now discarded.

“In the Z wing…” She shakes her head. “The woman, Alyssa. She was communicating with her team. I heard her call his name. Theo.”

“So he’s legit,” Lennox concludes.

“Seems so.” I focus on Ripley. “She’s dead.”

Ripley’s eyes snap up to mine. “What?”

“The pink-haired mole. She died.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Sounds like this Theodore character has some personal stake in taking Bancroft down. He seemed committed to helping us.”

“I bet he did!” Lennox explodes in frustration. “You know that Incendia has their claws in everyone! Government. Private companies. Investors. They’re probably bankrolling these Sabre pricks too!”

“No.” Ripley turns to face off against Lennox. “Warner works for them. I trust his judgement.”

“Some anonymous guard who ditched us? Great plan, Rip.”

“I’m telling you, he’s on our side, Nox!” she argues back. “Would it kill you to have some faith for once?”

“Yes! It could kill us!”

Anger tattooed into every line of his expression, Lennox pushes off from the kitchen cabinets and disappears deeper into the mobile home. I wait for one of the bedroom doors to slam shut before speaking again.

“That was a rather short honeymoon period.”

“Fuck off, Xan.” Ripley clenches her eyes shut. “His trust issues are going to get us killed.”

I’d like to point out the irony that she’s demanding trust from the man she tried to frame, but something tells me it wouldn’t go down well. Besides, the pair seem to be putting their differences aside, if Lennox’s heartfelt display in the kitchen was any indication.

“He has a point,” Raine says quietly. “You of all people know how deep the corporation’s ties run. We should be cautious.”

Ripley stares down at her bandaged leg, the white cotton revealed by the long, oversized tee she wears with panties.

“Care to fill me in?”

Raine’s head tilts in my direction, but he doesn’t answer. I wait for Ripley to gather herself, watching her chest rise as she takes a deep breath.

“Bancroft. Incendia’s president.”

I nod in response. “We were acquainted in Priory Lane.”

“Well, I met him before the Z wing.” Her nose scrunches with a look of revulsion. “Incendia Corporation controls a huge portfolio of assets. Including two major investment firms in London.”

I’m aware that her richer than sin uncle is an investment banker. Apparently, he’s embroiled in all this too. He dripped with entitlement and wealth during his trip to the medical wing when Rick carved her up.

I overheard his brutal disownment speech. The man holds no love in his heart for the orphaned, mentally ill niece he was lumped with. Something inside Ripley broke that day when he walked away.

“You’re sure he’s involved?”

“I know he is,” Ripley confirms, rage forming lines that bracket her mouth. “After Harrison beat the shit out of me over that business card… Bancroft paid me a visit. Told me he had my uncle’s consent to repurpose me.”

“Repurpose?” Raine asks breathily.

“It’s what the Zimbardo program does.” I swipe a finger over an old stain on the table. “Dehumanise, manipulate and torture until the mind breaks. Then it can be reformed.”

“To what end?”

“Incendia creates mindless killing machines by destroying the vulnerable, one brain cell at a time.” My lip curls at the thought. “Then they sell their creations off to the highest bidder.”

Raine grows even paler than Ripley. “Jesus Christ.”

We’ve shared enough of our past for him to understand. It was never a secret—hell, he was our customer once. But the real purpose behind the institutes is a tough pill to swallow.

“If I can’t even trust my own flesh and blood… I can’t trust anyone.” Ripley pinches the bridge of her nose. “I hate it, but Lennox is right.”

“Don’t tell him that. It’ll go straight to his head.”

“Not funny, Xan. What the hell are we going to do?”

Staring at the phone left behind on the table, I can confidently say I have no fucking clue. We’re completely alone out here with nothing but the clothes on our backs and the truth we carry with us.

Telling it may just set us free.

But it may also get us killed.