Chapter 1

Grace Perkins sighed, pulling her blonde hair back from her face as she stood in front of the mirror. The 14 year old girl staring back at her was changing—but not in the way she wanted. She hated the way her hips had begun to flare, her pelvic bones jutting out like awkward handles. She hated the painful, unwanted swelling of her chest, the way her aerolas had darkened and spread like ink blots on parchment. And the coarse, curling hair between her legs—it felt alien, shameful. She longed to stretch upward, to grow taller, stronger, anything but this small, breakable thing she was trapped in. But she was still under five feet, her wrists so slender they looked like they’d snap under pressure, her legs and arms just as skinny as her tiny waist, no matter how much she ate.

She prodded the red, raw rash on her knee, a souvenir from yesterday’s hockey practice. “Skinny little twiglet!” The taunts still rang in her ears, the laughter of the bigger girls as they shoved her into the gravel, mocking her childlike body.

She had tried to be inconspicuous in the changing rooms, after remembering with horror she had worn her bright pink panties that day, and had quickly changed into her hockey skirt without anyone seeing. But then they knocked her down and caught the flash of fluorescent pink between her legs. Her bright panties, meant to be a secret, were revealed and from then on made the other girls extra keen to send her flying, to show some more.

Blushing at the memory, Grace turned away from the mirror and selected a pair of white cotton panties, pulling them up over her legs. She smoothed the fabric, watching in the mirror as they blended almost seamlessly with her pale skin. Maybe today they won’t notice. Maybe today they’ll leave me alone.

“Grace! You ready for school?” Her mother’s voice was cheerful, drifting up the stairs.

Grace stepped out of her bedroom, dressed in her blue plaid skirt, white blouse, blue tie, and blazer, her ankle socks and black shoes completing the uniform. The skirt rode high on her thighs, and she tugged at the hem, her stomach twisting. “Mummy, I need a new skirt,” she said. “This one’s too short.”

Charlotte Perkins, blonde and buxom at thirty-five, smiled as she adjusted her nurse’s bag. “Rubbish, you’re still so short! Don’t worry, you’ll grow soon.” She reached out, ruffling Grace’s hair. “You look lovely, Grace. I’m off on another shift. I hope school goes well today. How’s the knee?”

Grace looked down, her fingers brushing the scab. “It’s those other girls,” she admitted quietly. “They keep picking on me.”

Charlotte’s smile faltered for only a second before she forced brightness back into her voice. “They’re just jealous because you’re so pretty! Don’t worry, you’re still my little girl.” She kissed Grace’s forehead and hurried out the door, leaving Grace standing alone in the hallway.

Grace smiled. She loved her mother, she was the only one who looked out for her. But still, she had to clench her fists as she walked out of the house, through the local woodland, on her way to school.

Grace had always hated the wooded path to school. Her mother had laughed it off, saying “This town is safe, Grace. Nothing ever happens here.” But Grace couldn’t shake the thought that she was alone and anyone could be hiding behind the trees. She and her mother had moved to the small town of Willowbridge only six months ago, fleeing the noise of the city for the quiet promise of a fresh start. Her father had left when she was little, vanishing without so much as a goodbye, and it had always been just the two of them. But here, in this sleepy coastal village, they were happy. Or so her mother said.

---------- A hundred miles away, the street party in the similarly sleepy town of Ashbridge was a quaint affair, the kind of gathering where everyone knew everyone’s name and everyone’s business. String lights flickered above the cobblestone lane, hanging over the cluster of well-wishers gathered to celebrate Superintendent Edward Pembroke’s retirement. At sixty-two, Pembroke cut an imposing figure: over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, bald, with a jaw like a granite slab and hands that looked like they could crush a man’s windpipe without breaking a sweat. His face was mean, eyebrows thick and furrowed, his eyes black and shrewd.

Yet the residents of Ashbridge adored him. Crime in the town had been low under his watch, and his reputation was spotless. He was a pillar of respectability, a man who had dedicated his life to order. The fact that his wife, Margaret, had passed away just six months earlier only deepened the town’s sympathy for him.

“Oh, Edward, you’ve earned your retirement!” chirped Mrs. Hargrove, an elderly widow who had lived in Ashbridge all her life. She thrust a flute of champagne into his hand, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “What will you do with all your time now?”

Pembroke’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, now I get to pursue all the projects I’ve dreamed of,” he said, winking at her. The old woman giggled, though she would have fainted had she known his dark, disgusting intentions.

The real reason for the party, however, wasn’t just his retirement. Pembroke’s only daughter, Victoria, stood near the food table with her fourteen-year-old daughter, Alice. They were leaving for Australia in a week. Victoria’s face was a mask of barely contained disgust, her dark hair pulled back severely, her body wrapped in long black pants and a shapeless black shirt. She had put on weight over the years, a middle-aged softness settling over her frame, but her eyes were still sharp, still watching her father with the wariness of a cornered animal.