office.â She stands up. âExcuse me for a moment. I need to see what Angel is up to. Boys can get into such mischief, you know.â She glances at Jermaine as she speaks.
âActually, Iâll take that orange squash after all. Please,â he says.
âOf course. Iâll be just a minute. Please, make yourselves at home.â
As soon as Cristina is out of sight, Jermaine grabs me by the fleshy part of my upper arm.
âOw! What are you doing?â I snap. âPlaying lobster?â
âShhh,â Jermaine says, placing a finger to his lips. He leans in closer. âWe gotta go. You told her way too much. This lady is already concerned that your mum needed to work under the table âcos thatâs illegal. And now she finds out your mumâs disappeared and youâve turned up at her flat.â
âSo what?â I say, rubbing my biceps. Iâm still angry about my arm and the news Iâve received from Cristina has only convinced me more that something terrible has happened to Mom.
âSo, this woman might already be in it up to her neck for employing illegals like your mum and then if the police find out she knew about you and didnât do the right thing by telling them or social services, sheâll get it even worse.â
âMom isnât an illegal immigrant. Sheâs got a British passport.â
âDonât be daft, Edie. Who cares about that? That woman is likely on the phone right now,â he says. âLetâs go!â
Jermaine pulls me up from the sofa and this time Iâm more than happy to follow. If he is even half right in his predictions, weâre in trouble. It was stupid of me to have said anything about Mom going missing.
Cristinaâs son appears in the doorway to the kitchen again. This time heâs clutching a glass of orange drink in his small hand.
âWhere are you going?â he asks, his voice filling with disappointment. âI made this for your friend.â He holds out the glass.
âSorry, just remembered that weâre supposed to be somewhere,â I say, over my shoulder. Jermaine is already at the stairs, descending them two at a time.
âMummy! Theyâre leaving!â Angel cries.
I begin to leap down the stairs, keeping my eyes locked on Jermaineâs back, praying my feet donât miss a step. Jermaine has already reached the front door and is fumbling with the latch, his fingers clumsy with panic.
I hear commotion above us. Angelâs cries of dismay mix with his motherâs angry voice. Blood pounds in my ears.
Suddenly the latch clicks and Jermaine twists the door open with his left hand while grabbing my wrist with his right.
âWait right there!â Cristina shouts from behind me. I canât tell if sheâs already on the stairs.
Jermaine pulls me through the door then slams it shut with a single, backward kick. We immediately break into a frantic run, our trainer-clad feet slapping up and down on the sidewalk.
A curtain of misty rain wraps itself around us as we continue running without saying a word for what seems like forever. My chest burns and I feel faint, but continue following Jermaine. We reach the high street and continue our mad dash: weaving in and around hand-holding couples, mothers pushing their newborns in strollers, and red-faced joggers. Jermaine leads us back past the Docklands station and down toward the water where we finally slow our pace.
âJust to be safe, letâs hang here for a few minutes,â Jermaine says, making his way down a set of stone steps to the locks. Below the locks, the murky waters of the Thames wind their way toward the heart of London.
The rain begins to fall harder, making the steps more slippery and treacherous than I would like. A sign posted on the black, wrought-iron rails warns pedestrians about the dangers of walking along the waterâs edge. That makes me slow down even more.
âYou
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