Chapter 4

M y phone rings once again in my pocket. Sliding it out, I check the screen and feel a scowl settle over my face. One spiteful stab of my finger silences the incessant noise, then I shove it back into my pocket, where it continues to vibrate against my thigh.

Fucking work, fucking Butler.

It's well into the afternoon and he's had me chasing my tail all day, sending me all over the place on pointless tasks. I couldn't even call what I was doing police work anymore, and I'm not sure I even have it in me to fight back.

As much as the thought of letting that prick and all the other homophobes win galls me, what would I really be fighting for? I know for a fact that DCI Butler hates me because I married a man. It's as simple and as complicated as that. My work record stands for itself—I'm highly decorated and well respected, with several high-profile cases under my belt. Solved cases, I might add. I have a reputation for being fair and personable. But none of that counts. Butler's old school, and he doesn't like ‘my kind.' I know because I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears.

Usually, I'd be the first one standing up for queer rights, the way I did with Sam when we were both still up north, but things have changed.

I've changed.

Don't get me wrong, it's still just as important to stand up for LGBTQ+ rights in the workplace and to fight discrimination, but I find my mind wandering to a different place more and more recently.

All the things I've experienced in the past couple of years have taught me that the world is not as black and white as I once thought it was. There's no divide down the middle, with one side about upholding the law and the other about breaking it.

Justice exists in many shades of grey.

I have no doubt in my mind that Issac Crawshanks got everything he deserved for what he did to the real Detective Byrnes and especiallyforwhat he did to Viv. I keep circling back around to her. To what her life had been like. Carrying the weight of a centuries-old burden, feeling she had no choice but to give up her child and hide him, thinking she was saving him only for him to end up being almost killed anyway.

I'm starting to think there's no escaping fate.

Viv spent nearly her whole life isolated and afraid, with no one to turn to, no one that would understand or even be able to help. It started me thinking: How many others like her are out there? Scared and alone.

Not that I can do anything about it. I don't have any special gifts. I can't see dead people, and from some of the things Tristan has told me, I'm actually quite glad about that. I guess I just feel… lost, like I told Tris. I've come to a crossroads in my life and I'm not sure where any of the roads lead. Right now, he's the one thing keeping me grounded.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost walk past the address I'm supposed to be visiting. I pull the scrap of paper from my pocket and check the name and address.

Ms G Locks.

I look up at the small house tucked along a side street in Whitechapel. It's only down the road from the bookshop where I know Tris will be by now, and I have an overwhelming urge to just say fuck it and go find him. This job is so pointless.

I'm supposed to double-check a witness statement for a crime that's already been solved and prosecuted. Random fact checking, Butler had called it.

What a wanker.

Still. I blow out a slow breath and reach for the latch on the small metal gate. It swings open with a groan of protesting hinges, andI stroll up the path to the cheerful yellow front door. Knocking on the door, I take a step back and wait patiently, but no one answers. After a few moments, I lean in and knock a bit louder.

Still nothing.

A brief movement catches the corner of my eye, and I turn to see the net curtain in the bay window twitch. Leaving the doorstep, I press my face to the window, and I could swear I see a shadow move somewhere inside.

I shift back to the door and knock again very loudly.

"Ms G Locks?" I call out. "Golda?"

Dropping to one knee on the doorstep, I stick my fingers into the letterbox and open the little metal flap to call through the gap.

"I'm Detective Inspector Hayes with Scotland Yard. There's no need to be alarmed, you're not in any trouble. I've just been asked to clarify a few details on the witness statement you made late last year… Hello?"

I climb to my feet with a sigh of frustration and dust off the knees of my trousers. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check the time. I'm about to call it a day and head over to the bookshop when the door opens, creaking slowly inwards.

I freeze with my phone gripped in my hand. "Hello?" I say tentatively into the dim hallway. "Ms Locks?"

A sudden gust of wind comes up behind me, almost knocking me off my feet. I stumble forward into the hallway and the door slams behind me. I'm about to reach for the handle when a wave of dizziness washes over me. It feels like the floor is undulating under my feet, and my knees are wobbly.

Something's not right , I think to myself as my eyes roll and everything around me goes dark.

Slowly I open my eyes, my head filled with confusion. I blink a few times but everything around me remains blurred.

I inhale a deep breath and take stock. I think I'm still in the hallway where I fell. The air is cool, and I feel the tiny hairs on my legs rise. That's weird. My legs feel like they're bare, but I'm definitely not naked. Slowly, the place comes into focus.

I am still in the hallway, I ascertain once my vision stops wavering and my surroundings solidify. What the hell knocked me out? I roll onto my front and shakily push myself onto my hands and knees. After another breath to calm my nauseous stomach, I stumble to my feet and sway slightly.

Glancing around, I notice I'm alone. I stagger forward, further into the house, but as I pass a full-length mirror, I freeze, then turn to face my reflection in wide-eyed horror.

"What. The. Actual. Fuck?" I breathe into the stillness.

I'm no longer wearing my suit, that's for goddamn sure; no wonder my legs felt bare. I don't know whose idea of a joke this is, but when I get back to the station, someone's head is going to roll for this setup.

I'm wearing a yellow and white gingham dress with a white collar, frilly sleeves, and a full, puffy skirt which sits just above my knees. White, neatly folded ankle socks cover my feet, along with shiny patent Mary Janes, and if all of that isn't bad enough, my hair is no longer the short, neat style I usually wear.Instead, my head is covered with long, golden-blonde ringlets topped with a big yellow bow.

With a growl, I reach up to pull off what is obviously a wig, only to find, to my dismay, that it won't budge. Oh yeah, someone is definitely going to pay for this. What the fuck did they use? Glue? If I have to shave my head after this, I'm going to be majorly pissed.

I stalk further into the house, fully expecting to see some of DCI Butler's cronies with their cameras out, but as I enter what is obviously a dining room, I pause. The house is immaculate, with swept floors and vases of flowers. In front of me is a polished table and three seats of varying sizes.

Those seats do look comfortable .

The errant thought pops into my head and I wonder where it came from. My feet are moving before I know it, and I'm dropping down into the first chair with a wince.

Fuck .

I leap up, rubbing my bum cheek, and look down at it. It looks normal, but it had felt really hard and sharp. Eyeing the chair next to it, I shuffle across. It's slightly smaller but, hopefully, not as painful. I sit down and flounder, letting out a yelp when I start sinking. Grasping onto the edge of the table, I haul myself up. Gross . It was like sitting in gooey pudding. My gaze wanders to the third and final chair, which is much smaller than the other two. Unable to help myself, I sink down onto it and let out a surprised and pleased hum.

Just right.

At that precise moment, my stomach lets out a loud grumble of protest punctuated by a sharp pang of hunger. The most delicious scent hits my nostrils, and my mouth waters. Three bowls filled with porridge have appeared in front of me. My stomach growls again and I'm hit with such a wave of longing that my hand moves without thought.

I don't even like porridge, but I pull the largest bowl towards me and grab a spoon, then lift a huge glob of it to my mouth. The second it hits my tongue, I gag and spit it back into the bowl. Urgh, it's disgusting, all salty and cold.

I shove it away and reach for the next bowl, which is slightly smaller. Picking up the spoon next to it, I shovel in a mouthful and then spit that out too. It's so sweet it hurts my teeth. Pushing that bowl away, I reach for the third and take a bite. Just right, the perfect temperature and consistency and the exact amount of sweetness.

I gobble it up, barely stopping for breath. It's insane. I've never been this hungry for something I usually can't stand. I'm about halfway through the bowl when I hear a loud splintering sound. I pause, loaded spoon in one hand and bowl in the other, and then feel myself drop. The way-too-small-for-me chair gives way. I tumble backwards and hit the ground, losing my grip on the bowl, which is catapulted through the air by my momentum. I watch from my prone position as it hits the wall, where it smashes loudly and leaves an ugly beige smear dripping down the once pristine surface.

Whoops.

I yawn as a wave of tiredness washes over me. Then I climb to my feet and brush the splintered wood from my legs. Without really stopping to think about how incredibly inappropriate it is, I head back out into the hallway and climb the staircase. The first room I come across is a large communal bedroom which seems to stretch the length of the house, and in it are three neatly made beds.

The first one, unsurprisingly, is as hard as a rock, the second islike lyingon a waterbed and has me fighting a wave of seasickness, but the third one is just perfection!A wave of exhaustion passes over meand my eyes close the moment I'm horizontal.

I wake with a start and sit bolt upright. It's already dark outside, I realise as I glance across at the window. I'm trying to figure out what woke me when I hear a loud and terrifying growl from downstairs.

What the fuck was that?

Thundering footsteps sound on the stairs, and I scramble out of the bed, wild-eyed. Fuck. There is only one exit from this room, and I don't have time to head towards it because suddenly three bears fill the doorway.

Yes, you heard that correctly. Three. Fucking. Bears.

Huge, black, furry bears with sharp claws and wicked-looking teeth, and one is wearing… a tie? I blink and sure enough, even as the largest one roarsso loudly the windowpanes rattle, I can see that he—she, it… they?—is naked except for a white collar and a pinstriped tie. Seriously, it's like something you'd see in a cartoon. The middle bear is wearing a paisley dress and the youngest has on a pair of blue shorts.

I must be hallucinating; this surely can't be real. But real or not, the largest one, snarling and baring his teeth, lunges for me. With a frightened yelp, I leap onto the nearest bed and bounce from one to the next and then the next like I'm trying out for Ninja Warrior . I aim for the window ledge as the huge bear behind me hurls the heavy wooden beds out of the way. Fumbling with the latch on the window, I press my weight against it too hard in my panic, and when the latch lifts and the window flies open, I tumble out.

Fortunately for me, the porch is directly beneath the window. Unfortunately, I hit the pitched roof with a jolt and roll down the sharp angle off the end, then drop straight into a bush before flopping ungraciously onto the ground.

"Oww," I croak, my face smooshed into the front lawn.

I hear rather than witness the bear lean out of the window and bellow furiously. Still somewhat winded, I scramble to my feet and hotfoot it down the path, out the gate, and onto the street.

"Danny?" a familiar voice gasps. I lean over, bracing my hands on my knees and trying to catch my breath, then look up to see Sam standing in front of me, his eyes wide as his gaze slowly trails over the gingham dress and the ringlets. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Did you let Chan choose your costume?"

"B-bears!" I wheeze.

"I'm more of a snarky ginger twink man myself, but thanks for the heads-up. Everyone gets a little wild on Halloween."

"No… bears!" I point as the three creatures appear in the doorway to the house and bellow in unison.

"Huh, not the kind of bears I thought then." He blinks and I grasp his arm. "Wait a minute. Is that bear holding a handbag?"

I don't answer. Instead, I set off at a run, dragging him with me down the twisting back alleys and streets until we reach the main high street, determined not to stop until I'm certain we're not being pursued.

Sam sucks in a ragged breath. "What the hell?"

What had been a wide main road, with a bus lane and linedwith tall commercial buildings and pubs, is now covered with trees and moss and giant toadstools. The road itself looks like a goopy mess of beige, and from the scent in the air, I'd say it's more fucking porridge. Tons of the icky stuff, oozing down the road.

A voice rings through the air, and I look up. My mouth falls open.

"Run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm?—"

I look over at Sam, whose mouth gapes as wide as mine. "Is that—" I whisper.

Sam blinks twice. "A ten-foot-tall gingerbread man running down the street? I think it might be."

Small, delicate fairies flit through the air, glowing like fireflies. Flying high above on their brooms, witches with hooked noses and pointy hats cackle loudly as they circle the gingerbread man's head.

Sam and I are suddenly shoved out of the way. We stumble to the side and glance over to see several young women in ballgowns pirouette down the street.

"One, two, three, four… twelve dancing princesses?"

I breathe heavily. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know." Sam sighs. "I hate to say it, but this has got Tristan and Harrison written all over it."

"Bookshop?" I say.

He nods. "Bookshop."

We both take off running.