Free Bet Your Life by Jane Casey Page B

twelve when her big sister died—old enough to know exactly what was going on. Old enough to understand that she wasn’t coming back, ever.
    “They did the postmortem on Freya at the hospital in Exeter.” Typical Hugo to make a statement that was precisely factual but hit with the impact of a grenade. “I don’t know if Petra remembers that, or if it would mean much to her, but I don’t want her there on her own with the Dawsons. It could be upsetting.”
    “Go,” Ella said to me. “I really will be fine here.”
    I went.
    I sat in the front of the car with Mrs. Dawson, who was dark-haired with high cheekbones and the same sweet smile as Beth. She was model-thin and wearing Port Sentinel casual chic—very expensive knee boots, skinny designer jeans, a swathe of caramel cashmere, and a lot of jewelry. She was a vague, distracted driver today and perhaps always—the passenger door had a really handsome dent in it and one of her sidelights had shattered. Fear kept me wide-eyed on the winding roads from Port Sentinel to Exeter. I was almost glad of it because otherwise I would have found it hard to stay awake. Mrs. Dawson seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of boring stories about people I didn’t know—friends of theirs who had houses in France and were being ripped off by local builders, or the people who’d invited them to St. Lucia, or the woman with a daughter the same age as Beth who was “a very gifted ice skater, Jess. I mean, really talented. She puts us to shame, doesn’t she, darling?”
    The sun was streaming in, heating up the interior, which smelled chemically clean. The sharp, artificial odor made me feel dizzy and slightly high.
    “Do you mind if I open the window?”
    “What?” Mrs. Dawson glanced at me as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Oh. Yes, of course. It does stink in here. They always use that stuff when they valet the car even if I tell them not to.”
    The smell was so strong she must have had the car valeted that morning, and I wondered briefly about her priorities. I’d have thought the stepson in intensive care was more important than getting the car polished, but what did I know?
    In the back seat Beth talked to Petra, the two of them barely glancing at Mrs. Dawson when she broke into their conversation. The burden of keeping Mrs. Dawson happy fell on me, and I spent the forty-five-minute drive saying yes , and no , and really , and how interesting , and watch out , and not much else.
    We were almost in Exeter when she asked, abruptly, “Do you know my stepson?”
    “We’re in school together.”
    She swerved round a slow-moving Ford Fiesta. “This situation is typical of him. Causing trouble is what he does best.”
    It seemed a little harsh to blame him for what had happened, but I nodded.
    “Jim’s had heart trouble. My husband, I mean. Seb’s father. He doesn’t need this kind of stress.” Her mouth was a line.
    “He must be very worried about Seb.”
    “More than Sebastian deserves, certainly.”
    I didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Dawson looked in her rear-view mirror and her face softened. “All right, darling?”
    “ Yes , Mum. I’m fine.” Beth sounded irritated to be interrupted. At least she hadn’t heard her mother complaining about Seb, I thought. Happy families it wasn’t.
    *   *   *
    At the hospital, Beth led the way to intensive care through a labyrinth of corridors and waiting areas. I stayed close to Petra, who was very quiet indeed.
    “Here we are.” Beth stopped, triumphant, in front of a locked door. “You need to press the bell to be admitted.”
    “Wait for me, Beth.” Her mother had fallen behind. She was carrying an overnight bag for her husband and some magazines she’d bought in the hospital shop. “Girls, I don’t think you two will be allowed to go in. It’s family only.”
    “That’s fine,” I said. Petra was so pale I was worried she was about to faint. “We wouldn’t want to get in the way. We can sit