**Diary Entry**
After work, Vicky stopped by the shopping centre. The head accountant’s anniversary was coming up, and her team had asked her to pick a gift. She’d spotted a few options, snapped photos on her phone—tomorrow, she’d let her colleagues decide. As she rode the escalator down to the ground floor, all she wanted was to escape the crowds and noise.
“Vicky?!” A woman’s voice called out.
She turned left, scanning the faces of people ascending—none familiar.
“Vicky!” The voice came again.
This time, she looked over her shoulder and saw a girl with bright ginger hair, scrambling down the up escalator, dodging annoyed shoppers.
“Wait for me at the bottom—don’t leave!” the girl shouted.
Vicky stepped off and waited. The garish red hair vanished briefly at the top, then reappeared as the girl sprinted down, nearly tripping. The colour was so distracting, it took a moment to recognise the face beneath it.
“Molly!” Vicky gasped—her half-sister.
“Surprise!” Molly grinned. “Been wandering around hoping I’d bump into you. Knew it’d happen eventually. Let’s grab a coffee—there’s a café downstairs.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“Two weeks. God, I’m so glad I found you.” Molly’s tone was oddly earnest.
They settled into a booth. Vicky studied her: ginger hair, spider-leg lashes from too much mascara, lips painted red to match. Pretty in a doll-like way. Molly was only four years younger—barely twenty—but dressed like a teen: pleated mini-skirt, sheer tights with knee-high socks, chunky trainers, a denim jacket hanging open over a skimpy pink crop top. Heads turned as they passed.
“You look amazing,” Molly said.
A waitress handed them menus. Molly ordered pizza, cake, and coffee. Vicky stuck to black coffee.
“Starving,” Molly groaned. “Lucky you—you can eat anything and stay slim. I’m always on some stupid diet.”
“Really?” Vicky raised a brow. Molly had always been stick-thin.
“You haven’t met my mum. Weighed a tonne, no joke. No wonder Dad left her. You got the good genes.” She peered at the menu. “They serve beer here?”
“Ask, but I’m driving.”
“You’ve got a car? Nice! Listen—any jobs going at your place? I haven’t found work yet.”
“How’ve you managed two weeks without pay?”
“Robbed Dad,” Molly giggled. “He’d just drink it anyway. After you left, he got fired, picked up odd jobs. Then he shacked up with some dinner lady who stole food from her canteen. Went off the rails proper.”
Vicky barely reacted. Molly’s dad had always been unpleasant. When Mum brought him home, she’d dismissed Vicky’s dislike as jealousy. He came with Molly in tow. Vicky was in sixth form, prepping for uni.
They’d clashed instantly. Molly took Vicky’s clothes without asking, stained them. Mum always defended her: “You’ve got plenty—don’t be selfish. Molly never had a mum.” Vicky knew Mum just wanted peace, but it stung. Then Mum got sick. Four months later, she was gone.
Molly’s dad expected Vicky to work straight after school, but she fled to London. She’d secretly saved lunch and cinema money, enrolled in uni, worked evenings at Chicken Hut. After graduation, she landed a proper job, scrimped for a mortgage on a one-bed flat. Met Daniel at work. He helped her buy a second-hand Ford last year.
“What qualifications do you have?” Vicky asked.
Molly scoffed. “Seriously? Barely finished school. Worked at a newsagent’s. Dad’s a lost cause—drank himself out of a job. That’s why I’m here. No future back home.”
Vicky smirked. A newsagent’s assistant indeed had none.
“What job are you after?”
“I’d make a great secretary. Your boss single?”
“Married. And he has a secretary.”
“Shame. Not cleaning, though. No way.” Molly devoured her pizza.
“Money’s money. But I’ll ask around.” Vicky had no intention of recommending her. Letting Molly into her office? Like inviting a fox into the henhouse.
“What about you? Not married?” Molly eyed Vicky’s bare ring finger.
“No, but I’ve got a bloke. Two years together—planning a wedding.” A lie. Daniel stayed over often but lived with his ill mum. He wouldn’t propose, not wanting to burden Vicky.
Molly wrinkled her nose. “Thought you were smarter. If he hasn’t proposed in a year, he won’t.”
“Since when are you the expert?” Vicky glanced at her delicate diamond ring.
Molly followed her gaze. “His? Bit plain.”
Vicky bristled. Molly loved gaudy things. But she adored this ring—thin, subtle, with a brilliant-cut stone. Daniel had bought it in Amsterdam, paired with diamond studs. At work, colleagues complimented them constantly. Wasn’t that proof enough? She didn’t argue.
“It’s a diamond.”
“So he’s loaded?” Molly paused mid-bite.
“No. He just loves me.”
Molly gave her a strange look, then dropped her eyes.
“What about you? Seeing anyone?”
“Shopping around. Lived with one bloke…” She sighed. “Won’t settle for less than a rich one—flat, car, the lot.”
*Ah. Here to bag a sugar daddy.* Vicky doubted Molly’s current look would appeal. She finished her coffee, eager to leave but knowing Molly wouldn’t let her.
“I should go.” Vicky signalled for the bill. Molly didn’t protest her paying, despite only drinking coffee.
“You’ll ask about jobs?”
“Yeah.” Vicky stood.
Outside, memories flooded back. Mum and her had lived alone after Dad left. Then Mum brought Molly’s dad home. Vicky never trusted him. After Mum’s death, she blamed them both—though the doctors said cancer had taken her, advanced by then.
Molly’s dad had started drinking while Vicky still lived there. Oddly, Molly hadn’t found her hidden savings—else she’d never have escaped. The thoughts raced as they walked to the car.
Time to say goodbye.
“Vicky, you rent?”
“No. Bought it.”
“Wow. Can I crash with you a bit? Till I find work?”
“Where’ve you been staying?” Vicky braced herself.
“Mate’s place.” Molly looked away. “Need out, though.”
Vicky hesitated. Letting Molly in meant no privacy with Daniel. But those puppy-dog eyes—like a scrawny teen again—tugged at her.
“Fine. Get in.”
Molly beamed, darting to the passenger seat.
“It’s a one-bed. You’ll be on the fold-out sofa.”
“Perfect.”
For two weeks, Molly slept or scrolled her phone while Vicky worked, then vanished evenings, reeking of smoke and booze. *Club-hopping for men*, Vicky guessed. No job hunt in sight.
“Any luck?” Vicky finally asked.
“Was gonna ask you.”
“Only cleaning going. You said no.”
“Sick of me already?”
“Just like my space. Clubs cost money—surely enough for a flatshare?”
“Blokes pay for me,” Molly waved off.
“Shocker.”
Daniel asked when she’d leave. Their intimacy was stifled—his mum asleep nearby. Vicky complained: Molly was leeching off her. Then she found a stain on her favourite dress. Molly swore she hadn’t worn it. Liar. She’d always filched Vicky’s clothes.
“Could work at Chicken Hut like I did. But freeloading’s easier.”
“Let me talk to her,” Daniel offered.
That evening, the bell rang. Molly answered in tiny shorts and a skin-tight top.
“Bloody hell,” Daniel muttered, eyeing her.
At dinner, Molly batted her lashes, “accidentally” brushing against him. Vicky excused herself, fuming. Then—a shriek.
She rushed in. Daniel had Molly’s wrists pinned.
“Stop—you’re hurting me!” Molly whined.
“Cut the act. You came onto me the second Vicky left. Think I’d fall for that? Time to move out.” He tightened his grip.
“What’s—?” Vicky froze.
“He attacked me!” Molly sniffled.
“Bollocks. Pack your things. Or I’ll toss them out myself.” He released her. Molly rubbed her wrists, glaring.
Vicky stayed silent. Molly stormed off.
“Don’t follow her,” Daniel warned.
Drawers slammed.
“Steal anythingThe last Vicky ever saw of Molly was her slamming the door behind her, clutching those two bulging bags—one of them surely stuffed with Vicky’s missing clothes.
