18
“Where are my trainers?” I ask Wendy as she scoops up Harry’s Lego, which is scattered across the living-room carpet.
She looks up and shushes me because Phil is asleep on the couch, sleeping off another afternoon of whiskey.
I mouth a sorry and then carry on looking for the trainers in the kitchen. Knowing Harry, he’s thrown them in the dishwasher. Little s**t.
Rosy and Abbey, the twins sisters from Hell, are sitting at the table sharing the laptop. They’re probably on f*******:, cyber-bullying some poor girl, or pretending to be the same person to freak some boyfriend out. I gave up trying to figure out what goes through their heads years ago. As foster sisters go, they’re pretty vile, even for thirteen-year-olds. But at least they’re loyal—to each other. The rest of us aren’t so
