Foxes by Suki Fleet Page A

him giggles.
    Dollman moves on again, getting farther and farther away, but I can still just about make out his tall shadow. I push off from the wall and start walking, wondering how many times Dieter can stop me following this guy.
    “Are you missing your dead friend, Loki? Are you trying to find another friend, Loki?”
    More laugher, wilder this time.
    I shove my hands in my pockets and walk faster, wishing I were far, far away.
    Dieter’s words don’t cut through me so much as completely drain me of energy. They make me want to just sit down, curl up, and breathe. Just breathe.
    I don’t know how Dieter can say it like that—“your dead friend”—as if he didn’t know Dashiel at all. As if Dashiel meant nothing to him. When everything in my head makes sense, I sometimes think I can see why Dieter hates me so much. I’ve become a focus for how much he’s hurting. But mostly nothing makes sense. And being the focus of someone else’s pain fucking sucks.
    I break into a run before I reach the park, scared I’m going to lose my shark. I want to know where he lives. I want to follow him home. I want to tether him to something so he can’t fade in and out of view like he does, like all the sharks do, so I need to try harder, do better. This is important.
    This is all that’s important… or all that should be.
    Of the five sharks Dashiel told me about, I’ve only seen two, and one of my own. But there are more, far more out there.
    A few girls huddle beneath the ancient trees, just in sight of the road that curves around the park and just out of sight of the streetlights. I only know they’re there because I know where to look. It’s cold and the pavements are unsheltered, and that is where they stand to take a break.
    I’m not trying to search Donna out—I’d really rather not see anyone who knows me right now—but I do glance around to see if she’s there as I hurry past.
    Thankfully, she’s not.
    Dollman turns his head a few times, as if he’s checking whether anyone is following. This is new. Perhaps he’s feeling paranoid tonight. Maybe Dieter’s shouting spooked him. He hasn’t stopped to speak to anyone since I’ve been following him, but then, I’ve not seen any boys on the streets tonight—apart from Dieter and his friend.
    I keep on the grass at the edge of the park, in the shadow of the trees. The moon bathes the middle of the park in silver light, but I don’t let it touch me.
    I follow Dollman all the way to Edgware Road. It’s nearly a mile. As he turns down windy little street after windy little street, with expensive mews houses on either side, I get this excited feeling in my chest that’s not quite terror, not quite anticipation. Finally I feel like a hunter.
    But as soon as I think that, questions begin to fill my head, making it hard for me to think straight. Where is he going? Home? If he’s the killer—is this where he brings his victims? My stomach tightens and twists inside me. I touch my pad, feeling its heaviness in my pocket and wishing I could write all this down. Make sense of it. But I can’t. Instead I need to focus on why I’m doing this. Why I have to be strong enough.
    We come to a dead-end cul-de-sac. I need to hang back or figure out a way of making myself invisible.
    After picking up his pace for a few meters, Dollman stops outside a small square building that looks like a converted warehouse. He does it so suddenly that, in an effort to keep out of sight, I collide with a small tree in a pot outside someone’s front door. I grip the tree in my arms to stop it from falling over and watch as Dollman silently ascends a short metal staircase to the front door. A few seconds later, the door swings inward and he steps inside.
    He’s gone.
    A muffled thunk sounds as the door closes.
    For almost a full minute, I keep my arms around the tree and don’t move. I don’t want to mess this up, don’t want there to be any chance Dollman will see me. I can imagine