The first thing I notice when I wake up is that I've got a dull headache, and the skin around my throat's sore, throbbing when I put a little too much pressure on it.

It doesn't take me long to remember why. The strong grip around it, the one I thought would never let go, that I just couldn't prise off or overpower. I shouldn't have held the bat so loosely, and stayed pressed up against a wall. I shouldn't have gone outside at all, because if that wasn't meant to kill me, it was certainly meant to scare me, to send a clear message.

They weren't going anywhere.

Then there was that sudden relief, the girl bending down and taking hold of my shoulders in concern, and someone else running after the killer. Then the boy that picked me up off the ground, and his dark brown eyes.

I gasp, sitting up on the bed too quickly, my headache panging in response for a moment.

The second thing I notice? I'm not in my room.

I'm not at home.

So where the hell am I?!

Don't panic. Check you're not being watched by some cameras, check the room, the window, the view. Then check the door.

I feel my jumper, smeared with a bit of mud and grass stains from the earlier struggle. I can't feel any other cuts or bruises on my body apart from the ones on my neck. I hope the colour of the marks aren't too dark, and that they'll go quickly. The last thing I need is to draw attention like that.

My eyes shift to the bed I'm on, the duvet a creamy gold colour with delicate, swirly patterns a shade lighter. It's a double bed, and a nice one too, the headboard gold and curly metal, with plump cream and navy pillows propping me up. A matching ottoman is in front of the bed, and the bedside tables have twin lamps and candles. Everything is colour coordinated perfectly, the curtains a rose gold shade, drawn and leaving the room peacefully dim. A framed painting of a bird is on one wall, gold and blue and white, and a small chandelier hangs at the centre of the ceiling.

Alright. Nice place. Pretty big. But whose is it?

I slowly open the drawer of one bedside table, but it's empty. The other is too, and I sigh, getting off the bed. The carpet is a soft beige, and the whole bedroom looks almost regal. A brown vase full of deep yellow flowers is on top of a table that's opposite a chair, next to the window. There's even a small wooden vanity beside the door, and shutter doors opposite that lead to a walk-in wardrobe.

I go over to the windows, hesitant as I trace the fabric of the curtains. I part them very slowly, enough for a small gap to let a thick streak of light into the room, and peer out at the sight. I'm upstairs, looking down at a small woodland, and a neat road that curves around it, presumably leading off to the main parts of the town.

Where am I?

A light knock at the door makes me flinch, and I spin around, instantly wincing as my head pulses again. My eyes scan the room quickly, automatically looking for some kind of defence, but the best I've got is the vase.

"Hi, Holly? My name's Edith Tyrel. Is it alright if I come in?"

I recognise the last name from what Brunsley mentioned, but bite my lip at her warm tone, uncertain. She sounds nice enough, but right now, I'm wary of everyone, with good reason. Whoever that killer is must know me, know me and my parents enough to want them dead. It doesn't make sense if they're just some random killer looking to break up families.

This is personal.

I might as well let her in, though, because I've got to face whoever they are at some point.

"Okay."

The door opens, revealing a girl with lightly tanned skin, wavy, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She smiles, coming in.

"How are you feeling?"

I shrug. "My head's killing me."

"I can go get some painkillers," she says, her gaze dropping to my neck, her smile wavering in concern. "Does your neck hurt too? The marks should clear up within a few weeks or so."

"A bit sensitive, I guess," I respond. "Is it that visible?"

"It's not too bad," she hums, moving forward as she looks closer. "Still, it's not great, is it? I feel so awful, really. If we'd have gotten to yours sooner, that attacker wouldn't have gotten to you like that."

"I doubt it's your fault," I say carefully, "but I still don't know who you are. Or where I am?" My eyes widen a fraction as I think of Lizzie, crying in shock and upset when she came out to the garden. "Where's Lizzie?"

"She's alright," Edith responds, opening the curtains and letting the rest of the light stream in before sitting down on the end of the bed. "Don't worry, we told her everything. She's at home now, and your house is gonna be under surveillance for a while in case the killer tries anything."

"Surveillance?" I sigh, imagining detectives putting up dozens of cameras and stationing themselves around the place dramatically.

Edith seems to notice this, and shakes her head. "It's nothing major. They need to keep an eye on things back there, and you need to be safe here."

"So where am I now?"

"In Horsham," she responds, "about half an hour away from where you live. You're safe here, with us. I live here with my brothers, Emerson and Elias. Brunsley should have told you about us. We were going to come and visit you this morning."

I nod slowly. "You're the Trust he was talking about."

"That's right," she says with a smile. "The Tyrel Trust. I'm so sorry you just woke up at some stranger's house, but we couldn't leave you at your home, obviously. This is a safe place to be in while we work together on solving this mess. It's not a kidnapping or anything. We aren't going to hurt you, we want to help you, and I bet you could help us. After all, you're Bobby and Judith Cassia's daughter."

"Yeah," I reply. "Okay then. But how long do I have to stay here?"

"Preferably until it's safe," she tells me, "which would most likely be when this psycho's caught and you're not a victim anymore. Elias tried to chase down the attacker, which I'm assuming is the murderer, but they hid and got away somehow. My other brother, Emerson, got you here. He's very worried. We should probably go to them soon."

"Oh." Surprise surprise, they got away again, but I'm still alive, I suppose.

Emerson, then. He must be the one who picked me up earlier, and he's the one Brunsley was talking about yesterday. One of the best young detectives he's ever met that I'd get on great with.

We'll see.

"And they're all good with me being here?"

"Of course they are! We all are, Holly," she assures me. "You're totally welcome here. There's woodland outside if you want to get out for a bit. And we've got a library and everything upstairs. It's nice, so, I hope you'll find it alright to be here for a while."

I nod with a small smile, a little intrigued by the idea of a library, seeing as this room's so regal-looking. "Alright. Thanks."

"Great," she says, getting up. "I'm gonna go get you some water and paracetamol. C'mon, let's go find my brothers."