“Just a little village, nothing to see here.” His voice was low, barely audible but they all heard him. Of course they heard him. “Just us and our little village.”

She looked at him in shock, no astonishment. How could he just stand there and lie to the head of police. Maybe it was because she was always terrible at lying. Whenever her mother asked her if she took more than one sweet from the sweet jar, she would say yes and that she only took one but her mother would always see a glint in her eyes that said otherwise. Or maybe when she had been told to lie to the police only just two days ago. It was a simple lie, nothing much to to. ‘He was with me all day, he never left my sight.’ Of course it was a silly statement to make because it was all complete rubbish. She hadn’t seen him at all that day. Not even to go over the plan that had been set in place, like they said they would.

“Your lying boy.” She tunes back into the conversation playing out in front of her. The head of police, Mr. Conrad, looks down on him with irritation. “I’d never lie to you, sir. And don’t call me boy.” His words are clipped, his shoulders set. He’s always hated it when someone older and bigger than him would call him boy or look down on him, because there was only two people standing here who knew that he was much, much stronger than Mr. Conrad, or anyone for that matter. Physically? I’m not sure, we’d have to put the two of them in a wrestling ring and see, I knew he’d put up one hell of a fight. But mentally? Oh of course. Hands down. He’s far stronger than anyone mentally. And it’s that that really scares me. Not necessarily for those on the receiving end, but for him himself. He doesn’t understand how much danger he’s in, how much damage he can cause to himself. And that’s why I’m here, that’s why I need to rescue Harlan Ried. My brother.

“How about you miss? Are you going to lie to my face?” Mr. Conrad turns to me, he’s taken his hat off and is leaning it against his hip. I look over at Harlan, he gives me an encouraging nod, silently telling me it’s okay. “Just a little village, nothing to see here.” I speak the one sentence that has been drilled into my head for the past two weeks. Just a little village, nothing to see here. It’s like a cheesy line from a pop song on the radio. That one song you listen to day in and day out, only to realise it’s a horribly annoying song that gets stuck in your head. It plays on repeat in your mind, over and over again. “Just a little village, nothing to see here.” I lie to him once again.