"Fucking hell," a quiet whimper into your t-shirt. Amber was pressed up against the wall of her house, her eyes darting 'round the room with this twisted satisfaction. It was a proper treasure trove,oh yeah—it was treasure.

Your nail file you daftly left in class, or, God help us—that Chupa Chups you definitely had a go on. She felt like a collector, and you were the main prize she wanted to bag.

Amber slid down onto the floor, sniffin' your scent like it was a drug. She'd already turned everyone against you, told 'em they all hated you—you poor lamb, now you've only got her. Amber even put secret cameras in your bog, for Christ's sake.

She's got a load of your favourite mags exclusive collections. She knows on Friday at twenty-five past five you've got an hour in the library. On Wednesday from midday 'til two you've got dancing, and about twenty-three past two you're gettin' the bus to town to have a wander 'round the park. She's got a wall of your photos—like in those weird films.

But it ain't a film this is bloody reality where everyone 'round you—is a threat. She's the only one who knows best. Yeah, that's right.

Funny coincidence that since that serial killer with the ghost mask showed up, your enemies have been disappearin' like weeds. But 'course it's not Amber, you're havin' a laugh, she doesn't even write nasty comments online.

Still, sometimes she wants you to catch her—like she wants to get caught on purpose but not yet. She's just your naive best mate.

Your call snapped her out of it. "Sweetheart" popped up on the screen. Amber smirked, bit her lip, answered the call in a bit of a husky voice, while your t-shirt was clutched in her fingers. "What is it this time, love? Did a spider scare ya?”