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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
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  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
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  48. 43
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  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
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  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
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  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

His fingers worked the rest of the length of fabric, deft and sure, the memory of his father’s voice as fresh as yesterday. The reef knot. Clove hitch. Figure of eight. Sheet bend. Bowline. “Come on, Benji. Make sure it’s nice and tight. Don’t want it to unravel at a crucial moment, son. Your life might depend on it.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

And the knot hadn’t unraveled, had it? Not twenty-five years ago when the path of Benjamin Turner’s young life, bordered by farm animals and meadows and sweet-smelling flowers, had taken him off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he was back there again, right on the precipice. He remembered his own breath, coming faster and faster, a band of pain across his chest, tightening with each footstep, and the feel of wheat brushing against his calves as he pounded through the long grasses. “Daddy, where are you? Dinner’s on the table. Daddy. Daddy.”

He had stopped by the barn in the top field only because he had noticed his father’s cap hanging on a nail where they kept an old bucket.

“Daddy, are you in there?”

He had called again for his father, excited to have found him, and hungry for his own meal. Pushed against the barn door, anticipation written into the innocence of his face, words of entreaty rising to his lips. “Come on, Daddy, hurry up. It’s spaghetti Bolognese.”

Three memories had remained with him from that Thursday teatime on a sunny afternoon all those years ago.

The stink of hours-old urine.

A bucket on its side amidst the hay and dirt.

And his father’s body swinging from the rafters, a puppet on a string.

Fletcher blinked. Those photographs of the past—brought to life by the events of these final hours—were taking shape into something more concrete, drawing out the silver halides, sealing the negative in place. Black and white. Right and wrong. Life or death.

His fingers traced the silk cord he’d fashioned into a hangman’s knot.

Fletcher placed the ligature around his neck.

The film of his life—all those mistakes, the hurt and the highs, the love and the terrible, terrible lows—began to play. But each memory was a spike of glass.

Fletcher closed his eyes to shut off the images. He thought about the rarest of cloud formations he dreamed he would one day witness. The UFO-shaped lenticularis, the iridescent beauty of nacreous clouds, the magnificent power of a supercell storm.

Lenticularis. Nacreous. Supercell.

He murmured them over and over again, as if the rolling rumble of the words would ward off the fear in his heart.

And then Fletcher Parnell—once a young boy named Benjamin Turner, who was filled with hope—tipped forward and let himself fall.

91

91

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 4:01 A.M.

Interview room, Rayleigh police station

Wildeve could feel a fire within her grow. She could delay returning to the interview no longer.