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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
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  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
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  50. 45
  51. 46
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  54. 49
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  108. 103
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  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mr. Clifton dumped the crate on the kitchen table. Clods of dirt scarred the tablecloth but the old man didn’t seem to care.

Evan stood awkwardly, not wanting to be there but not willing to relinquish a prize he believed to be his.

“Shall we open it?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” the older man said.

“But it’s mine.” Evan’s voice was hot with injustice.

Mr. Clifton laughed. “Actually, it’s mine. And I don’t want it getting into the wrong hands.”

If he had walked out of the kitchen then, Evan Lockwood might have been allowed to leave, to eat breakfast with his sister and speak on the telephone to his father, who would ring home in exactly six minutes’ time to tell them that their mother was in pain but expected to make a full recovery. But the fates conspired against him.

Whether weakened by rot from the years underground, or the force of Cooper’s spade, or the pressure of movement from earth to air, one side of the box fell open, dirt flying as it thudded against the tablecloth.

Two sets of eyes stared at its contents.

Evan did not know what he was seeing. He stared at it, trying to process it. A museum exhibit, perhaps. Or a piece of artwork.

He took a step toward it, leaned in for a closer look. And let out a cry.

Inside the box was a human skull, no bigger than his own.

93

93

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 4:32 A.M.

Interview room, Rayleigh police station

The floodgates had opened.

Trefor Lovell could not stop talking. He had taken over the shop almost thirty-one years ago, a few years after he had moved into the street with his wife, Annie. They had become friends with the Cliftons and their young son, Joby. A friendly place, full of community spirit.

But things had changed after Joby ran away. The Cliftons no longer socialized. They withdrew into themselves.

“Wait,” said Wildeve. “Their son disappeared?”

Lovell nodded. “They didn’t talk about it. Told most folk he’d been sent away to relatives because they couldn’t bear to go over every tiny detail. Agonizing, it must have been. But we saw Mr. and Mrs. Clifton the morning after he took off, and she was white as a sheet, trembling, she was. She had his Walkman in one hand, and Cooper had a bucket of cleaning stuff in the other. He’d been tidying up that tree house before their neighbors got back. Audrina told me herself that Joby had run away, and Cooper shouted at her.”

“So the police were involved?”

“I suppose so. But we never saw them. We guessed they had their reasons for acting like they did.”

“And when was this?”

Lovell scratched his head. “It must have been the summer of 1985.”

“Did he ever come home?”

“Not that I know of.”