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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
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  22. 17
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  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
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  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
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  42. 37
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  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
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  54. 49
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  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

He unlocked the driver’s door and climbed in.

She was sitting in the passenger seat, brown hair spilling down her back. Her skin was gray, her lips colorless. The duct tape was gone, but there was a hunting knife sticking out of her chest, pinning her in place. Her head turned toward him and she mouthed these words: You promised.

The postman reached for the knife, his fingers closing around its handle, but before he could pull it free, it crumbled into dust, and the passenger seat was empty again.

He was still crying as he started the engine and drove home, the dawn marking the beginning of another lonely day.

43

43

Now

For months, the police have been visiting every house in The Avenue, each fresh killing sparking a flurry of activity.

Did you see anyone suspicious at the mouth of Blatches Woods? An unusual car in the street? A stranger? Please, try to think. Are you sure?

I have grown accustomed to it. A formality. I say the right things. I do not lie. I have learned that most officers cannot recognize the truth even when one draws back the curtain and offers them a glimpse. That the threads of a police investigation are far more tangled and messier than they would have us believe.

But when Detective Inspector Adam Stanton came calling, I knew that steps would need to be taken before matters went too far.

He was friendly, at first. Interested and chatty. He talked about the weather and his job. Pretended to drink his tea. Asked to look around the house. The garden.

And then he brought up the shop. Inquired about Birdie. About you.

The roof of my mouth feels dry. A breeze is nudging the leaves. I hear the chimes of the ice cream van, and beneath that, the sirens. The police are at the bottom of Rushmore Lane now. Two minutes, I’d guess. Perhaps more. I wonder if Olivia Lockwood hears them, too.

Detective Inspector Adam Stanton was shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Help me to understand.”

He showed me an article from our local weekly newspaper dated Thursday 25th July 1985, five days after the Grand Reopening. He pointed to each of the faces of the children in the photograph: two boys and two girls. And a fifth child.

He looked me in the eye and asked me a question that no one had ever asked me before. I told him the truth.

And then I killed him.

44

44

Tuesday 31st July 2018, 9:21 A.M.

18 The Avenue

DC French was hungover.

His breath smelled of stale alcohol, he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and he hadn’t shaved. He grunted a greeting. “Stayed at a friend’s.” But there was no hint of embarrassment, no sense of apology. “Missed the alarm.”

“Clearly,” said Wildeve, who had been waiting for twenty minutes in a heat so intense she’d developed circles of sweat beneath her arms.