The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

on the kitchen walls, autographed in their childish scrawls. She had sounded like such a strong and vivid personality from Luke’s description, yet even in the small attic room that had once been hers, no trace of Emily remained. She was so carefully deleted from the fabric of her family that it somehow made her all the more present, Clara thought. What had happened to Luke’s sister? she brooded; why would someone leave this loving family home so suddenly, then vanish into thin air? The question fascinated her because despite the Lawsons’ warm hospitality, the welcoming comfort of their beautiful home, she could feel the sadness that lingered there still, in the corners and the shadows of each room.

Over the following three years Clara would hear Emily’s name mentioned only once. It was at a birthday party for Rose, the Willows full to bursting with friends from the nearby village, ex-colleagues of hers from the hospital, Oliver’s writer and publishing friends, and what felt like the entire faculty of the university he taught at. Oliver had been extremely drunk, regaling Clara with an anecdote about a recent research trip when suddenly he had fallen silent, staring down at his drink, apparently lost in thought.

“Oliver? Are you okay?” she’d asked in surprise.

He’d replied in a strange, thick voice, “She meant the world to us, you know, our little girl. We loved her so very much.” And then to her horror his eyes had filled with tears as he said, “Oh, my darling Emily, I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry.” She had stared at him, frozen, until Luke’s brother, Tom, had appeared and gently led him away, murmuring, “Come on, Dad, time for bed now, that’s right, off we go.”

—

At last Clara left London behind and joined the M11. It should take her only another hour or so to reach Suffolk. Would Luke be there? She gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed her foot on the accelerator. Surely he would—he had to be. Unbidden, the e-mails she’d read earlier came back to her—It’s going to be soon Luke, your funeral’s going to be very soon—and she felt again the knot of fear tightening in her stomach.

She reached the Willows as the sun began to set. As she got out of the car and gazed up at the house, cawing jackdaws circled above the surrounding fields in the twilight sky. This moment of stillness just before nightfall seemed to capture the place at its most magical. It was an eighteenth-century farmhouse, clematis and bloodflower clambering over its red bricks, an ancient weeping willow shivering in the breeze. On either side of the low, wide oak door, crooked crown-glass windows offered a glimpse into the beautiful interior beyond. It was a house out of a fairy story, enchanted and remote beneath this endless empty sky. She approached the door now, taking a deep breath before she knocked. Please be here, Luke, please, please, just be here.

She heard the familiar sound of their ancient spaniel, Clementine, bounding to the door and then the latch being raised. It was Oliver who opened it. He peered out at her, not seeming to recognize her at first, clearly wary to have someone appear so out of the blue; they were so remote and alone out here. Finally, his expression cleared. “Good lord, Clara!” He turned and called behind him, “Rose, it’s Clara! Oh, do calm down, Clemmy! Come in, come in. What a lovely surprise. What on earth are you doing here?”

She glanced over his shoulder to the cozy glow of the room behind him and felt the house’s familiar pull. She caught the smell of something cooking and pictured Rose in the kitchen listening to Radio 4 while she made dinner, a welcoming, irresistible scene of affluent domesticity, so different from the chilly semidetached in Penge she’d grown up in. But before she could reply, Rose came running up behind him. “My goodness, darling, hello! Where’s Luke?” She looked beyond Clara to the car, her expression pleased and expectant.

Clara’s heart sank. Shit. “He’s not with me, actually,” she admitted.

Oliver frowned. “Oh?” he said, then added gallantly, “Oh well, how lovely to see you anyway. Come in, come in!”

But Rose was still smiling at her. “Why not?” she asked.

“You haven’t heard from him, then?”

“No, not since the weekend.”

Before Clara could say anything else, Oliver was ushering her through to the kitchen. “Come in! Come in and sit down.”

While Rose bustled about putting the kettle on and Oliver chatted about a new book he was researching, Clara leaned down to stroke Clemmy, and wondered how to begin.

Finally, Rose placed the tea on the table in front of her and, sitting down, said mildly, “So, my darling, where’s that son of ours?”

Clara took a deep breath. “Nobody’s seen Luke since yesterday evening, around seven thirty,” she told them. “He e-mailed me to say he was coming home, but he didn’t turn up and he doesn’t have his mobile on him. He had an important interview today, as well as a big meeting at work . . . but nobody’s heard anything from him.” She looked from one to the other of their faces. “It’s not like him and I’m so worried. I thought he might have come here, but . . .”

Oliver looked perplexed. “Well . . . perhaps he’s gone to stay with friends, or . . .”

Clara nodded. “The thing is, and it might be nothing, but he’d been getting these weird e-mails lately, and a few things had started to happen. A break-in at our flat, and dodgy phone calls, and, well, photographs. We hadn’t wanted to worry you, so . . .”

“Phone calls? Photographs? What sort of photographs?” asked Rose in bewilderment.

“Whoever it was had been following Luke, taking pictures. I think they were just meant to scare him.”

Rose’s face suddenly drained of color behind her carefully applied makeup. “What did the e-mails say?”

“They weren’t very nice,” Clara admitted. “Quite threatening, saying they were going to come after him, talking about his funeral . . .”

“Oh God. Oh dear God.” Rose