Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (read books for money TXT) 📕

When I was found, I was alive. There was never any suggestion otherwise that I’m aware of. But it takes twelve hours for me to resurrect. That means it was a horrendously long time before anyone noticed what had happened. I didn’t see any mention of burn marks in the news reports. I’ve not read all the murder files, but so far I haven’t come across anything that suggests a fire. And the one person who could have given me more information was murdered on Friday night.’

I closed my eyes. ‘I died,’ I whispered. ‘And so did my parents. But they didn’t wake up again.’ I muttered a curse. ‘If I could remember something … anything…’

‘Oh, Emma.’ Laura’s tone was full of sympathy. ‘It’s completely natural that you can’t remember. Trauma, especially childhood trauma, often triggers amnesia. It’s the brain’s way of protecting itself.’

‘There must be something I can do to force the memories to return. Hypnosis maybe. Or therapy.’ I paused. ‘Are there any drugs that might help?’

She sighed. ‘There are ways to recover old memories, but it’s not an exact science. To be honest, if your brain has chosen not to remember a particular event it might be wise not to try and bring it back. And even if therapy, or something along those lines, does trigger memory retrieval it doesn’t happen instantly. You can’t click your fingers and suddenly remember. It’s a long process. And no, there isn’t a wonder drug for this sort of thing. I don’t think there should be, either.’

Maybe she was right; maybe it was better not to remember. It wouldn’t change anything. My mum and dad would still be dead, no matter what memories I dredged up, and the man who killed them would still be behind bars. Except, despite Samuel Beswick’s bald admission of guilt, I was no longer wholly convinced that he was a murderer. If he’d killed me too, why hadn’t he told me when I visited him? It was hardly something he’d forget. Why had he recoiled at the suggestion of murdering a child if he’d slit my throat just like he’d slit my mum’s?

‘I’ll call in a few favours and get hold of the forensics reports from back then,’ Laura told me. ‘Obviously, technology wasn’t as developed as it is now, but it wasn’t the dark ages and there’s bound to be some mention of the scorch marks. I’ll see what I can dig up.’

‘Thank you. I’ll speak to DSI Barnes and see if I can get access to the full murder files. And,’ I heaved in a breath, ‘I’ll see if I can get another appointment to talk to Samuel Beswick.’

This time it was Laura’s turn to hesitate. ‘Are you sure that stirring up the past in this way is a good idea?’

‘No,’ I answered honestly. ‘But the reason I’ve not looked into my parents’ murder before now was because I thought I already had all the answers. Now all I’ve got are questions instead.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we can find at least some answers. You’re nothing if not tenacious. Have you got anywhere with finding your more recent murderer yet?’

I grimaced. ‘No.’ I bit my lip. ‘Most people don’t get murdered, Laura, but it happens to me a hell of a lot. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that I’ve been killed twice in Barchapel?’

Laura answered immediately, indicating that she’d thought about this too. ‘Truthfully, Emma, where you and your abilities are concerned, I have no idea at all.’

DSI Barnes told me she’d email all the files on my parents’ deaths by the end of the day. She was surprisingly amenable to the request, although I was certain that it was because of her desire to know more about my mysterious abilities than anything else. Either way, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Right now, however, I had another target in mind.

The manor house belonging to Miranda James wasn’t in Barchapel itself but on the road leading into the village. As I trudged towards it, I realised that I must have passed it when I was on the bus the previous day but it had been obscured from view by overgrown hedgerows and towering oak trees. There was a small gatehouse which would have been occupied by someone from the estate once upon a time but which had clearly been empty for years. A set of rusting iron gates lay open next to it. Judging by the moss-green ivy that curled up them, they hadn’t been moved for several months.

I couldn’t resist trailing my fingertips along a stem and plucking an ivy leaf. As I strode up the long drive towards the house, I shredded it into tiny green flecks. I probably ought to have invested in a stress ball or a fidget spinner; there was far too much nervous, angry energy fizzing round my blood.

The driveway curved its way through the trees. Although there were no signs of human life, there were certainly enough insects. I slapped irritably at a small fly that seemed intent on harassing me, and noted a marching parade of ants heading into the undergrowth.

It was difficult to be sure, but it seemed that Miranda James owned a considerable amount of land and Chloe had been accurate in her assessment of Albion James’s wealth. I certainly hadn’t expected such a long driveway; if I’d known, I’d have tried to borrow a bike or asked someone for a lift.

Eventually the drive levelled out and the house came into view. I let out a low whistle of admiration. The manor wasn’t as large as I’d expected, given the long driveway and the surrounding land, but it was still a grand house. It stood three storeys high and had an immaculate whitewashed façade. Wisteria wound up from the ground at the far left before stretching its tendrils across the stonework and curling round the base of the windows. I’d been prepared to be impressed by Miranda