For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (best books to read for teens txt) 📕

Yet there were still gaps in her memory, scenes spliced beyond repair. There was just one thing of which she was sure: she shouldn’t be here. She’d come back on the strength of a promise made when she was just a damned child. What had she been thinking? By now, it should all have been over.

It would have held.

‘That’s Mr Rye’s rented house on the left.’ He pointed to the Georgian manor rolling past, Quentin’s Harley already leant against a side wall. ‘I can tell he meant what he said. He really does want to help if you need anything.’

‘I’m sure my father and I will be fine, Detective.’

Their route was leading out the east side of Millbury Peak when she spotted a stone finger pointing to the sky. Renata’s eyes widened. The clock tower dominated the fog-drenched fields.

Hector glanced over. ‘Must be a lot of memories.’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

And yet so few.

Detective O’Connell shut the engine off outside the house and heaved the handbrake with both hands. Renata pulled the book from her satchel.

‘A gift?’ asked Hector.

She looked at the thin paperback. ‘I thought my father might like to see one of my novels.’

She felt the detective’s gaze linger on the book in her hands. He scratched his stubble. ‘Like I said, your parents are old friends of mine. I watched your father’s health decline, his body wither, the untreated cataracts turn him blind. Thomas is not the man you knew. Although in many ways…’ He glanced at the house. ‘…he’s exactly the same.’

She stuffed the novel back into her bag and smiled at the dashboard. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t expect a blind man to get too excited over a book.’

‘I wouldn’t expect your father to get excited over anything, at least not in a good way.’

She stepped out of the passenger door onto the gravel track and stared at the towering monstrosity before her, part of her begging to get back in the car and escape to somewhere else – anywhere else. She tightened her coat.

It was a memory made real. The two-storey Victorian farmhouse had been acquired long ago by the parish for use as the town vicarage, lying conveniently close to both Millbury Peak and the church a few fields over. The struts of the wrap-around porch had seemed past their prime when Renata was a girl; now, the boards and beams resembled mildew-ridden sponges, with each of the roof’s wooden shingles seemingly ready to fall to the ground with a splat.

The entrance, bay windows, veranda: all irrationally tall. The entire house looked stretched like an absurdist caricature. It dominated the fields, both a monument and a tomb. Most of all, the thing was spooky, an image of cut-and-paste cliché from a Quentin C. Rye dust jacket. The Dreaded Ghost House of Doom. Or something.

Hector set down Renata’s suitcase and joined her in the shadow of the house. ‘I won’t get in the way of your reunion,’ he said. ‘I’ll be over to drive you to the funeral tomorrow.’

She stole a glance. Sadness, that expert narrator muttered again. She jerked her gaze back to the house.

‘I really am sorry,’ he said, voice low. ‘Sylvia was an admirable woman. Mr Rye does want to assist any way he can, and I’d like to extend the same offer.’

‘Thank you, Detective. I’ll remember that.’

‘You have a life outside of Millbury Peak, Miss Wakefield,’ he whispered. ‘No one will judge if you return home after the funeral.’

‘I have to ensure my father’s wellbeing,’ said Renata, rubbing her hands. They were clammy from the journey and could do with a good wash. ‘Once my brother and I have arranged care for him, I’ll be leaving.’

It’ll hold.

Hector’s eyes dropped. ‘Miss Wakefield, Noah won’t be coming.’

She straightened. ‘He won’t be attending the service?’

‘Actually, it’s unclear whether your brother will be coming to Millbury Peak at all.’

She bit her lip. ‘Why?’

‘It was another officer who spoke with him, so I didn’t get all the details. Family commitments or something.’

As excuses to dodge your own mother’s funeral went, ‘family commitments’ was pretty rich. Like everything else in this town, her memories of Noah were vague. There was enough, however, to render this behaviour all too believable.

‘I see,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Nevertheless, I’m glad you understand I may not be staying long.’

She felt him level his gaze.

‘Yes. You should leave.’

A sharp wind blew up her back. Before she could respond, the stocky detective was trudging back to his car, slamming the driver’s door, and turning on the ignition. He rolled down the window.

‘My regards to Mr Wakefield,’ he said. Then, in a hushed tone, ‘Remember, I’m here.’ The rusted estate lurched into the fog. She took a deep breath.

The woman looked up at the house.

2

The house looks down at the girl.

It’s like a scary face, maybe even scarier than Mr Farquharson’s when she hadn’t done her homework, or Mrs Crombie’s when she caught her snooping around her garden, or Father’s when he’s having an angry day. Come to think of it, maybe not scarier than Father’s. His could get SUPER scary.

But the house is like a scary face, that’s for sure. There’s loads of windows – not too many to count, but maybe too many to count on one hand. There’s two above the porch, glaring at the little girl like a pair of eyes. The front door is a mouth, ready to gobble her up.

Anyway, it’s definitely scary, and not the kind of surprise she was hoping for when Mother said Father was waiting in the car to take them somewhere. No ice cream, no penny chews, no trip to the funfair. They have popcorn at the funfair, that’s what she’s heard. Not that she knows much of that kind of