The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

my mind. We do not speak of it. During those months the birds in the mornings became an even greater comfort. I needed something to love.

After that dark time was over and Lauren returned, I put precautions in place. I always triple-lock the door and lock up the laptop. I always count the marker pens before I put them away. It is not easy but I keep her safe.

Lauren seemed changed afterwards. She was still loud but it was empty, somehow, the temper of a much younger child. My daughter had learned her lesson, I thought.

I am very upset this evening so I make mint hot chocolate.

Recipe for Mint Hot Chocolate, by Ted Bannerman. Warm the milk. Break pieces of chocolate into it and melt them. Add crème de menthe, as much as you like. You can add bourbon too. It’s night, you’re not going anywhere! It should all come together in a smooth goo. You can put chopped fresh mint in too, if you like. Pour it into a tall glass with a handle. If you don’t have one, a mug is fine. (I don’t have one.) Then top with whipped cream and chocolate chips or smashed-up pieces of cookie. You need a spoon to eat this.

I like to make this slowly, stirring the chocolate, thinking about things, which is what I’m doing when I put my hand in my pocket. I often do that, to think, and my fingers meet a piece of paper. I draw it out, wincing. The Murderer. It is the list of suspects I made after the birds were killed. I left it under Lauren’s chalks, locked up in the cupboard. How did it get in my pocket? A name has been added to the list, below Lauren’s. I don’t recognise the writing.

Mommy

Well, that is a very cruel and scary joke. If there is one person who could not have killed the birds, it is Mommy. She’s gone.

I tear up the list and throw it in the trash. Even mint hot chocolate doesn’t help, now.

Lauren

Please come and arrest Ted for murder, and other things. They have the death penalty in this state, I know that. He makes me do my social studies homework. When I’m done, I’m going to try to throw this cassette out the mail slot. I hope someone finds it.

Ted always takes the knife when he goes to the woods. Maybe I will do it to him, maybe he will do it to me. But it will finish in the woods, where he put the others. Out we will go like a little candle, leaving nothing but the peaceful dark. I kind of look forward to it. I am made with pain, for it, of it. I don’t have any other purpose, except to die.

He doesn’t think I can hear him when I’m down there, but I can. Or maybe he forgets I exist as soon as he closes the door. He’s such a dork with his dumb recipes. He didn’t invent the strawberry and vinegar sandwich thing. Even I know that, from the cooking network. I heard him talking to the cat about making a – what? – a feelings diary. SUCH a dork. But that’s how I got this idea, so I guess it was lucky. I’m not what they call book smart but I can make plans.

I found the tape recorder in the hall closet. It’s the only closet he doesn’t keep locked. I guess because there’s nothing in here, just piles of old newspapers. But then I found the machine, with the tape in and I thought, Here’s my chance.

I’m sitting here right now in the dark, so I can put everything back where I found it, if he comes. The tape is really old, with a yellow-and-black label. It had her writing on it. Notes. I didn’t listen to it; I know what’s on there. There’s a hot feeling in my tummy. I feel good about recording over her. I’m afraid, too, though.

I wonder what it’s like being a regular person – not being afraid all the time. Maybe everyone is afraid all the ti—Oh God, he’s coming n—

Olivia

I keep trying to record my thoughts but the whine is so loud. It has become a scream. My head feels like it will split. I can’t, I just can’t.

Oooeeeeeooo, metal dragging on metal, torture to my poor brain, my soft ears, my delicate bones … It’s a hammer of sound in my skull. So when the voice starts speaking, running underneath it, I don’t hear at first.

‘Olivia,’ says the voice. ‘Olivia.’ It’s no louder than a butterfly’s wing. Oooooeeeeeooo.

Hello? I ease out from under the couch. Where are you? I ask, which is just as useless as me talking to the TV, I guess, because it’s definitely a ted saying my name, and they don’t understand.

‘Olivia, in here.’

My heart is beating really loudly. I am on the edge of something. If I do this I can never give back the knowledge. Part of me wants to get back under the couch and forget about it. But I can’t. That wouldn’t be right.

I recognise the voice and where it’s coming from. I have never hoped harder to be wrong.

I go to my crate, in the kitchen. It’s not a crate of course, I just call it that. It’s one of those old chest freezers. I like to sleep in it – the dark, the quiet. But sometimes Ted piles stuff on top of it. Weights. Like now.

I put my ear close. The whine is high like a lady singing opera. But I can still hear her voice, underneath it.

‘Hello?’ she says, tearful, a bare whisper. ‘Olivia?’ The words are faint, she sounds weak and sad, but there is no mistake. I picture her curled up in the dark, in there. I can hear her wet breathing.

‘He’s mad that I made a bad dinner,’ Lauren says, her voice coming