The Last House on Needless Street Catriona Ward (classic book list .txt) 📖

a mosquito. I knew that my face was in there, too, somewhere among the many. I did not want to see it. I understood that would be the final thing. As I draw my last breath He will show Himself, and the face He wears will be mine.

Your place is here, the LORD said to me. I have saved you for a special purpose. You have to help one another, you and he.

I understand, I said. It makes perfect sense. Ted does need a lot of help. He is such a mess.

We have been a good team since then. We keep each other safe. I am pretty hungry now, so I will stop.

Dee

The rich man’s eyes are deep and blue. ‘Delilah,’ he says. ‘Good to meet you at last.’ His hair is dazzling white, drawn into a low pony-tail; his loose pants and shirt are linen. His deck sits high in the treetops, encircling the beautiful house, which is made of deep red cedar and glass. It is just the kind of place Dee would like to live. The air smells of sun on living green, mingling with the clean aroma of the lemonade in the jug beside them. Sprigs of mint float on its surface. The ice cubes make beautiful high sounds. His housekeeper brought it without a word the moment they sat down.

The yellow envelope sits on the table beside the lemonade. A drop of condensation has made its way down the jug’s cold sides, has darkened the corner with moisture. Dee can’t take her eyes off it, can’t think about anything else. What if the contents are damaged?

‘It is the only copy that I know of,’ he says peacefully, following her gaze. ‘The man who took it died of a heart attack some years ago. The newspaper is small, local, they don’t keep records. So it may be the only copy in existence.’ He doesn’t move the envelope away from the water, and Dee forces herself not to reach for it.

‘I’ll take a look and be on my way,’ she says. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your day.’

He shakes his head. ‘You can keep it. Take it with you. You will want a private moment.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, dazed. ‘I mean – thank you.’

He says, ‘I trust that you will not repeat the Oregon incident. You got carried away there. You were lucky to avoid jail.’

Dee winces. Of course, that is the kind of thing he would know about. The man from Oregon, who had been at the lake that day. Tired Karen let slip his details to Dee, the location of his hunting cabin.

Dee has the statistics by heart. The kind of person who took Lulu is an average of twenty-seven years old, unmarried. He is unemployed or works in unskilled labour. He is socially marginal. He is likely to have arrest records for violent crime. The primary motivation for stranger child abduction is—Dee does not allow herself to finish that thought. Over the years, she has acquired the art of making her brain go perfectly blank at will.

In all respects the man from Oregon was a perfect fit. Dee could not have known that he was miles away in Hoquiam with a flat tyre when Lulu went. That there were nine witnesses to it. The man did not press charges. But Karen was distant, after that.

‘How much is it?’ Dee asks, looking into the rich man’s flat blue eyes.

The man watches her watch him. He slowly pours a glass of lemonade with a shaking hand. His frailty is a performance. His forearms are corded with muscle.

‘Not money,’ he says. ‘I want something else.’

Her flesh begins to walk on her bones.

‘No, no.’ He smiles, indulgent. ‘It’s very simple. You know about my hobby. I collect all sorts of curios. But the meat of the collection, the heart of it, I keep in this house. I want you to look. Walk through it, just once.’

Dee says, ‘I can pay you. Money.’

‘Not enough,’ he says gently. ‘Be reasonable.’

She looks at the view over the trees, at his immaculate clothes, sees his assurance, built with money, and knows that he is right. She doesn’t ask why she should trust him, or how she can be sure that the envelope contains what he says it contains. They are past such things.

She nods because she does not have a choice.

He leads her down into the centre of the house. At the bottom of the stairs he unlocks a door made of something that looks like, but surely cannot be, granite. Dee shivers. Perhaps he will lock the door behind her and leave her in there.

A long gallery stretches ahead running the length of the house. There are no windows. The air is cool, controlled to a fraction of a degree. Display cases and framed photographs line the walls, each lit by a single low spotlight. This is his collection; the museum, he calls it. She has heard of it. It is well known, if your interests lie in that direction. The man obtains things that most people can’t. Things that no one should see. He collects the artefacts of death. Photographs, vials of blood stolen from evidence, letters in spiky Victorian copperplate, pieces of the unclaimed dead, the pieces the killer did not have time to eat before he was caught.

The room is a corridor of Dee’s nightmares. Each object is a relic of something terrible that could have been done to Lulu. Dee glances at the black-and-white image on the wall to her left. She quickly looks away again.

‘You must look,’ he says. ‘That’s the deal.’ He knows precisely what she feels. She can hear it in his voice.

Dee walks down the gallery. She looks at each display for exactly three seconds before moving on. She makes her mind white static. He walks beside her, intimately close. His skin exudes a faint odour of tin. He doesn’t seem to breathe.

When Dee reaches the end of the