For Rye Gavin Gardiner (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📖

feeding time and the risk of the teenager’s mouth being temporarily freed for food. Nevertheless, she’d always been ready to silence her in the event of a police visit, and the regular dose of sleeping pills proved a worthy precaution. Now she was finally being questioned, but by a recently retired, antique of a detective. This isn’t how she’d imagined it, and the absence of an official police visit still nagged her.

‘Me? Why would…’ She feigned abrupt realisation. ‘I see. She was last seen with me after the auction. No, I recall her mentioning nothing of note.’ She played with the string of her apron. ‘Detective O’Connell, you don’t think whoever’s responsible for everything that’s happened to poor Quentin is behind this too, do you?’

Hector leant forward. ‘Miss Wakefield, I know you’ve been romantically involved with Mr Rye.’

She straightened. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s not my place to pry – at least not since retirement.’ He smiled. Renata stared. ‘Miss Wakefield, I’ve been considering the possibility that someone close to Mr Rye may be responsible for all this. They knew of the flammable film stock and on which truck it would be stored, not to mention where to find Miss Rye, despite her efforts to keep the event a secret.’ Hector rose and stepped to the window, popping open his pocket watch with the toothpick. He looked down at its face. ‘But there’s a greater concern on my mind.’ He turned to her as, in an instant, a shroud seemed to fall from his face. The cloak of stoic determination gave way to an expression of fear and disturbance. Suddenly, it was obvious to Renata the man was torn with worry.

‘You, Miss Wakefield.’

They locked eyes.

‘I’m assuming you’re unaware of the other development,’ he continued. ‘An exhumed grave was discovered in the cemetery by your father’s old church. This grave lay next to your mother’s resting place.’ He stepped towards Renata. ‘I fear for your safety. I always did, but the focus of recent events aren’t just on Mr Rye. They’re also on you.’

‘Whose body was exhumed, Detective?’

He turned back to the window. The pocket watch returned to his waistcoat, the toothpick to his mouth. ‘The grave was unmarked. I don’t—’

Liar! Damned liar! You know exactly who it was!

‘—but I refuse to believe the grave being next to your mother’s was a coincidence—’

Blind! You all pretended I’d never existed once I was sent away, now you’re too blind to see what’s right in front of you!

Her hand clenched the handle of the knife in her apron pocket.

‘—there’s a possibility your mother’s murderer is, for reasons yet beyond me, responsible for this exhumation—’

If you were less focussed on burying the truth you might see more you might see more you might see you might see

She pulled the knife from her pocket under the table.

‘—but I have work to do. I’ll leave you now, Miss Wakefield.’

Work.

She returned the blade to her pocket.

Yes. I have work, too.

‘I know I’ve already made my feelings clear on this, but I’m going to say it again. Leave Millbury Peak.’ He paced the spotless linoleum floor. ‘There’s a connection between everything that’s happened, I know it. You are in danger, especially having had romantic involvement with Mr Rye, and this decline of your eyesight only makes you more vulnerable. I beg you,’ he pleaded, ‘let me see to your father’s care. You must get out. You’re in no condition to be taking care of anyone. More importantly, you’re in danger. Please consider the—’

Renata stood. ‘You’re wrong.’ He dropped the toothpick. ‘I’ve been no closer to Mr Rye than that of an employee, and I know nothing of his daughter’s whereabouts. Being left alone to care for my father: that is all I care about.’ She opened the kitchen door, then stood to one side, picking the beige sleeve of her Aran knit. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, but I must ask you to leave.’

He froze, mouth open. ‘I didn’t mean…I just—’

‘I know my duty, and I know what I have to do.’ Her eyes narrowed behind tinted lenses. ‘I have someone to take care of.’

Renata watched the detective trudge down the steps back into the storm. She closed the front door, dropped the cane, and discarded the glasses.

For the first time in her life, she could see.

She went to the bookcase.

I’ve been told to write about my days here. I don’t know why. I don’t get why any of this is happening but I’ll do whatever she says.

I’m in a lot of pain. She stabbed me in the leg and it’s getting sorer. Maybe it’s infected. I dunno how to tell. Sometimes she gives me painkillers, but not today. There’s moths, loads of them. They’re big and they keep landing on me and fuck I think they’re feeding. She calls me a moth and I don’t know why. I’m so scared.

The pain isn’t the worst thing, and it’s not being left alone in the dark and the cold for goddamn hours or days – I don’t know which cause it’s like there’s no time here. She sits there tapping all day. I think it’s a typewriter or something. I just cry and wait to pass out even though I know she’ll wake me when I do.

 

I’m fed twice a day and given water. I’m not allowed to wash or go to the bathroom. I haven’t left this cellar and she even leaves me to piss and shit on the chair before she comes and cleans it up like I’m a fucking baby.

 

But no, the worst part is that smell. Not even of my mess, but something worse. What the hell is it?! She’s actually trying to make it less bad for me by smearing something under my nose. She’s driving fucking scissors into my leg but