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

image of perfect composure had it not been for the eyes behind his horn-rimmed frames, which, like his ex-wife’s, gave everything away. To the audience, his stare may have said anger, frustration, rage, but they said something else, too, something evident only to Renata: knowing. His eyes told her he knew. He knew who had his daughter, and he knew they were watching. Renata leant closer, her face inches from the screen.

‘I wuh-want my baby back,’ Eleanor Rye stammered, fighting back tears. Renata scowled at the cross around the woman’s neck being pawed at incessantly. ‘I know someone has her, and I just need to know what they want, what it is we can do for them. Our daughter means everything to us, everything…’ Blyth placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She shook him off as the tears won out. ‘We’ll give you anything, I swear. Just tell us – tell us, DAMN YOU.’ Her head fell onto Quentin’s shoulder. The cross hung limply.

Save for the arm he placed around her, Eleanor’s tears barely registered with Rye. His eyes remained unwavering as they poured into the camera. Into Renata.

‘Obviously this is an emotional time for everyone,’ the chief inspector said. ‘Rest assured, my colleagues and I have made Sandie’s safe return our highest priority.’

Renata’s nose touched the glass as Rye stared back. I know you have her. I know you have my girl, his eyes said. Hate swelled on both sides of the screen. Nails dug into her palms.

He stood.

‘Furthermore, we want to assure the public that…uh…’ Inspector Blyth’s words trailed off as he saw the audience’s attention switch to the standing man. Rye filled the screen, the camera re-centring and closing in on his stony expression. Renata knelt face to face with him. Time ceased.

Rye finally broke his staring contest with the camera and strode offstage. The Finlux’s crackling speakers hinted at the confusion left in his wake; chatter rippled through the audience as the chief inspector tried to calm the room, while Eleanor ran after her ex-husband.

She shut off the television, its screen becoming a mirror in which her own face glowered back. She stood and stepped towards the bookcase. Sandie was out cold again from the sleeping pills, but it had been some hours since her last dose. The girl would be stirring at any moment. Renata slid the bookcase aside. Time to see to the little moth. Time to write.

There was a roar.

…reporting from Millbury Peak earlier…

A familiar roar.

…have just given a press conference…

It hadn’t been live.

I know you have my girl.

She grabbed a fresh roll of insulation tape and ran to the cellar. The motorbike soon screeched to a halt on the track outside.

‘Open the fucking door. LET ME IN!’ The pummelling of Rye’s fists was followed by the crisp smash of breaking glass, before he discovered the locked oak shutters. The banging moved around the house to the dining room, kitchen, and back to the front. The yelling ceased as his attention focussed on the ramming of his shoulder against the front door. It crashed open.

Rye stared in.

Renata stared back.

His mouth twisted into a growl. He threw her out of the way and tore up the staircase. ‘SANDIE!’ he yelled, that once-alien New England twang filling the house. ‘I’m here! Call to me, Sandie!’ His voice dimmed then amplified as he went between rooms. ‘Call out, Sandie! It’s Daddy! Tell me where you are!’

Renata listened as the upper level was ripped apart. The ladder to the attic rattled, followed by crashing within the roof. He eventually thundered back downstairs, storming past her to the dining room. He shot Renata a furious look as he charged into the lounge. The house filled with the bellowing of his daughter’s name.

The crashing and bawling finally ceased. Heavy footsteps marked his passage back to the hall, where Renata stood patiently at the foot of the stairs. Before he lunged, a wave of recognition washed over her. She’d seen the look on Rye’s face before, as a little girl. Those locking crosshairs weren’t new to her, but she was no longer a little girl, and fists could no longer hurt her.

He’ll never hurt us, not really. Because he can’t.

She stood, lips pursed, waiting for the inevitable.

Looking forward to it.

He cracked his knuckles then sprang, one hand pulled back like a coiled spring, the other reaching for her. His fist sank into her face.

Choo-choo.

Renata’s head flew back. Her body folded in half as he drove his other fist into her stomach. Her legs gave way. She crumbled to the ground.

‘WHERE IS SHE?’ boomed Rye, before planting one of his crocodile skin Oxfords into her side. She caught a fleeting glimpse of Fred and Wilma Flintstone peeking out from under his corduroys as she scrambled up the first few steps on her hands and knees. She turned to face him.

She smiled.

‘Speak, woman. Open your goddamn MOUTH.’

He dragged Renata to her feet and slammed her into the wall, before hurling her across the hall. The rug slid under her stumbling weight, sending her to the ground. Face down, she ran a hand across the wooden flooring, remembering the last time she’d been down here. She glowered over her shoulder at Rye.

‘WHERE IS SHE?’ He knelt over her, nostrils flaring as his hands locked around her throat. ‘OPEN THAT FUCKING—’

She sprang. Rye reeled back as her lips smashed into his, hands clamped around his face. He tumbled to the floor, gazing into the endless stare of her open eyes as her mouth latched on like a leech.

Then he felt it.

Her tongue probed, vying to enter. He paused, in awe at the extent of the bitch’s insanity, then opened his mouth. He felt the wet, rank-tasting muscle slide between his lips. He bit down