What Lies in Darkness (Jess Lambert) by Christina McDonald

Author:Christina McDonald [McDonald, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2024-07-16T00:00:00+00:00

I tell Shane I’m going to stop by the Harpers’ on the off chance there’s something about Theo Moriarty the CSIs missed last year. I grab the key from evidence and fifteen minutes later step inside the Harpers’ house.

It’s cold, dusty. The Christmas tree looks sad and lonely, surrounded by dead pine needles and fallen baubles. But I can see what the house used to be. Much-loved suede sofas, tasteful vintage lamps, one wall painted aubergine, Laura’s paintings and family pictures scattered around. There are PlayStation games, a shelf with well-read books. It was lived in, a family home.

Now there are just shadows drawn in charcoal. Ghosts whirl like moths, mouths twisted in silent howls.

There is nothing obvious downstairs, but upstairs I see a set of stairs has been pulled down, leading to the attic. Left open by the CSIs? I know from my research that Jack O’Brien has kept the house, ostensibly for Alice when she turns eighteen, but has anybody been here since the Harpers disappeared?

I climb the stairs, a high-pitched buzzing beginning in my ears. The fine hairs on the backs of my arms stand on end, a cold breeze dusting my cheeks.

“Hello?” My throat is bone dry.

The man on the other side of the attic studio doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at a painting on the wall. I skirt the room until I can see his face.

It’s Pete Harper.

He’s dead. A ghost. I know that. I wait for him to speak, to tell me what he wants. But no words pass his lips. He doesn’t seem to know I’m even here.

I follow his gaze. The painting is different from the others, which are soft, abstract. Lovers walking a moonlit path, a misty autumn morning.

This is a self-portrait. Laura’s face is clear, but the rest of her disappears in a whirl of red and black. It’s like she’s emerging from the darkness or, no, being ripped from it. The expression on her face is distinct. Despair. Self-hatred.

“What did you do, Laura?” I murmur.

The wooden frame is cracked, a narrow fissure at the bottom. I lift it off the wall, but it’s heavier than I expect and tips out of my hands, thudding hard against the floor. The crack widens.

Pete Harper continues looking at the painting. I flip it over, my fingertips following the split in the wood. I ease my nails into the crack and pull at the thick cardboard back. It snaps easily away.

Something falls to the ground with a thunk.

It’s a bundle of cash. Followed by another. And another. I peer behind the cardboard, looking for more.

Taped inside the false back is a small, thuggish-looking gun.

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