murder.
Jess has said all along that it was the demon talking, and even though I believe her, I can’t stop thinking about it.
What if she really was a killer?
But there’s nothing in the diary and there’s nothing on the Internet, and now I don’t know where else to look.
Maybe I’m getting carried away. Maybe the reason I haven’t found anything is because there’s nothing to find in the first place. I mean . . . Grandma killing someone?
Suddenly the thought makes me feel like the World’s Biggest Idiot.
22
In the morning, I yank open the curtains to let the light flood in. The sun’s so bright that it takes me a while to notice.
The garden . . .
I’m so used to its tumbled plant pots and mountains of red-and-orange leaves that I stop and stare. The grass is cut and the plants have been put back and the leaves have been cleared. It looks so . . . clean. So normal. So gardeny.
“No way . . .”
“Liam!” Mom calls up from the kitchen. “Jess! Breakfast!”
Mom hasn’t made us breakfast in days. I stare at the garden for a few seconds more, thinking how nice it looks with the birds tweeting and pecking at the bird feedersand the sun shining. Then I run downstairs and into the kitchen.
Bacon. It’s the most amazing smell in the world. It fills the kitchen as the meat sizzles. Mom leans over it, shaking the pan to make sure it doesn’t stick. The blinds are down. She hasn’t seen the garden yet.
Jess comes in a few minutes later, busy on her phone.
“Morning, love,” Mom says.
Jess grunts a hello. Her hair’s all over the place and she’s still in her bathrobe with her owl slippers on, sliding along the floor like a sleepwalking zombie.
The pan sizzles away.
“Mom?” I say, trying to hide a smile. “Can you open the window? It’s a bit smoky in here.”
She takes the pan off the heat and moves over to the window, rolling up the blind to let bright light slam in. She squints and holds a hand up to shield her eyes. The window latch bangs as she fumbles to open it.
She’s still covering her eyes.
She’s not going to see it.
Look , Mom, look . . .
She turns—
And then she stops.
“Oh, my goodness . . .”
She steps back, steps back again, and stares out of the window with wide eyes.
“The garden . . .”
My lips twitch, and I have to cover my mouth to hide the massive grin that’s trying to split my face open. Jesslooks up, her eyes asking the question even though she doesn’t say anything.
“Who cleared up the garden?” Mom asks. She turns to face us, still gripping the edge of the sink. Her eyes are watering but she’s smiling, and the sunlight behind her makes her look as young as in the photo of her and Dad on their wedding day, stashed in the cellar.
Jess is still looking at me. “Not me,” she says.
“Oh, Liam!”
Mom rushes over, slippers scuffing on the wooden floor. She comes around the bench and squeezes me into a tight, tight hug, the kind where you can feel your ribs cracking about a hundred times and your eyes nearly pop out of your head.
“Whenever did you get time to do it?” she says. She holds me at arm’s length. “You didn’t have to. You really didn’t have to . . .”
“I—”
“I love you. I really do, you know.” She turns to Jess and hugs her too. “Oh, this is just the most great start to the day.” With one last big smile, she practically skips back to the stove to shake the bacon again.
Jess leans in close, eyes narrow. “It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t.”
“Who was it then?” I whisper.
“You’re up to something. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
I can’t keep the grin off my face.
***
After breakfast, when we’re walking out the door and Mom is waving at us through the window, I say to Jess, “I can show you, if you want.”
We’re going down the lane, toward the church. Jess has to catch her bus just around the corner from my school, but there should be enough time if
Jess has said all along that it was the demon talking, and even though I believe her, I can’t stop thinking about it.
What if she really was a killer?
But there’s nothing in the diary and there’s nothing on the Internet, and now I don’t know where else to look.
Maybe I’m getting carried away. Maybe the reason I haven’t found anything is because there’s nothing to find in the first place. I mean . . . Grandma killing someone?
Suddenly the thought makes me feel like the World’s Biggest Idiot.
22
In the morning, I yank open the curtains to let the light flood in. The sun’s so bright that it takes me a while to notice.
The garden . . .
I’m so used to its tumbled plant pots and mountains of red-and-orange leaves that I stop and stare. The grass is cut and the plants have been put back and the leaves have been cleared. It looks so . . . clean. So normal. So gardeny.
“No way . . .”
“Liam!” Mom calls up from the kitchen. “Jess! Breakfast!”
Mom hasn’t made us breakfast in days. I stare at the garden for a few seconds more, thinking how nice it looks with the birds tweeting and pecking at the bird feedersand the sun shining. Then I run downstairs and into the kitchen.
Bacon. It’s the most amazing smell in the world. It fills the kitchen as the meat sizzles. Mom leans over it, shaking the pan to make sure it doesn’t stick. The blinds are down. She hasn’t seen the garden yet.
Jess comes in a few minutes later, busy on her phone.
“Morning, love,” Mom says.
Jess grunts a hello. Her hair’s all over the place and she’s still in her bathrobe with her owl slippers on, sliding along the floor like a sleepwalking zombie.
The pan sizzles away.
“Mom?” I say, trying to hide a smile. “Can you open the window? It’s a bit smoky in here.”
She takes the pan off the heat and moves over to the window, rolling up the blind to let bright light slam in. She squints and holds a hand up to shield her eyes. The window latch bangs as she fumbles to open it.
She’s still covering her eyes.
She’s not going to see it.
Look , Mom, look . . .
She turns—
And then she stops.
“Oh, my goodness . . .”
She steps back, steps back again, and stares out of the window with wide eyes.
“The garden . . .”
My lips twitch, and I have to cover my mouth to hide the massive grin that’s trying to split my face open. Jesslooks up, her eyes asking the question even though she doesn’t say anything.
“Who cleared up the garden?” Mom asks. She turns to face us, still gripping the edge of the sink. Her eyes are watering but she’s smiling, and the sunlight behind her makes her look as young as in the photo of her and Dad on their wedding day, stashed in the cellar.
Jess is still looking at me. “Not me,” she says.
“Oh, Liam!”
Mom rushes over, slippers scuffing on the wooden floor. She comes around the bench and squeezes me into a tight, tight hug, the kind where you can feel your ribs cracking about a hundred times and your eyes nearly pop out of your head.
“Whenever did you get time to do it?” she says. She holds me at arm’s length. “You didn’t have to. You really didn’t have to . . .”
“I—”
“I love you. I really do, you know.” She turns to Jess and hugs her too. “Oh, this is just the most great start to the day.” With one last big smile, she practically skips back to the stove to shake the bacon again.
Jess leans in close, eyes narrow. “It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t.”
“Who was it then?” I whisper.
“You’re up to something. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
I can’t keep the grin off my face.
***
After breakfast, when we’re walking out the door and Mom is waving at us through the window, I say to Jess, “I can show you, if you want.”
We’re going down the lane, toward the church. Jess has to catch her bus just around the corner from my school, but there should be enough time if
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