38. Starling
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
STARLING
Wren’s house is so familiar, a common hangout spot for us all back when things were normal.
Sure, Wren’s mum was a little full-on and her dad was basically nonexistent, but at least they weren’t embarrassing like my parents.
My mum once tried to get everyone to do yoga with her in the back garden, for God’s sake. And Goldie actually agreed to do it!
Oh, Goldie. What would you make of this mess?
Thankfully, Wren’s parents are visiting her grandmother, so the house is empty and Wren still has a key.
We’re careful to leave no trace of our presence as we make our way to Wren’s old bedroom, which has now become an office for her mum and dad.
We’re used to sneaking around, so it’s no trouble, but where we’re going surprises me.
I can’t believe Wren’s parents have got rid of all her stuff so easily.
Even if I wasn’t at home I think mine would keep my room as some kind of shrine, and also as a backup plan.
If anything went wrong, I know I’d have a place with them.
Doesn’t seem to be the case here. Wren’s bed is gone, and so are all of her things.
Wren mumbles that she has boxes of her stuff in her flat, but it’s weird, seeing the place so empty in comparison.
There’s a big desk in the middle of the room with a swivel chair behind it and large Apple computer, and a chest of drawers that looks brand-new.
The only signs of Wren once being in this room are the framed pictures on the walls.
There is one directly behind the desk, the first thing visible when walking in, and that’s a copy of Wren’s degree certificate from Cambridge, proudly displayed.
On the left wall is a photograph of Wren on graduation day in her gown, her parents on either side of her.
They’re all smiling, but it feels a little forced, too posed.
At least she has a proper graduation photo.
Mine were all taken on Mum’s phone and aren’t professional looking at all.
I don’t think Mum and Dad will bother to actually frame and display any of them, and as for my degree certificate, it’s still in the little booklet it came in, shoved in a drawer somewhere.
Crow probably has hers framed.
“This room is so different from when we used to hang out here,” she says now, looking around at the space and probably thinking the same as me, how odd it is that Wren’s parents are so keen to remove any trace of her, to take over her childhood bedroom like this.
But then, it’s hard to know what Crow is thinking nowadays.
“I’m glad to be out of this room,” Wren mutters.
“So you really think Patricia is in the clear?” I say, because I’m dying to talk more about it. Wren explained what happened with Patricia to Cuckoo and me, but I’m fuming they saw her without me, that I missed such a scoop. “She couldn’t be messing with you?”
Crow shakes her head. “She was sad, Starling. Really sad. It was . . . not nice to be around.”
“I didn’t realize Patricia was around our age,” I murmur, “when she had to look after Goldie. I didn’t think of her like that.”
“Me neither,” Wren says.
“It doesn’t excuse how she treated her,” Cuckoo says. “She was horrible, let’s not forget. Goldie hated her.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. “It does make you think though. Did she say how she felt about Goldie?”
Crow sighs. “She said she hated her until she left and she realized she didn’t, but it was too late.”
Patricia has been mourning Goldie. No, that’s not quite right. Missing her. Because she doesn’t know she’s dead, and we’ve kept that from her. From everyone.
We didn’t have a choice.
“Come on then,” I say, after an awkward silence. “Where should we be searching?”
“Mum’s desk, for sure,” Wren says. “It’s where she keeps everything. She hates having stuff on a computer. Prefers everything by hand.”
“Right, then!”
Wren takes the drawers in front of the desk, I tackle the boxes stacked underneath it, and Cuckoo and Crow focus on what’s actually on the desk.
“Got it!” Wren shouts. “Bottom drawer. There’s a whole file.”
“Thank God your mother hates computers,” I say.
Wren takes the file out and slams it on her mother’s desk.
It’s huge, thicker than a book, with various sticky tabs and Post-its hanging out of the edges.
The papers inside are haphazard too, not properly punched together, one threatening to slide out of place before Crow slots it back in with a push of her forefinger.
“Let’s look inside. Be careful not to mess with the order. ”
A thrill rushes through me. This is real investigating. This is what I should be doing with my life. Not Beating Death, which is more like beating a dead horse.
Wren opens the file, neatly labeled bishop’s house in thick black marker and capital letters.
There is some early stuff to begin with, blueprints that map out the grounds and the layout of the house.
I try not to look at the area drawn between the trees at the back, where Goldie once was.
Wren quickly moves on anyway, skipping ahead to contemporary information, the part we really want.
“Here we are,” Wren says. “There’s a load of planning permission stuff, things that seem to have gone back and forth for months. I don’t really understand it.”
“It’s not like any of us are ever going to buy a house,” I say. “We don’t need to understand it; we just need a name.”
But then Wren jerks backward, her face paling. “Wait, what?” she says.
Crow frowns, exchanging a glance with me to confirm I am equally as confused. “What’s wrong?”
“This can’t be right.” Wren pushes the file toward us. “Look. I can’t believe it.”
I turn the file so it’s facing the rest of us and scan the page for a name. When I find it, I’m sure I must be as baffled as Wren is right now. Definitely as panicked. A cold shiver crosses both my arms, and I have to shake to be rid of it.
This can’t be happening.
Not again.
“No,” Crow says. “This must be from before. There’s some mistake.”
“It’s not before,” Wren says. “Look at the date of the sale.”
“No,” Crow repeats, but there is no use in denying it.
It’s there in black and white.
Cassandra Fletcher.
Hugo’s wife.