Chapter 29
The B and B’s bike makes her journey so much quicker.
Raven Hall soon comes into view, and she keeps her gaze fixed on it as she pedals: the welcoming gray stone frontage, the familiar chimneys, the proud turret.
She feels bolder today, and she cycles down the center of the driveway with her back straight and her chin up—what’s the worst that can happen?
Instead of cutting across to the garden wall as on previous visits, she leaves her bike on the verge and strolls closer to the front of the house, pulled like a magnet to the drawing room window.
Is this where the long-haired Kat will be sitting, weeping into her hands, comforted by her slow-moving mother?
She can’t resist—she walks right up to the glass and peers in.
If anyone challenges her, she’ll say she’s collecting money for charity.
The drawing room is unoccupied. But the familiar contents make her heart squeeze painfully.
The black marble fireplace is still there, of course, but she’s surprised to see so much of her parents’ furniture, too, and her old piano.
Was it all sold as one lot, together with the house?
Nobody consulted her. Even her mother’s painting of Raven Hall still hangs above the old polished bureau.
She grips the windowsill tighter and cranes her neck to see more.
“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?”
She whirls around. A tall man is striding up the grass from the dock. She opens her mouth to begin her charity-collecting excuse, but the words shrivel in her throat; she knows this man. Her stomach lurches, and she crashes back against the stone wall.
It’s the Backstabber. Daddy’s so-called friend; the man who stole Daddy’s job and got him sacked; the man she blames for Daddy’s death. It’s her father’s murderer.
“Well?” the man snaps. “What do you want? You’re trespassing.”
She struggles to accept the evidence in front of her: Can the Backstabber really be the new owner of Raven Hall? She didn’t think he had a daughter, but she must be wrong. Can he really be the husband of the slow-moving woman she saw on the veranda; the father of Markus’s ex-girlfriend, Kat?
“Are you just going to stand there?” he says. “Come on, clear off, or I’ll set the dog on you.”
It’s his hollow bluster—an image of that fluffy white dog trying to chase her down the driveway—that jolts her out of her terror.
“You don’t even recognize me, do you?” Her voice grows louder. “You forced my dad out of his job. You made him drink himself to death. And you stole our house. You took everything from me. And you’ve got the gall to say I’m trespassing?”
The man’s brow lowers. “Who the hell are you?”
Her voice slides up in pitch. “Isn’t it obvious? How many men have you done that to? You must be so proud of yourself, tearing families apart . . .” A sob overtakes her.
“My God,” he says. “You’re Charles’s daughter, aren’t you? Look, you clearly don’t have the right information, young lady—I tried to help your father, many, many times . . .”
“You destroyed him,” she snarls. “You killed him.”
The man narrows his eyes. “There’s no point in our having this conversation if you’re not going to listen to me.
I can see you’re just as obstinate as your father, and I’ll tell you one thing for free.
If your old man had agreed to let me buy this place when I first offered, he’d still be alive today. ”
She gasps. “No.”
“I don’t even like this bloody house. My wife took a shine to it, and I knew it would solve your father’s financial problems, so I made him an offer. You could have moved somewhere smaller together; he could have got help with his drinking . . .”
“No,” she whispers.
“And he’d have cleared all his debts instantly, instead of descending into bankruptcy.
” The man gives her a surprisingly sympathetic look.
“It was your father’s obsession with keeping hold of this house that killed him; you must be able to see that.
He should have put your welfare before his attachment to his bloody ancestral home—I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen . . .”
“That’s not true,” she says. And again, louder.
“That’s not true! You just wanted to get your hands on Raven Hall; you didn’t care who you hurt.
You never thought about me while you were taking away my home, my memories of my parents .
. .” She curls her fists and fights back a sob.
“You don’t even remember my name, do you? ”
In her peripheral vision, she sees the front door swing open. A large figure in a billowing dress shuffles forward onto the top step.
“Hendrik?” the woman says. “What’s going on?”
But neither of them glances up at her. They hold each other’s gaze, and he scowls as though he’s searching his memory, desperate to recall this trespasser’s name and prove her wrong. And somehow, on top of all the very real harm he’s done her, this feels like the ultimate insult.
“I’m Leonora Averell,” she says, “and Raven Hall should be mine.” She steps forward, but before she can say any more, a single word punctures her fury.
“Lara?”
It’s like ice-cold water sluicing over her skin.
She spins around on the gravel and—it’s quite inexplicable.
On the far side of the large pale-faced woman, supporting her on his arm, is Markus.
And Leonora looks from Markus’s straw-colored hair to the Backstabber’s; from the Backstabber’s tall, broad-shouldered frame back to Markus.
The facts stir and rearrange themselves like autumn leaves picked up by the breeze, and they settle with deceptive gentleness into a new explanation.
This never was the home of the girl in the orange crop top. Markus wasn’t visiting his girlfriend, Kat, here. He and Kat came together to visit his parents.
She can see it, now. She can’t believe how stupid she’s been. Markus is the Backstabber’s son.
She runs for her bicycle and flees.