It was her fault.
If she hadn’t have said that one word. That one stupid word, a name, none of this would have happened. But she’d said it and she had to deal with it.
Her brother was dead.
Her Dad was free.
No evidence had been found.
No one had been charged.
Dad had moved back in 3 months ago. He was clever. He’d made threats, blackmailed, stolen money, taken things...
Lyla and her Mum had no choice but to let him back in.
She opened the front door, the reassuring warmth of the radiator flooded her face while she carefully made sure not to let any slush sneak in on the carpet from her shoes.
The house was quiet.
No TV playing, no banging, no shouting.
and the whirl and whoosh of the wind of the outside world were all that she could hear.
She walked into the kitchen to find her Mum, sat in her Dad’s place at the table, nursing a mug of hot chocolate, an extra one waiting in front of her.
“He’s gone love.”
“You’re Dad. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. They found evidence. Blood on his clothes, blood on the sledge, blood on his hands.”
“How did they do that?”
“I don’t know love, technology’s amazing nowadays, but so’s your Mum.”
She sat down, sipped her drink and smiled back.
A bridge of warmth re-built between them.
“It’s been the best day ever.”
Those were the last words he’d ever said to her.
The last words she’d ever heard him say.