The Quiet Ones: A gripping psychological thriller by Betsy Reavley Page A

Her hair. They have styled it all wrong. She would hate being seen like this.
    ‘It’s them,’ my feet are carrying me backwards towards the exit. ‘It’s my parents.’
     
     
     

 
    April 12th
     
     
    The next few weeks drip by and I survive it all on autopilot. Faithful Charlie remains by my side, helping me sort through all the endless piles of paperwork that accompany death.
           We stay near the house I grew up in. My parents’ were so proud of the place . Even at the B&B, I see ghosts round every corner and sometimes think I hear footsteps in the night.
                  The police have assigned me a counsellor, who tells me this is normal. She’s a large woman with kind blue eyes that sit roundly in her pudgy face. I’ve only seen her a handful of times but the only thing I can ever concentrate on is that she smells strongly of instant coffee. It’s as though the scent is coming from her clothes.
           My best friend, Sophie, has been wonderful. She calls everyday to see how I’m coping. She’s a high-powered prosecution lawyer in the city, so she has a greater interest in the case than most. Last time we spoke, I asked her to take her law cap off, as I need friends now, not legal advice.
           We met at school when we were thirteen. She got to know my parents well. Sometimes, she came to stay during the holidays. Her parents are also well off. You had to be to go to our school. Rich was a prerequisite; clever was not. But Sophie was smart and she was going to do well at whatever school she was sent to. Meeting her was the best thing that came from being there.
           I used to hate them for sending me to a single sex school. I was a tomboy who liked riding my pony, Foxy, and climbing trees. I missed Foxy so much when I was away. That was the worse thing about being at boarding school. It all seems so long ago now.

           Detective Woolfson, (I’ve finally remembered his name) is in regular contact. He is a strange man, shy and uncomfortable around people. I’m told they are doing everything they can to find the people/person responsible but as the days pass, it is looking less likely. They appear to have no leads, have found no helpful clues and no evident motive. Robbery gone wrong is suggested to me, but I can’t help thinking that the brutal nature of it makes it something else. It feels more personal than the police are admitting. But I just can’t think why anyone would want to kill my parents. No one has any reason.
    I’ve been told that the killer slaughtered my father’s horse before breaking the glass in the back door and letting himself in. He then went upstairs and attacked my parents. There was nothing stolen except my father’s gold Rolex. It seems strange to me that was the only thing taken.
    Woolfson has explained that there were no finger-prints and that they couldn’t find any trace of DNA on the bodies as the person responsible had used bleach to cover their tracks. It seems the assailant had then disappeared into thin air.
           As I push that thought to the back of my mind, I’m reminded of the strangeness of my situation; just as one parent comes back into my life, two disappear. I wonder whether somehow there is a link and feel as if I’m looking at the pieces of a puzzle, unable to put them together.
    Sitting in a chintzy armchair with my feet tucked up under me, I gaze into the licking flames of the small gas fire. Outside a cold wind blows and the branch of a tree scratches at the window. I am alone in the room with only my thoughts. I wish Charlie would hurry up and come back with the food. He left ten minutes ago to collect a Chinese takeaway from a nearby restaurant and already I miss him. I’m calmer when I know he is near.
    Looking around the bedroom we’ve called home for the last few weeks only exacerbates my feeling of being lost. The furnishings and wallpapers are so far from what I like and am