Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Read Free Book Online Page B

of hide nor hair of him anywhere.”
    As he speaks, I file each word away in my memory.
    â€œLater that night, his house was set on fire.”
    My eyes widen as I listen to the end of the story.
    â€œBy the time the fire brigade managed to get the blaze under control, the house was completely devastated. The police investigation found the babies in their cots . . . but it was too late to save them,” he concludes.
    Twins.
    â€œWhat about Alfred?” I ask.
    â€œThe next day he showed up in the village with a burn across his face—and that was proof enough for some people that it was he who’d done it,” he replies.
    â€œDid he confess?”
    â€œNo, he never said a word about it. The police questioned him, but he was never charged with anything. People in White Hills started to believe that he’d killed his sons, though. Because he thought they’d caused Lilly’s death.”
    He pauses for a moment before adding, “And that’s when all the grown-ups started telling kids scary stories about the Derfla, so they wouldn’t go out wandering the streets at night.”
    â€œThe Derfla!” I burst out, shocked by this last part of the story.
    Confused by my reaction, he shoots me a funny look and then picks up his story again.
    â€œThe people round here were convinced that Alfred was a murderer, so right away they started trying to force him out of his job and out of local social life. Pretty much everyone just started ignoring him, acting like he wasn’t there at all. And they used a backwards version of his name—Derfla—to try to . . . well, connect him with evil. Make him into a kind of a monster, I suppose.”
    Another piece of my puzzle clicks into place, and so I ask, “If that’s what people say about him, how come he’s still working for the Blooms?”
    â€œThe Blooms, they’re nice people,” he says with a shrug. “Mr. Bloom didn’t want to give up on Alfred, so he allowed him to stay on in the shed in exchange for working on the property. That went on for quite a while, until one day Mrs. Bloom accused him of stealing a picture from the house.”
    â€œA picture? Why on earth would he do that?”
    â€œMr. Bloom’s theory was that someone was trying to set Alfred up—someone who wanted him out of the village for good.”
    â€œHow do you know all of this?” I ask, brushing away the lock of hair tickling my nose.
    He smiles. “Well, I grew up in that house,” he says, gesturing with his head to the huge grey edifice behind him. “So obviously, I got to hear all the stories about my neighbourhood. And anyway, on the day of the fight about the picture—the one Mrs. Bloom accused him of stealing—I was out playing in the garden and I could hear all the shouting.”
    I burst out laughing, and the atmosphere suddenly turns awkward.
    â€œWhat do you find so funny?” he asks coolly.
    â€œThe fact that you’ve apparently always had a thing for spying on people,” I say with a chuckle.
    He frowns dismissively—but then a rueful smirk appears on his face, and it’s not long before he’s laughing softly too.
    The wind gathers strength, so I pull my jacket tighter around me for extra warmth. Ready now to get back inside, we exchange polite goodbye smiles and head off towards our respective front doors.
    After just a few steps, though, I turn again and say out loud, “Do you believe he really did it?”
    He takes a few moments to gather his thoughts and then turns towards me with a pensive expression on his face.
    â€œI don’t know, if I’m honest . . .”
    He shakes his head.
    â€œBut I wouldn’t take any chances.”

DAY 9
    I OPEN MY eyes at the creak of my bedroom door opening, but continue feigning sleep while I listen to light footsteps which cross the parquet, stumble against the chair by