Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (top e book reader TXT) 📗

the opposite way to straighten up. Many times, Sam had ridden pillion on such a road, gripping her slim waist, tense with fear, feeling her muscles flex under his palms as she controlled the Matchless.

He trudged on, and his feet inside his sodden socks rubbed against the backs of his shoes. Before long he would have a blister on his right heel, he thought, so it was with relief that he made out the red of the traffic cones. He jogged the remaining distance to reach a place of safety, where the grass margin widened to form the inside of a long curve in the road.

The ground at his feet was muddy, and tape on the hedge flapped and whipped in the wind whenever a vehicle burst past. Furrows in the grass and churned up mud told the story of a car mounting the curb, backing and filling by the hedge before its wheels spun and it skidded into the road. This, he realised in horror, was no accident. This car had been waiting for Kitty.

On the road surface, a deep V, the length of a javelin, gouged the tarmac and severed the centre white line. It was difficult to say which part of Kitty’s bike had inflicted this scar, but the scenario was easy to imagine: Kitty opening the throttle to enjoy the empty road, and the car plunging into her path from the darkness. The bike skidding onto its side, throwing Kitty into the path of oncoming cars. Kitty’s head slamming onto the road, and the car on the verge speeding away, leaving her limp body exposed to further danger as she lay, beyond the view of drivers approaching round the bend. Sam’s fury grew as he imagined what could have happened if the next driver had not been a careful one. He determined to seek the sensible motorist and thank him.

He had seen enough, and after trotting back to his car, he drove to his father’s terraced house. The garden gate now swung open with ease, thanks to Sam’s ministrations with a screwdriver and oil, but he did not stop to appreciate his handiwork, instead he threw it open and marched to the front door. Behind him, the little gate bounced shut with a loud click.

Maurice opened the door. ‘I thought I heard someone,’ he began, then faltered to a halt at the expression on Sam’s face. ‘Everything all right, boy?’

‘Not in the least.’ Sam pushed past his father. ‘I’ve got questions, and you’re not to fob me off with your silly vagueness.’ He marched to the kitchen drawer and Maurice trotted behind him, pulling at the shabby sleeves of his cardigan.

‘I don’t understand. Is something the matter?’ He grasped the handle of the kettle, ‘How about a cup of…’

‘Sit down, Dad,’ Sam said, dumping a heap of calendars and other papers onto the table. ‘I don’t want tea I want answers.’

Maurice sat and watched Sam slam pads and calendars into different piles.

Sam put his hands on the table and leaned towards Maurice with a determined look. ‘So… These are calendars going back years.’ Sam banged his palm on the top of a heap, and Maurice nodded.

‘Yeah. I need to sort that drawer out.’

‘You do, sometime, but for the moment I want to talk about this.’ Sam selected a calendar from the heap and flicked through the pages until he found the entry in question. His father reared up in his chair and faced Sam with a glare, but Sam was in no mood to mollify his dad, who no longer appeared in the least pathetic. ‘Sit down, Dad,’ he ordered again. ‘It doesn’t matter how I found these. What matters is that you tell me the truth.’ He dropped the open pad onto the table and jabbed his finger at the asterisk on the date Twitch went missing. ‘What does this mean?’

Maurice turned from Sam and strode round the kitchen, shouting, ‘This is too much. To be spied on, interrogated, by my own flesh and blood.’ He wheeled round and glared at Sam. ‘You’ve got no right to ask me questions about my life.’

Sam turned to face his father and spoke in distinct and emphatic words ‘You must tell me, Dad. Are you hiding something?’

‘Like what?’ Maurice shouted. ‘What could I be hiding. I can hardly remember yesterday, let alone some random date back then. If I’m hiding something, you’ve got more chance of remembering it than I have.’

‘It’s not a random date, Dad. It’s when my mum, your wife, disappeared.’

The energy seemed to leave Maurice, and he collapsed like an unstrung puppet into his chair. ‘Well, there you are then. That’s why I marked it; I suppose.’ He let his head drop into his palms. ‘I’m tired, Sam. I want you to go.’

This was not going well at all, and Sam took a deep breath. ‘Not yet Dad. Let’s calm down, shall we?’

His father’s fingers twisted and untwisted the cuff of his cardigan, and Sam stilled them with a gentle hand. ‘I need you to tell me the truth about this.’ He patted the calendar. ‘And please don’t tell me you don’t know.’

‘I don’t. I truly don’t,’ Maurice pleaded.

Sam looked hard at his father, who did not return his gaze. He decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me about the trolley.’

Maurice’s eyes snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘How do you think it came to be buried in those woods?’

Maurice shrugged, his expression one of bafflement. ‘I was as surprised as you when I saw it. It was stolen years ago.’ He glanced at Sam. ‘What’s the problem, anyway? It was a toy. Paul made it for you children, and then it disappeared. Why are you so het up?’

Sam had no intention of sharing what he knew. ‘When did you last see it?’

Maurice half shut his eyes then shook his