Spellbound

The Truth

After I finish work, which primarily consisted of talking to Ms Marigold over tea, and re-replacing books to the shelf, it's turned into a pleasant evening. Pretty white flower petals litter the ground and the air is a comfortable chill as I walk the short distance home from the train station. I'm not in too much of a hurry to face my father just yet, so I take more of a scenic route than I normally would.

I'm utterly drained. Mentally and physically. My stomach has been doing backflips all day and I still can't bring myself to believe that what happened to the boys was just a coincidence. The worst part is that it all feels like the beginning. Is this what growing up is? Because I already hate it.

I hoped the book Ms Marigold had given me would give me some kind of insight, or wisdom, or at the very least would be a compelling enough story that all my problems would melt away. But all this book is doing is adding to my problems. I spend the better part of my walk trying my hardest to pry the covers open—nothing. The only possible use I can come to is using it to prop up the uneven chair in the dining room.

After a few more hopeless attempts at opening it, I spot the familiar white weatherboard house and stuff the book back into my bag. Acacia Court is a quiet one so I don't have to worry about running into anyone before I make it to the door. There was a time when every house in this street was identical—I would often mistake Mrs Rodriguez's house next door for my own and be stuck there listening to her name each of the porcelain dolls she had collected over the years. At that point my father became so fed up with my complaining, he added purple flowers to the garden and painted the front door red. I never mistook Mrs Rodriguez's creepy doll house for my own again.

As soon as I step inside the front door the heated air engulfs me. I hear my fathers muffled voice from the kitchen, which is strange since he mostly keeps to his study working on his next masterpiece. As quietly as I can, I hang up my coat and bag on the rack by the door and follow his voice. He paces the kitchen floor, phone to his ear, and stern expression plastered to his face. I know it well.

"Thank-you Officer," is the last thing he says, before hanging up.

"Officer?" It comes from my mouth before I can stop myself, alerting him to my presence.

He rubs the bridge of his nose beneath where his reading glasses sit, "It's nothing Philomena, you're not to worry."

His words shake me. Tell a girl like me not to worry and that's the first thing I'm going to do.

"Not worry about what, exactly?"

I watch as he takes a swig from a half empty glass of scotch, before taking off into the lounge. I follow him. He takes his usual seat by the fireplace, and I take mine beside him.

"Dad?"

"I was just taking some extra precautions is all," he says it in a tone that isn't quite natural, "these are dangerous times."

I suppress the urge to smile. My father is the kind of man who believes everything is dangerous. I was never allowed to climb trees, running in the house was strictly forbidden, the upstairs windows don't open, and of course, bodies of water were always no-go zones.

"If you're referring to Mr Sherman's dog being stolen, I'm pretty sure they found her two days later..."

For a brief moment, I think the corner of my father's mouth twitches, ever-so-slightly. He takes another sip from his glass.

"Philly," he says seriously, "We need to talk—"

I shake my head, "I already told you, I had nothing to do with what happened to those boys—" Ignoring the knots in my stomach.