The House That Jack Built

Начало книги

Matthew wondered what he was doing here.

I’m an attorney, he thought. Why am I lying here in the rain?

“Listen,” Warren whispered.

Matthew listened. He could hear the sound of angry waves pounding in against the beach. He could hear the rattling of palm fronds on the sharp wind. He could hear the rustle of sea oats along the shore.

Nothing else.

“Didn’t you hear something?” Warren whispered.

“No,” Matthew whispered.

They kept watching the house.

They were lying behind a huge sea grape on the side of the house facing the water. A cold drizzle pattered onto the broad leaves of the plant. The sand under them was cold and wet. The wind kept blowing in fiercely off the water. This was the third day of February. It had begun raining on the morning of the murder. It had been raining steadily for the past five days.

Words.

You listened to words and they didn’t mean anything until the pictures began to form. In the beginning, Matthew hadn’t conjured any images, he had heard only the string of words coming from Ralph Parrish’s mouth. Parrish had come down to Florida to see his brother. Drove down from Indiana a week ago; Wander Indiana, his license plate had read. Came down here for his brother’s fortieth birthday. Parrish’s brother was gay. Parrish knew that. But he hadn’t been prepared for his brother’s party, here in the house on the beach. Men wearing dresses. Men dancing with each other. Kissing other men. Parrish had gone up to his room at ten minutes to midnight. At a few minutes before seven in the morning, Parrish heard his brother screaming. He ran downstairs.

Читать дальше →