CHAPTER TWELVE
Standing in the window in her front room, as she had each day for a week now since that revealing night, Freya stared out over the street. Upstairs, her children slept. She clutched a tumbler of brandy – an old, thick-cut glass, inherited from her father – from which she took a sharp sip.
Lynnwood was quiet, but not peaceful as it had once been. It would never be peaceful again, tainted by the acts, committed in the dark places beneath the trees. She stood there for what seemed like forever. One by one, the other cottages down the street became dark, as Lynnwood closed its curtains, turned off its lights and became still. It was a ghost village, awaiting the arrival of the hungry dead; the bean sí, as one diary had called them. And in a matter of weeks they would come, as
