Free Killing Woods by Lucy Christopher Page B

the nearest bottle of wine and twists the top off: Cabernet Sauvignon, 14 per cent alcohol, red wine now. I wonder what it would take for her to move on to spirits?If she knew I’d fought Kirsty today? If she knew I’d chased Damon Hilary through the trees? That I had a detention?
    â€˜Don’t go into Darkwood again,’ she says. ‘It’s not safe.’
    I hold her gaze. ‘I thought you didn’t believe me when I said someone else killed Ashlee Parker? That it wasn’t Dad?’
    â€˜I don’t.’ Her gaze falters, flutters to the wine. ‘I just don’t want you back in there. I’m serious, Emily. There are other things that aren’t safe in those woods too, other people.’
    â€˜You can’t stop me.’
    Mum meets my gaze with another sharp look. But saying I can’t go into Darkwood is like telling someone else not to go to school, or to visit their friends: Darkwood is the place I belong. At least, it always used to be.
    â€˜The quicker we move away from those rotten trees the better,’ she says.
    I want to yell that I won’t move anywhere, but then I see that her eye make-up is smudged and guess she’s been crying at work again. It makes me hesitate. We’re both quiet as she pours a large glass of wine, listening to how the liquid gulps and glugs. I don’t want her to take a mouthful and push past me towards the telly, but this is what she does. I’d rather she shouted at me, got nasty even; slapping me across the face would be better than this. I’d rather she do anything except keep playing numb! I follow her into the lounge. This is when I see what she’s done.
    â€˜Where have all the photos gone?’
    I take a step inside. None of our photographs are standingproudly on top of the mantelpiece any more. All the ones of the three of us sharing birthdays and holidays have disappeared, even the one of me and Mum having a snowball fight when I was about five years old has gone.
    â€˜I don’t want to remember those times with your father,’ Mum says.
    â€˜But Dad’s not even in half those shots!’
    Mum keeps staring at the telly with her cheeks a little red. There’s a tight, angry feeling in my throat, and it’s a bit like how I felt with Kirsty today, like how I felt with Damon. It’s hard to swallow. Ever since we knew Dad was pleading guilty to manslaughter – ever since we’d met Dad’s lawyers in the city and they’d laid out the case for us – it’s as if Mum wants to erase Dad from everything, every single part of our lives. Perhaps she wishes she could erase him from me too. It would explain why she never looks at me properly any more, why she doesn’t ever want to talk. It would explain why she always seems so disappointed.
    â€˜Where did you put them?’ I stand between her and the telly so she can’t ignore me.
    She raises her eyebrows to the ceiling as if she thinks I’m an idiot for even asking. I want to hate her . . . but if I hate Mum too, I’m running out of people to love.
    â€˜You have to start accepting what’s happening, Emily, stop living in a fantasy world.’
    â€˜What’s that got to do with the photographs?’ It’s all I can think of to say.
    â€˜You have to accept your father is different now!’ Her voice is battling it out with the roar of laughter from thetelly. ‘He’s not coming back! You might as well start dealing with this.’
    I want to throw things at her. Tip wine over her face. I want her to stop watching television and discuss this with me normally. Instead I just glare, and she angles her head to continue to watch her quiz show around me. I swallow to stop myself screaming.
    â€˜I don’t have to accept anything!’
    She sighs, longer this time. ‘Your father is guilty of manslaughter. He is suffering from severe psychological trauma brought about from