Free A Thief in the House of Memory by Tim Wynne-Jones Page B

reading,” said Vivien.
    But Dec’s face was buried in his hands. “My father is going to freak.”
    â€œHe must have known about it,” said Martin.
    â€œBut he didn’t,” said Melody. “The journalist says that every attempt to contact Steeple was turned down.”
    â€œThen the guy was trespassing,” said Martin. “You can sue!
    â€œYeah, right,” said Dec.
    â€œIt’s defamation of character,” said Richard. “Slander!”
    â€œYou mean libel,” said Arianna. “When you actually publish a false statement, it’s libel.”
    â€œStop!” said Vivien with such passion that, remarkably, everybody did. “You have to read the whole thing, Dec. In the very next sentence he says… where is it… yeah, listen, ‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’ Then he goes on to say that your dad’s this real family-minded guy who likes to live the quiet life and nice stuff like that.”
    Richard looked disappointed. “So your dad’s not a psychotic killer?”
    Dec looked at Richard wearily. “Richard, sometimes…”
    â€œHold on,” said Ezra, interrupting. He stared at Dec, a glint in his eye. “He asked you a question, Dec. Answer the guy.”
    Dec gaped at Ezra. And Ezra smiled back at him, but would not withdraw the challenge.
    Dec swallowed hard. They were all looking at him now and waiting, as if the question hadn’t been a joke.
    â€œIs my dad a psychotic killer?” He fixed his eyes on Ezra.
    â€œThe jury is still out.”

The Price of Fame
    A TELEVISION VAN , with splashy call letters on its sides and a satellite dish on the roof, was parked outside Camelot. As the school bus pulled to a stop, the students went wild. Dec pushed his way through the crowd and down the steps.
    The bus door closed behind him. The noise died to a dull roar and then was lost entirely under the din of the vehicle pulling away. It was raining lightly. A lady reporter headed towards Dec with a newspaper over her head for protection and a cameraman in tow. Bernard Steeple was trying to stop them.
    â€œGet to the house,” he yelled. Dec froze.
    â€œJust a word,” said the reporter, bearing down on him. The gravel of the soft shoulder was hard going for her in heels.
    â€œDon’t say a thing!” Bernard yelled again. He grabbed the cameraman, who shook him off.
    Dec had never seen his father like this.
    â€œMove!”
    Dec ran across the lawn towards the house. He glanced back. The cameraman was filming him. Dec stopped. This was ridiculous. He felt like a criminal. Worse, he felt like some freak. What was he supposed to be running from?
    â€œJust go!” shouted his father, waving his hands around as he stepped between Dec and the camera.
    In the house, Dec locked the door but stood, catching his breath, looking out the tiny window. He could hear the television in the rec room — “Reading Rainbow.” Sunny was home and, by the sound of it, oblivious to the commotion upstairs. Dec’s eyes followed the trio on the lawn back towards the van.
    It was only then that he noticed Birdie’s black Beetle parked beside the Rendezvous.
    She was sitting in the living room with a drink in her hand.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he asked.
    â€œI live here.”
    Dec lowered his head and sighed. “That isn’t what I meant.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “But you’re not around much lately, so I thought, hey, I’d better remind you.”
    He tried again. “You’re home early.”
    She nodded and peered towards the picture window. “The general was blowing a gasket. I figured I’d better call in Kerrie to hold the fort, and hustle my buns back here.” Shetook another, longer swig of her drink. There was a bottle of Canadian Club on the coffee table.
    Outside, the TV truck’s horn sounded. Dec walked over