Thornwood House Read Online Free Page A

paper.’
    ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’ Bronwyn’s finger moved expertly down the page as she continued to scan. ‘They don’t do real estate on a Sunday.’
    I gazed at her, wondering how an eleven-year-old knew these things. Wondering how she managed to stay so calm, while my stomach was twisting itself into knots. I checked the clock above the fridge. Only a few more hours of torture to go. The muscles in the back of my head were as tight as rubber bands. I rolled my shoulders to ease the strain, then tried to focus on my daughter’s finger as it snailed through the maze of potential new homes.
    The finger stopped abruptly. Bronwyn peered into my face. ‘You keep checking the clock. Are we going somewhere?’
    ‘Your father’s lawyer wants to see me this afternoon. It won’t take long. I’ll drop you at netball and be back in plenty of time to pick you up.’
    Bronwyn’s eyes widened. ‘He’s left us something?’
    I shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. ‘Carol might’ve changed her mind about the twenty-eight days. She could want us out of the house sooner.’
    ‘I’m coming with you.’
    I hesitated. The Sundays Bronwyn had once spent with her father were now passed in her bedroom – the door locked while she pored over photos of the two of them, shuffling through her mementoes, refusing to eat anything until early evening when she’d re-emerge red-eyed and solemn as a priestess. She’d been grieving for him long before his death, I realised.
    ‘Please, Mum?’ She gazed up at me, her eyes blue as springwater.
    ‘It’ll be boring.’
    ‘Please?’
    I sighed. Carol had hinted that Bronwyn would be well provided for. Whatever Tony had left her, it wasn’t going to repair the damage he’d done by withdrawing from her life. On the other hand, it might offer a welcome reassurance. I prayed that he’d left her something wonderful, so she’d know he really had cared.
    ‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘Just don’t get your hopes up.’

    ‘Magpie Creek?’
    My heart kicked over. Tony had died there, and I knew with a sudden pinch of apprehension that the little town must have meant more to him than a random port of call. I remembered the Courier-Mail article about the man’s remains found in the dam . . . and wondered if I’d dismissed the connection too hastily.
    I cleared my dry throat. ‘That’s in Queensland, isn’t it?’
    The woman sitting behind the vast oak desk – Margot – smiled warmly. ‘It’s an hour or so south-west of Brisbane. Quite pretty, I’m told. Mostly farmland, but it boasts spectacular volcanic remnants that draw a lot of tourist interest. The town is small, but there’s a thriving art community and several award-winning cafes, as well as the usual amenities.’
    Bronwyn sat on a leather chair beside me, perched forward, gazing raptly into the lawyer’s face. She looked older than her eleven years: maybe it was the dark blue dress and smart black sandals she’d insisted on wearing. Then again, perhaps it was simply that she’d brightened on hearing the news of her father’s bequest. A considerable trust fund accessible when she turned twenty-one, and a huge delicate watercolour of a robin that she’d long admired.
    Most astonishing was what Tony had left for me.
    ‘A house,’ I marvelled, shifting awkwardly. I couldn’t help wondering if there was a catch. ‘What about Tony’s wife?’
    Margot nodded. ‘Carol is satisfied with Tony’s decision; she’s informed us that she won’t be contesting the will. Now . . . Tony left keys in security with our office. The probate process should take about a month, after which time the keys and all documentation will pass into your hands. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to hear a little more about the property?’
    ‘Sure.’
    Margot opened a folder. ‘Thornwood originally belonged to Tony’s grandfather, but I expect you already know that?’
    I shook my head. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of