They Did Bad Things by Lauren A. Forry
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.6 MB
And Then There Were None meets The Last Time I Lied in this dark and twisty psychological thriller.
In 1995, six university students moved into the house at 215 Caldwell Street. Months later, one of them was found dead on the sofa the morning after their end-of-year party. His death was ruled an accident by the police. The remaining five all knew it wasn’t, and though they went on with their lives, the truth of what happened to their sixth housemate couldn’t stay buried forever.
Twenty years later, all five of them arrive—lured separately under various pretenses—at Wolfheather House, a crumbling, secluded mansion on the Scottish isle of Doon. Trapped inside with no way out and no signal to the outside world, the now forty-somethings fight each other—and the unknown mastermind behind their gathering—as they confront the role they played in their housemate’s death. They are given one choice: confess to their crimes or die.
They Did Bad Things is a deviously clever psychological thriller about the banality of evil and the human capacity for committing horror.
A sudden onslaught of rain splattered the windshield, drowning out Bon Jovi. Hollis Drummond swerved back and forth on the single-lane road, fumbling to find the wipers on the unfamiliar car. Refusing to stop living on a prayer, he turned up the volume and belted the chorus as he finally hit the windshield wiper lever. But unlike Tommy and Gina, he had no clue if he was halfway there because his phone was no more than a black brick. Hiring a car without GPS for a five-hour drive to the Isle of Skye, followed by a thirty-minute ferry ride, followed by another thirty-minute drive on a mostly uninhabited island, thinking he could rely on said phone, might not have been his most brilliant idea, he decided as he jiggled the cables.
The charger was attached to the phone port, the other end plugged into the car, but his mobile was not charging. Probably hadn’t been since he picked up the car in Inverness. Disconnecting and reconnecting the cable did nothing. He thought about ringing Linda for the directions, then remembered the dead phone was the reason he needed the directions in the first place. Timing his movements to the percussion, he tossed the useless thing onto the passenger seat. The road led only one way anyway.
The headlights illuminated the rocky landscape as he continued north, highlighting a patchwork of browns and dull greens, the vibrant purples and yellows of heather and gorse now out of season. Hollis liked the colors as they were. They reminded him of the brown and gray streets of Manchester, those he’d plodded up and down for so long and which, come Monday, he would see from a new angle. No uniform pressing for PC Drummond this weekend. A new pair of suits awaited him along with polished black shoes and a red tie with a subtle Manchester United watermark logo—a gift from Linda. It might’ve been thanks to his blind luck with the Marcus case, but he’d finally done it. The lads had taken the piss, of course. Hollis Drummond—mid-forties, the phrase “pushing fifty” just around the bend, his dozens of exams taking up a whole drawer in the filing cabinet—had finally made detective. He’d pretended it wasn’t that important, joked that some people needed to age like fine wine (or stinkin’ cheese, someone had blurted out). They tried to embarrass him by taunting him about his new partner, Khan, being ten years his junior and already a DS. If Hollis were lucky, they said, he’d be promoted to DS right in time to be pensioned off. Hollis shot back by saying Khan’s success had something to do with him being Asian.
“Dad, that’s so racist!” Linda would’ve said, so he hadn’t told her that bit, even though Khan was always saying the same thing himself. Unlike Khan, Hollis was never that good at laughing at himself. But he had gone along with the “old man” jokes to cover up how excited he was. And nervous.