The Witch Elm

by Tana French

Sunlight melting across the floorboards, smoky smell from the chipped blue teapot, small birds arguing in the ivy outside the open window.

The cloud had lowered and the light was changing, turning dim and bruised, uneasy.

Faye had always been sweet, flaky but sweet, unlikely to ask about your problems but deeply concerned about them if you reminded her they existed.

I could feel my luck turning, rising, a low slow drumbeat somewhere deep in the fabric of the house.

with a fractured, roving glitter in his eye that made you want to stay far away.