She frowned and let her suitcase rest on the dirt path twisting off the main road and into Grandma Mackenna’s front garden. In her memory, the place had acquired a childish picture quality, with whitened walls, square windows and a steep roof of red gables. It had been a safe haven, a place where her mum and dad sent her when summer holidays came along and she was too young to stay alone at home while they worked. In spite of the wet, chilly climate of Scotland, those days had always been bright and full of laughter and games—and those games never, ever involved knives.
It was planted on the side of the path, threatening to be devoured by the greenery. It was almost unobtrusive, nonchalant. And clean.
Wild Hunt