Read Online Home Before Dark: A Novel by Riley Sager - Free Book Online
Authors: Riley Sager
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manual labor for a living. I work with similar guys all the time. Taut forearms with prominent veins that crest bulging biceps. Beneath his T-shirt is a broad chest and an enviably narrow waist.
“I’m the caretaker,” he says, confirming my first impression. “Name’s Dane. Dane Hibbets.”
My father mentioned a Hibbets in the Book. Walt. Not Dane.
“Hibbs’s boy ?”
“His grandson, actually,” Dane says, either not picking up on my word choice or deciding to ignore it. “Walt died a few years back. I kind of stepped in and took over. Which means I should probably stop standing here and help you with this gate.”
He pushes past to help me in prying it open, him pulling one side and me pushing the other.
“By the way, I was real sorry to hear about your dad’s passing,” he says. “Others in this town might have unkind things to say about him. His book is none too popular in these parts. None too popular at all. But he was a good man, and I remind folks of that on a regular basis. ‘Few people would have kept on paying us,’ I tell them. ‘Especially twenty-five years after leaving the place.’”
A hiccup of surprise rises in my chest. “My father was still paying you?”
“He sure was. First my grandfather, then me. Oh, and Mrs. Ditmer. I mow the grass, do some landscaping, pop in once a week to make sure nothing’s wrong with the house. Elsa—that’s Mrs. Ditmer—came in every month to do a good cleaning. Her daughter does it now that Elsa’s infirm, to put it kindly.”
“She’s ill?”
“Only in the head.” Dane uses an index finger to tap his temple.“Alzheimer’s. The poor woman. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. But your father kept us all on and always made sure to check in on me whenever he was here.”
Another surprise. One that makes me release my half of the gate, letting it swing shut again. “My father came here?”
“He did.”
“A lot?”
“Not often, no,” Dane says. “Just once a year.”
I remain completely still, aware of the cocked-headed stare Dane is giving me but unable to do anything about it. Shock has left me motionless.
My father came back here once a year.
Despite vowing never to return.
Despite begging me on his deathbed to do the same.
These visits go against everything I was told about Baneberry Hall. That it was off-limits to my family. That it was a place where nothing good survived. That I needed to stay away.
It’s not safe there. Not for you.
Why did my father think it was safe for him to return and not me? Why didn’t he mention—not even once—that he still owned Baneberry Hall and came back here regularly?
Dane keeps on giving me that funny look. Part curiosity, part concern. I manage to cut through my shock long enough to ask a follow-up question.
“When was the last time he was here?”
“Last summer,” Dane says. “He always came on the same date—July 15.”
Yet another shock. A giant wallop that pushes me back onto my heels. I grip the gate for support, my numb fingers snaking around its wrought-iron curlicues.
“You okay there, Maggie?” Dane says.
“Yes,” I mutter, although I’m not sure I am. July 15 was the nightmy family left Baneberry Hall. That can’t be a coincidence, even though I have no idea what it means. I try to think of a logical reason why my father would return only on that infamous date, but I come up empty.
“How long would he stay?” I say.
“Just one night,” Dane says. “He’d arrive late and leave early the next day. After the first couple of years, I knew the routine like clockwork. I’d have the gate open and waiting for him when he got here, and then I’d close it back up when his car drove by the next morning.”
“Did he ever tell you what he was doing here?”
“He never volunteered, and I never asked,” Dane says. “Didn’t seem to be any business of mine. And not that yours is, either, but I gotta ask—”
“What the hell I’m doing
“I’m the caretaker,” he says, confirming my first impression. “Name’s Dane. Dane Hibbets.”
My father mentioned a Hibbets in the Book. Walt. Not Dane.
“Hibbs’s boy ?”
“His grandson, actually,” Dane says, either not picking up on my word choice or deciding to ignore it. “Walt died a few years back. I kind of stepped in and took over. Which means I should probably stop standing here and help you with this gate.”
He pushes past to help me in prying it open, him pulling one side and me pushing the other.
“By the way, I was real sorry to hear about your dad’s passing,” he says. “Others in this town might have unkind things to say about him. His book is none too popular in these parts. None too popular at all. But he was a good man, and I remind folks of that on a regular basis. ‘Few people would have kept on paying us,’ I tell them. ‘Especially twenty-five years after leaving the place.’”
A hiccup of surprise rises in my chest. “My father was still paying you?”
“He sure was. First my grandfather, then me. Oh, and Mrs. Ditmer. I mow the grass, do some landscaping, pop in once a week to make sure nothing’s wrong with the house. Elsa—that’s Mrs. Ditmer—came in every month to do a good cleaning. Her daughter does it now that Elsa’s infirm, to put it kindly.”
“She’s ill?”
“Only in the head.” Dane uses an index finger to tap his temple.“Alzheimer’s. The poor woman. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. But your father kept us all on and always made sure to check in on me whenever he was here.”
Another surprise. One that makes me release my half of the gate, letting it swing shut again. “My father came here?”
“He did.”
“A lot?”
“Not often, no,” Dane says. “Just once a year.”
I remain completely still, aware of the cocked-headed stare Dane is giving me but unable to do anything about it. Shock has left me motionless.
My father came back here once a year.
Despite vowing never to return.
Despite begging me on his deathbed to do the same.
These visits go against everything I was told about Baneberry Hall. That it was off-limits to my family. That it was a place where nothing good survived. That I needed to stay away.
It’s not safe there. Not for you.
Why did my father think it was safe for him to return and not me? Why didn’t he mention—not even once—that he still owned Baneberry Hall and came back here regularly?
Dane keeps on giving me that funny look. Part curiosity, part concern. I manage to cut through my shock long enough to ask a follow-up question.
“When was the last time he was here?”
“Last summer,” Dane says. “He always came on the same date—July 15.”
Yet another shock. A giant wallop that pushes me back onto my heels. I grip the gate for support, my numb fingers snaking around its wrought-iron curlicues.
“You okay there, Maggie?” Dane says.
“Yes,” I mutter, although I’m not sure I am. July 15 was the nightmy family left Baneberry Hall. That can’t be a coincidence, even though I have no idea what it means. I try to think of a logical reason why my father would return only on that infamous date, but I come up empty.
“How long would he stay?” I say.
“Just one night,” Dane says. “He’d arrive late and leave early the next day. After the first couple of years, I knew the routine like clockwork. I’d have the gate open and waiting for him when he got here, and then I’d close it back up when his car drove by the next morning.”
“Did he ever tell you what he was doing here?”
“He never volunteered, and I never asked,” Dane says. “Didn’t seem to be any business of mine. And not that yours is, either, but I gotta ask—”
“What the hell I’m doing
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