Bitter Nothings (16 page)

“Hey?” Emmet stood up straight. “Our father murdered those kids. Everyone said so. Someone else killed him.”

Dervla stared at the floor. “The same weapon was used in both shootings.”

“So? Doesn’t mean someone didn’t pick up the gun afterwards and use it on him.”

“Oh yeah,” Gabe said, “that makes so much sense.”

“You just don’t want to admit I could be right. How does it feel to be the son of a murderer?”

CHAPTER 22

The espresso machine hissed into life. Caffeine kept Dervla awake, but what was another night without sleep? She made three coffees and carried them into the living area.

“You can’t rule it out,” Gabe said.

She set the mugs on the coffee table. “Rule what out?”

“Alana as a suspect.”

“A murder suspect?” Though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, the same thought had flitted through her mind. “You can’t be serious. She wouldn’t be capable of something as coldblooded as that. What reason would she have?”

Gabe leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head: “You can be naive sometimes. Of course, she’s bloody capable. She’s a druggie.”

“You can’t label someone a killer just because they use drugs.”

“No? What about the added fact Dad was playing happy families, one that didn’t include her? Revenge is a powerful motive.”

Dervla gave a dry laugh. “And you think I watch too much TV?”

“Think what you like. I know Todd won’t be so quick to dismiss the idea.”

“He wouldn’t be doing his job, if he did,” she said. “I hope he leaves no stone unturned.”

“Precisely why you have to turn these,” he waved a hand over the photos on the coffee table, “over to the police first thing tomorrow.”

Gathering the two photos together, she placed them face down on the corner of the table. She planned to pass them over, but not before she scanned them.

For the next couple of hours, they talked, drank coffee, talked some more, argued. At 3 a.m., the night chill spurred her from her armchair. She returned a few moments later with an armful of blankets.

Wrapping one of the lighter-weight ones around his shoulders, Emmet murmured what sounded like a thanks and huddled down.

“That boyfriend of hers probably put her up to it,” Gabe said, draping another of the blankets across his chest and over his legs.

“Who? Alana? Are you still on about that? What is it specifically you have against her?”

Gabe didn’t respond. Instead, he raised a hand and switched off the reading lamp behind him. Light from the waning moon filtered through the courtyard doors, casting eerie shadows over the room.

Dervla curled up in her armchair, the wool blanket against her skin as prickly as the insides of her eyelids. She closed her eyes, past caring.

The dawn light woke her. She peered through slitted eyes at her surroundings, for a moment not sure where she was. The ginger-topped mound opposite moved, grunted, and then started snoring again. Except for the folded blanket on the end cushion, the couch was empty. Gabe was gone and so were the photos. Damn him.

Emmet stirred again, moaning like an animal in pain. His eyes blinked. “What the…” Clutching his head in his hands, he stumbled to his feet.

She opened her mouth.

He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know.”

“All I was going to say was you’ll find the Panadol in the bathroom cabinet, second shelf down.”

He grunted something indecipherable as he lurched past her.

“Towels in the cupboard,” she called after him.

A few minutes later, she heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of the shower running. She pushed herself to her feet, grabbing the back of the chair to steady herself. Though she hadn’t drunk any alcohol the night before, her head throbbed, her leaden limbs feeling like they belonged to someone else.

Arming herself with a bottle of water from the fridge, she collected the phone and returned to her makeshift bed.

Of course, Gabe didn’t answer his mobile. No doubt avoiding his sister’s wrath until after he rid himself of the photos. What he didn’t realize was that by delivering them to the police, he was doing her a favor. She only wished she’d scanned the images first. Not that she intended to frame them or anything.

Next, she called Sophie, surprised when her friend answered on the first ring. “Were you sitting on it?”

“Not quite. How are you, hon? How did you sleep?”

“I’m okay. As well as can be expected. What about you? Martin not harassing you anymore, I hope.”

“He sent his I’m-sorry-I’ll-never-do-it-again flowers but I haven’t seen him—”

Dervla groaned. “How he thinks a bunch of weeds could fix what he’s done to you, I’ll never know. Next he’ll be pleading with you to take him back.”

Sophie lowered her voice. “I heard something outside my bedroom window just after midnight last night.”

“What sort of something?”

“A rustling. Probably just a possum in the bushes.”

“Come and stay with me.” Dervla swigged her water. “At least until you can get a decent security system installed.”

“You know I love you, hon, but if I do that, he’s won.”

“And if you pay with your life?”

“It won’t come to that,” Sophie said, a hard edge to her voice.

Silence ensued.

“I got sent flowers yesterday,” Dervla said finally.

“From whom?” Sophie asked, her tone brightening. “Not your ex obviously, or you wouldn’t sound so gooey.”

“Not gooey, tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Understandable. So who were the flowers from then?”

“Harry.”

“As in your stepmother’s ex-husband Harry?”

When she said it like that, it sounded incestuous. “He’s just a friend. Purely platonic.”

Sophie laughed. “I’ll believe you, hon.” Tram bells clanged in the background. “Gotta go. Catch you later.”

Dervla hung up. The shower was still running. Glancing in the direction of the bathroom, she dialed Harry’s number.

“Harry Kilbourne.” His voice echoed, as if he were inside a tin can.

“Hi. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” She heard a ticking, like a car indicator.

“Dervla?”

“Sorry, yes.” As if he’d recognize her voice after only a couple of meetings.

The ticking stopped.

“Where were we?” He sounded distracted.

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” she said.

“No, I’m glad you called. It’s this damn traffic. I’d forgotten how hellish it could be. Next stop, the police station.”

Her chest tightened. “Police?”

“Helping the police with their enquiries as they say. Routine, I expect.”

She relaxed, remembering she, too, had been summoned. “By the way, thanks for the flowers.” She looked over at the table. “They’re beautiful.”

Silence greeted her.

“Harry?”

“I didn’t send you any flowers, sorry. I wish I had.”

Heat flooded her face. She’d automatically assumed they were from Harry. Nathan, the bastard, he’d be laughing on the other side of his face when she got hold of him.

Harry laughed. “My doppelganger perhaps. How about I go one better and take you out to dinner tonight?”

She hesitated, not at all sure how to answer.

“If you’re not otherwise engaged, that is.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Why not? A night out in the company of a charming man wouldn’t hurt. After all, he would be gone soon enough. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

Rather than have him battle the city traffic, she arranged to meet him at La Cocina de Cinta, a new Spanish restaurant she’d heard about but not tried.

Emmet was still under the shower when she hung up. So much for water restrictions. Shrugging off the blanket from around her shoulders, she keyed in Nathan’s mobile number. Even though she’d managed to obliterate every physical record that her ex had ever existed, some things were destined to stick in her brain forever. Of course, his number may have changed.

No such luck. At the sound of his voice, her mouth dried.

“Who is this?”

She took a swig of water. “Your worst enemy.”

“Dervla, babe, I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I swear, Nathan, that if you don’t stop hassling me, I’m going to…” Lost for words, her voice trailed off. “Sending me flowers is pointless. Why you want to waste your money, I don’t know. It’s not going to change how I feel, except maybe make me more pissed off if that’s possible. I—”

“Have you quite finished? I don’t know who sent you flowers, but I promise you it wasn’t me. If you remember the last time I tried to give you flowers, you shoved them back in my face.”

“Oh.”

“Apology accepted. Now, babe,” he said, his voice sweeter than treacle, “about that drink you owe me.”

“What drink?”

“The one where we get to talk over old times.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Lunch then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have more important things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

They could go around in circles forever. “Don’t you listen to the news? Dad was found murdered.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Dervla. I didn’t know,” he said, suddenly serious. “When? How? Anything I can do?”

Stay out of my life she wanted to say, but that wasn’t what came out. “A couple of spotlighters found him dead in his car last Thursday night.” She took a breath. “Forensics can’t pinpoint exactly when he died, but suggest it was around the same time as the others. And thanks, but there’s nothing you can do.”

“Have they arrested anyone?”

“I really don’t feel up to discussing this. Watch the news,” she said, getting to her feet. “You’ll probably learn more there, anyway. Bye.” She hung up before he could respond.

The card delivered with the flowers hadn’t been signed, so why’d she jumped to the conclusion they were from Harry, and then when she discovered her error, from Nathan? Just as she reached for the card, Emmet appeared, towel-drying his hair. She turned to face him, shielding the flowers from view. Neither he nor Gabe had questioned the vase dominating the dining table, and she didn’t want him starting now.

“Reporter?” he asked.

“Nathan.”

“Again?”

“I rang him.”

Her brother stopped drying his hair. “Why? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“I didn’t.”

“But…”

“Long story,” she said. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll pick up something later. Can you lend me a twenty until I get to the cash machine?”

He followed her to the bedroom, combing his fingers through his hair.

“Do you need a lift?” She unclipped her wallet and handed him two ten-dollar notes. “Is that enough?”

He nodded and swapped her the damp towel for the cash. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s a couple of errands I need to do in town. I’ll grab a tram.”

She walked him to the door. “Are you going to be home later?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“How can I contact you?”

“Mobile.”

“You told me last night you’d lost it.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll have another look for it when I get home.”

“Don’t forget, the police will want to talk to you either today or tomorrow.”

He shot her a you-aren’t-my-mother look. “I haven’t forgotten. See you later.” With that he let himself out, shutting the door behind him.

Alone again, she returned to examine the gilt-edged florist’s card. Maybe she’d missed something. Handwritten in a neat, compact script, the message read: My deepest sympathies on the death of your father. Please know that if I could take away your pain, I would. You are in my thoughts now and always.

She groaned. That’d teach her for reading something into it that wasn’t there. For all she knew, the flowers could’ve come from a distant cousin she’d never even met. But why no signature? Only one way to find out.

Half-expecting to be told that no name had been provided, she phoned the florist and explained her predicament to the girl who answered. She left Dervla on hold and went to check.

A few moments later, she returned. “I’m so sorry. It was a phone order, and I somehow missed transcribing the name onto the card. The name written down here is Todd.”

CHAPTER 23

It took Dervla until late afternoon to pluck up the courage to call Todd. Only because she didn’t know what she was going to say. When it diverted to voicemail, she was almost relieved. She left what she hoped wasn’t too garbled a message, thanking him for the flowers, and ended the call.

She spent the next ten minutes rifling through her wardrobe trying to decide what to wear to dinner with Harry. A burka would guarantee she wouldn’t be recognized by the media. Not that she’d ever own one. Anyway, it was too hot to be wearing any garment that covered her from head to foot. What about her ice-grey linen trouser suit? Elegant but too formal. Stonewash jeans with… She pushed them aside. Too casual, regardless. Her turquoise strapless pour-into dress. Too… She sighed. So many clothes yet nothing to wear.

Maybe inspiration would strike while she was in the shower. Halfway through unbuttoning her shirt, the doorbell rang. She went to answer it, doing up buttons along the way.

When she opened the door, her stomach dropped. More flowers. She almost didn’t see the courier for the riot of red, lilac, yellow and green.

“I can take them away again if you don’t want them.”

“Sorry.” She signed for the flowers and carried them inside.

Her fingers all thumbs, she opened the accompanying card, noting it wasn’t the same florist. Inside the message read: To make up for the ones I didn’t send you. Harry.

That fluttering sensation in her stomach again.
Hunger
, she told herself. But for what?

Leaving the flowers and card on her bedroom dresser, she stripped off and headed for the shower. At least her body would be cleansed.

It wasn’t until she was in the middle of blow-drying her hair that second thoughts started creeping in. Was having dinner with the ex-husband of a murder victim wise? Sophie was right: What the hell was she thinking?