Bitter Nothings (28 page)

“Make yourself at home,” she said, closing the door behind him. “I have to make a short phone call.”

Ducking into her office, she took a minute to compose herself, then phoned Gabe. Like all Emmet’s calls had, it went to voicemail. She left what she hoped wasn’t a too garbled message about Emmet sacking his lawyer and hung up.

Out in the kitchen, Harry had taken her at her word. He’d found plates and was unwrapping the sandwiches. “I hope you like Mediterranean roasted vegetables,” he said, looking up.

“Sure beats the cheese and vegemite sandwich you were going to get from me. The least I can do is make the coffees.” She skirted around him and grabbed two cups from the dish rack.

She busied herself refilling the espresso machine’s water tank, then grinding fresh beans. In such a confined space, she found it difficult not to bump into Harry.

“Are you okay?” he asked, catching her elbow when her hip knocked against the bench.

She gave a nervous laugh. “Fine. The floor must be wet there.”

Without letting go of her, he glanced down at the tiles near her feet. He then placed a hand on each of her arms and steered her around the invisible spill. The closer he drew her to him, the harder her heart thumped. By the time she was standing less than a hand’s width from him, she could scarcely breathe, let alone speak.

His fingers touched her cheek, sending a tingle through her body. He tipped her chin up, his copper-flecked eyes studying her flushed face. He bent down and kissed her lips. Softly at first, then more insistent.

Her body responded in a way she hadn’t expected, pressing itself hard against Harry’s. She clung to him, not wanting to let go, lost in the moment. Lost in the kiss. Then without warning, she started to cry. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight, his shirt smothering her sobs.

Eventually the tears subsided. Too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she slipped from his embrace and went in search for a tissue.

When she returned, the plates of sandwiches were on the dining table and Harry was in the throes of making the coffees. With her legs threatening to give way beneath her, she dropped onto a dining chair. She watched him, averting her gaze the instant the hiss of the espresso machine stopped.

Without a word, he set the two steaming coffee cups on the table and sat in the seat opposite. Nodding at the chunky sandwich in front of her, he picked up his in both hands and bit into it. Juice dribbled down the side of his hand and onto the plate.

She pecked at the crust of her sandwich.

Harry finished chewing and wiped his hands on a paper towel. He obviously hadn’t discovered the napkins in the pantry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So you said. I’m a good listener. Try me.”

“Even if part of that complication is you?” She prodded a sundried tomato back into her sandwich.

“You must be referring to some other guy,” he said. “I’m not complicated. What you see is what you get, and I get the impression you like what you see. Am I wrong?”

“Yes… no…” She shook her head. “It’s—”

“It’s only complicated if you want it to be.”

“You’re my stepmother’s ex-husband.”

“And you’re my ex-wife’s stepdaughter. It’s not as if we’re related.”

“We live in different states.”

“That can change. In the last six months, I’ve spent more time here than at home, anyway.” He laughed. “Cindy said…”

Dervla’s head shot up, the sandwich forgotten. Hadn’t he told her that he’d had nothing to do with Lucinda since the divorce?

His gaze turned inward.

“Harry?” Dervla prompted.

“She said that I had no roots.”

Dervla sipped her coffee, weighing her next words. “We all feel rootless at times, but I imagine it isn’t easy going home to the house you once shared with the woman you loved. When did Lucinda tell you that?”

He nodded gravely. “A few months back. She’s right, of course, but then she was always right.”

“You stayed in touch after your divorce then?”

“The odd phone call, the occasional email, but that’s it.” He picked up his cup. “She called me more than I called her.”

“She called you?”

He frowned. “That surprises you?”

“A bit. Did my father know you kept in contact?”

Harry set his coffee down untouched. “Don’t forget Cindy left me for him, not the other way around.”

“She was pregnant with his child.”

“Mistakes happen.”

“Some bigger than others.” She should know.

CHAPTER 44

Dervla tossed and turned. Every time she closed her eyes, a kaleidoscope of her mother, her father, Lucinda, the kids, Cass Marek, Emmet, Gabe, Sophie, Martin and Nathan played in her head. All competed for her attention.

And then there was Harry. Her fingers touched her lips. She could still taste his mouth on hers. Sweet yet raw. She sensed he would’ve stayed if she’d asked him to. Instead, he’d disappeared into the night, leaving her alone to sift through her emotions.

With a sigh, she flipped onto her back and stared into the gloom, listening to the almost non-existent street traffic. She didn’t need a clock to tell her it was the wee small hours. Far too late to try calling Sophie again. According to Todd, Sophie had insisted on going home after leaving the police station.

Not that Dervla could blame her. It had to have taken a lot of courage to confide in your best friend that you’d been sleeping with her married father. A revelation that may have stayed a secret forever if Martin Lombardi hadn’t beaten Sophie so viciously and given her cause to think him capable of killing her lover and his family. Where was her ex-husband now? Was Sophie safe? Todd had said that he had officers keeping an eye on her, but what did that mean?

Untangling the sheets from around her legs, Dervla groped for the bedside light. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, blinking her eyes, and then headed for her office. She flicked on the halogen desk lamp, found the A3 sketchpad that she sometimes used to draft her design ideas on, grabbed a felt tip pen and sat down at the desk.

The blank page stared back at her. Starting with Harry, she wrote down the names spinning around her head, circling each as she went. Then she started connecting the dots. Harry to Lucinda to Warren. Martin to Sophie to Warren. Cass Marek to Warren. Emmet to Warren. Gabe to Warren…

All lines led to her father.

She heard a noise – a bump – outside the window and froze, all her senses alert. With one eye trained on the blinds, she stretched across the desk and switched off the light. For a long moment, she sat in the dark, listening and watching the window. Nothing. She breathed out. Talk about paranoid.

A thump on the roof directly above her almost sent her into orbit. A scurry of claws followed. She gave a nervous titter. Spooked by a possum.

Her relief was short-lived. Another bump, followed by the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on gravel. Light flashed across the office window and then disappeared. She forced herself to move. A strong metallic taste filled her mouth as she peered around the edge of the blinds, her pulse off the Richter scale. No dark foreign shapes jumped out at her.

Pulling away from the window, she crept into the hall, feeling her way to the front door. She pressed her ear against the door, her fingers edging toward the porch light switch, her heart hammering so hard it hurt. Click.

She heard what sounded like a muffled expletive, then footsteps. “Ms Johns, it’s Constable Irwin. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing skulking around my house in the middle of the night?” she shouted.

“Detective Gleeson requested we patrol the area, ma’am.”

Dervla opened the door to see a boyish-faced uniformed police officer holding a torch.

He averted his gaze. “My apologies again for disturbing you,” he said to the doorpost.

Realizing too late her state of undress, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Why did he request it? Has something happened?”

“Just a precaution, I understand.”

CHAPTER 45

After a restless night, Dervla woke to find herself curled in a semi-fetal position, daylight filtering through the bedroom blind. She straightened her back, unkinking one vertebra at a time, and rolled over. Her phone sat on the bedside table just out of reach. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat upright.

Yawning, she picked up her phone, checking she hadn’t missed any calls, and hit the speed dial for Sophie’s mobile. It diverted to voicemail.

“I’m really sorry. I know I probably overreacted but…” Dervla paused. “At least send me a text message to tell me you’re okay. Please.” She rang off and tried Sophie’s home number. No answer.

Next, she phoned Todd, the call diverting to his voicemail after five rings. She hung up without leaving a message and dashed to the bathroom. When she came out, she tried Gabe’s number. Twice, in case he was asleep the first time.

Carrying the phone with her, she prowled the house. Where the hell was everyone? She scrolled through her phone’s address book. Her finger hovered over Harry’s number. She needed to hear a real voice. She pressed call.

“Good morning,” he answered. “I hope you slept well.”

“I wish. I thought I had a prowler.”

“What happened?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing a double-shot espresso couldn’t fix. It turned out to be just a cop on patrol.”

“Good,” he said, his relief evident. “I take it this means Martin Lombardi is still at large. Have you heard from your friend since we spoke?”

“No, and it worries me. It could be that she’s avoiding me, but I think I’ll take a run over to her place.

“I should come with you.”

“Not a good idea. If she thinks I’ve been talking about her behind her back that’ll just make it ten times worse. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen her.” She said her goodbyes and headed for the shower.

Forty minutes later, Dervla pulled into Sophie’s driveway. All the curtains were drawn and there was no sign of life. She scrambled out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and marched up to the villa’s front door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked and waited.

And waited.

When the door didn’t open, she started tipping terracotta pots of gardenia, hoping Sophie hadn’t found another hiding place for her spare key. She discovered it under the second last pot. After wiping the dirt off the key, she unlocked the door and nudged it open. The shattered ceramic wall sculpture had been cleaned up.

“Sophie,” she called out, “it’s Dervla. I just need to know you’re okay and then I’ll go.”

Hearing no response, she stepped over the threshold. “Sophie!”

Feeling like a burglar, she crept through the house checking each room in turn. No sign of a struggle in the living room or kitchen. Sophie wasn’t lying unconscious on the floor of her bathroom.

Next room, the home office. She flicked on the light switch and was about to turn it off again when her eye caught a flash of fuchsia-pink. Leaning down, she extracted what looked to be a crumpled brochure wedged between the back of the desk and the wall. She smoothed it out. It was a Pregnancy Advisory Service brochure titled “Information for Women Considering Abortion.”

Her father’s handwriting leapt out at her:
Must have GP referral – Medicare – $287.
Dervla stifled a gasp. Was that what had pushed Martin over the edge? That his ex-wife was pregnant with another man’s baby? Especially when doctors had told him and Sophie they would probably never conceive a child. Dervla shoved the brochure in her bag and moved on.

After checking the laundry and toilet, she retraced her steps to the kitchen and opened the door through to the garage. A slight oiliness overlaid the smell of concrete. Daylight spilled through the garage’s one window, highlighting Sophie’s empty car.

Dervla’s gaze roamed to the far wall, taking in metal shelves of paint cans, brushes and car wax. Further down, two hooks held a fishing rod in place. She glanced to her right, toward the old chest freezer Martin used to use for his bait and catch, noticing for the first time dark smears down the side of it. Blood?

For a second, she stood rooted to the floor, unable to move. The only sounds came from outside, distant traffic, a magpie calling. Telling herself not to be so stupid, she willed herself forward. Even if it were blood, it didn’t mean it was Sophie’s. Fish bled.

She opened the lid. A silent scream blocked her throat. She couldn’t breathe in; she couldn’t breathe out. Staring back at her through frost-encrusted eyelashes was Martin. He lay on his back, his legs bent to his chest, one foot bare. The black-rimmed, bloodied hole above his right eyebrow left her in no doubt that he was dead.

A noise startled her. The freezer lid slipped from her grasp, smacking shut. She heard the back door close, then footsteps.

Sophie appeared in the doorway, her expression almost as shocked as Martin’s. “What are you doing here?” While the swelling around her eye had reduced, the bruising was more evident.

Dervla tried to smile. “I was worried about you. When you didn’t return my calls, I thought I’d better come around and check you were okay.”

Sophie glanced at the freezer, then back at Dervla. Her eyes narrowed. “I had no choice.”

“Of course not. No one would doubt that it was self-defense.”

Sophie scratched the side of her neck. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

“What difference would it have made? Your father didn’t care. He was more concerned with making sure his
precious
,” Sophie’s lip curled, “Lucinda didn’t find out.”

“Did Lucinda know about your relationship?” Dervla edged away.

“Don’t be ridiculous. When it came to her
darling
Warren she was blind,” Sophie said, almost spitting the words.

“But she found out about Cass Marek.”

“I doubt it.”

“But I don’t understand.” Then it dawned on Dervla. The photos. Why Sophie didn’t want to meet Cass Marek. “You had Warren followed. You impersonated Lucinda and warned off Cass Marek. You were the one who sent those photos to John Bailey.”