Bitter Nothings (5 page)

“No, wait. I’m sorry…”

Her stride didn’t waver. She’d heard it all a thousand times before.

In the same instant that she spotted Emmet pacing back and forth outside her front gate, it came to her: She wasn’t the story, her father was. Freelance journalist, John Bailey, had been hoping she would lead him to the man suspected of murdering his own family.

CHAPTER 6

Emmet shook his mobile phone at her. “Where the hell have you been? You weren’t answering either phone. You weren’t answering the door. Gabe didn’t know where you were. No one did. God, Dervla, anything could’ve happened.”

“What? Do you have some news?”

“No, but that’s not the issue.”

“What then? Am I not allowed to leave the house now?” She turned the front door key in the lock.

“Not here,” he said, bundling her inside before she could protest. “You never know who’s listening.”

“Like who?”

“Like the media. I’m surprised they haven’t been sniffing around here already. Haven’t you had any phone calls?”

She shook her head. “Don’t forget I have a silent number.”

“But you’re on the Internet,” he said, making a beeline for the kitchen.

“As Yarra Graphic Design, not Dervla Johns. Don’t worry, if they really want to find me, they will,” she said, conveniently forgetting to mention one of their lot already had. But one lecture a day was more than enough. “Anyway, what is it that you want to tell me that you don’t want anyone overhearing?”

He frowned at her, a cup in each hand. “Coffee?”

“Stop avoiding the question, Em. You obviously came here to tell me something.”

“I came to see how you were doing.”

“And?”

He tamped down the ground coffee, avoiding her gaze. “And to check if you’ve seen the news today.”

Letting out a loud huff, she flopped into the nearest armchair. “Yes, unfortunately.” Though her anger toward the police, and specifically Detective Todd Gleeson, for deceiving her had dissipated with her walk, she wasn’t yet ready to forgive.

“Oh, that’s all right then. I guess you had to face the truth sooner or later.”

“Excuse me?” What had happened to innocent until proven guilty?

“You know what I mean.”

She didn’t, but then she’d already decided that it didn’t matter how her father was located, just that he was. Whatever it took.

Her mobile phone rang. She snatched it up, realizing as she answered it, that she hadn’t checked her messages.

“Dervla Johns? Hello, this is Gina Mariani from News—”

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number,” Dervla said and hung up. She checked for missed calls. Three, all from private numbers. One message from the same reporter who had just called.

“Hey, do you want a coffee, or not?” Emmet called as she headed into the hall to check the answering machine.

“Please.” The answering machine’s unblinking green eye stared at her. No messages. She picked up the phone, listened to the dial tone, and hung up. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called?

The door to her office stood ajar. Email? Sillier things had happened. With a sigh, she entered the darkened room, going straight to the ten-seater glass-topped dining table she called her desk. Not that she could see much of the glass under her mess, organized as it was. She tapped her keyboard’s space bar, interrupting the screensaver.

Twelve new emails of which only one required an immediate reply: a request from a new client chasing artwork promised yesterday for an upcoming product presentation. Johns was a common enough name. The client had no reason to associate the slain family bearing the same name in the news with her. After all, things like that never happened to anyone you knew.

Not that it absolved Dervla from her obligations. She typed a quick reply, apologizing and explaining there had been a death in the family, but that she would have the proofs to him by the next morning. And his project wasn’t her only outstanding job. At least work would give her something else to think about and keep her from prowling the house in the wee small hours.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Alana yet?” she asked Emmet on her return to the living room.

He looked up from the couch. “Don’t you think I would’ve told you if I had?”

“Just asking.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to snap.” He slid one of the two cups on the coffee table toward her. “Don’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

She plumped down into an armchair, sitting motionless for a time before remembering her coffee.

The first sip brought her up short. “Blah! God, how much sugar did you put in this?”

“I thought you could do with some sweetening.”

She pulled a face at him and went back to drinking it. The next mouthful came as less of a shock. “Am I allowed to ask if you’ve seen Gabe today?”

“Sure.”

“Sure what?” She set her cup back on the table.

“Sure you’re allowed to ask.”

“Not now, Em,” she said, kneading her temples.

“Okay, okay. Since you asked so nicely. I haven’t seen him as such, but he did phone first thing to say he had a few things he had to attend to at work and that he would be around later. Though I’m surprised big brother hasn’t called you himself.”

“He did, but not since the police appealed for information on their ‘armed and dangerous’ murder suspect.”

“That’s because he’s a coward.”

“What? Am I that scary?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds I might incriminate myself.” He dodged the cushion she threw at him.

She pulled her feet up onto the chair and locked her arms around her knees. “I’m worried about Alana. Do you think we should report her as a missing person?”

“She’ll turn up. She always does.”

The doorbell rang.

“Stay put,” Emmet said, getting to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

He returned a minute later with Gabe in tow.

Dervla remained seated. “I’m surprised you have the nerve to show your face.”

“Todd reckoned you would react like this.”

“What did you expect? One of you could’ve had the common decency to at least warn me. Turning the telly on to hear – along with a million or so other close relatives – the police have your father on their ‘most wanted’ list…” She shook her head.

“Sorry, okay?” Gabe skirted the coffee table and plonked himself in the other armchair. “Anyway, I came to tell you there have already been two reported sightings.”

“Really? Where?” She held her breath.

“One at a roadhouse on the Barrier Highway in South Australia and another in a Coles supermarket in Frankston.”

“Did he split himself in two or something?” Frankston, 40 kilometers south of Melbourne, was in the opposite direction to South Australia, over twelve hours drive away.

Emmet sniggered, earning himself a warning look from his brother.

“At this stage,” Gabe continued, “neither can be confirmed, but the police are following up both.”

“Be honest, Gabe, but do you really think Dad has it in him to kill another human, let alone his own family? You know him better than any of us.”

Clearing his throat, Gabe studied the floor between his feet. “No…” he said, dragging out the vowel, “but that’s not what the evidence is saying.”

“What evidence? It’s all circumstantial. Unless…” Her chest tightened. “Unless there’s something you’ve haven’t told me.”

He cleared his throat again. “Crime scene examiners found a partial bloody footprint upstairs. A men’s size 11 boot.”

A harsh laugh escaped her throat. “Tell me, what size are your feet?”

Gabe’s eyed narrowed then widened. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He shuffled his feet as if in doing so he could somehow reduce their size. “What reason would I have to want to do away with my stepmother and half-siblings?”

“Touché.”

“Okay, point taken.” His mouth twisted in a smug smile. “Of course, you could always ask Emmy-boy here the same question.”

“Piss off.” Emmet’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“One bloody footprint, is that all they have to go on? What about fingerprints, DNA, ballistics and whatnot?”

Gabe snickered. “You’ve been watching too much CSI. Sure,” he said, his tone sobering, “they recovered the bullets, but until they find the gun, they’re not going to be of much help. Fingerprints: only those you would expect to find. DNA: still waiting for the results. None of which, you do realize, will exclude Dad.”

Her mobile phone buzzed. She leapt for it.

1 message received

From her father. Her stomach turning somersaults, she opened the message.

sorry. have to go

away for a while.

pls dont worry.

don’t tell anyone.

i can explain. dad

She hit the end button and, releasing her breath, looked up. Both brothers’ gazes were trained on her face.

“What?” She laughed, the sound hollow even to her own ears. “Don’t look so worried. It’s just a client following up on a project. I’ll call him shortly and sort it out.”

CHAPTER 7

After Gabe and Emmet left, Dervla busied herself with work, focusing on the promised artwork for her newest client. She opened one of the supplied images in Photoshop and increased the contrast a fraction. If only life were as easy to fix.

Her father’s text message kept playing over and over in her head. What did he mean by
have to go away for a while
? What did any of it mean? He had said not to tell anyone and she hadn’t, but it was eating her up inside. Gabe was closer to their father. Why hadn’t he contacted him instead? Maybe he had, but then again…

There was nothing for it; she’d have to find him, talk to him face to face. Of the two reported sightings, the South Australian one sounded more likely. But was he headed to a specific destination? She recalled Lucinda talking about an old potter’s cottage tucked away at the base of Mt Remarkable where she and Warren had holidayed once. Like looking for a needle in a haystack sprang to mind, but it was her only lead. Besides, anything had to be better than sitting around driving herself insane postulating.

She dropped the enhanced image into her design layout and aligned it against the left guideline. Almost done. She picked out the darkest of the blues in the company’s logo and applied it to the main text. A few more clicks and a proof copy was on its way, along with an apology for its lateness. Not the best of starts with the client.

The doorbell rang. Resting her forehead on her arms, she willed whomever it was to go away. She’d had enough of police, ex-fiancés, reporters and brothers for one day.

No such luck. It rang again. She sighed and went to answer it.

At the sight of her auburn-haired friend, Dervla burst into tears.

“Oh, hon…” Sophie stepped across the threshold and wrapped her arms around Dervla. “I don’t know what to say. I can hardly believe it myself.”

Dervla pulled away, sniffing. “I didn’t expect you for ages.”

“Hey, what’s a couple of speeding tickets in the scheme of things?” Sophie’s almond-shaped eyes creased in concern. “Seriously, I got here as soon as I could.”

Unable to speak, Dervla nodded and turned on her heel.

Sophie followed. “Do you have any of that chamomile tea I gave you left?”

Dervla pointed in the direction of the kitchen cupboards, then sunk into the nearest armchair. She rubbed her bare arms and shivered. When had it got so cold? She glanced up at the ceiling fan, half-expecting to see it revolving.

Long-legged Sophie, her denim skirt skimming her toned thighs, appeared in front of her, holding aloft an almost full bottle of peach schnapps and two shot glasses. “Found something better.”

Only slightly better than dried lawn clippings tea. Not that taste would matter after the first glass. She pressed her lips into what she hoped was a smile, watching as her friend unscrewed the cap and poured two measures.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sophie passed Dervla her drink.

“Maybe in a bit.” The liquor tasted like cough medicine. She skolled it, the fiery liquid warming her from the inside out, and presented her glass for a refill.

Sophie’s eyes widened, her eyebrows disappearing under her fringe.

“Please tell me it isn’t real. That it’s all just a terrible nightmare. That I’m going to wake up…” The second glass went down just as fast as the first. “Please.”

“Oh, hon.” Sophie perched on the edge of the chair and put her arm around Dervla’s shoulders. “I wish I could.”

The warmth from her friend’s skin leaching into her own, Dervla blinked back tears, fighting the urge to draw away. She craved human touch, yet feared it. She had to protect herself, and if she didn’t let people in, she couldn’t get hurt. One-night stands with faceless strangers didn’t count; they scratched an itch and that’s all.

“Don’t worry, they’ll find him. Bring him home and make him pay for what he did to those poor children.”

Dervla swallowed a sob. “What?”

“Your father. He can’t hide forever.”

Hunching her shoulders, she freed herself from Sophie’s grip and stood. “I can’t believe it. Am I the only one who’s prepared to give my father the benefit of the doubt? You know him. You must know how much he loved those children. In your heart of hearts, can you honestly see him putting a gun to their heads?”

Swinging her right leg, Sophie stared at her for a moment before looking away.

“I thought you were my friend,” Dervla said in a small voice.

Sophie jumped up. “Oh, hon, I am. I was only going on what I read in the papers and heard on the radio. You’re right: I should know better. Please forgive me.” She sat on the couch and patted the seat next to her. “Perhaps it would help us both if you told me everything from the start.”

Dervla hesitated.

“A trouble shared and all that.”

“If you say so.” Though Dervla had never understood how talking about a problem could help, she was at that point where she was willing to try anything. Keeping a cushion-width between them, she seated herself at the end of the couch, her fingers clutching the armrest as if it were a lifebuoy.