Brittle Shadows (34 page)

He swallowed, the acrid morning-after taste of whisky harsh in his
parched mouth.

“Kirsty?” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he called again, hesitant
but louder.

In the crushing silence, time stood still.

“Kirsty!” he screamed, as he dashed into the master bedroom’s
compact, white-tiled en suite. He stumbled, clutching at the doorframe. He took
in the bloodied handprints adorning the vanity unit and walls like some sort of
macabre finger-painting. Fighting an intense wave of nausea, he looked down at
the blood-smeared floor.

Trying desperately to rein in his growing panic, he raced to the
main bathroom. His wife wasn’t there either. Next room.

Out of breath, heart hammering, he reached the internal door that
led to the double garage and opened it. The external roller door was down and
his red Alfa Romeo and Kirsty’s silver Lexus were parked next to each other.

Gripping the door handle, he sagged against the door. He took a deep
breath. Fought for control of his adrenaline-charged body. He lurched into the
kitchen, heading for the sink.

Hands shaking violently, he somehow managed to turn on the cold
water tap. He watched, mesmerized, as the blood from his hands, diluted by
water, swirled in a pink eddy in the bottom of the sink before disappearing
down the plughole.

Oblivious to the water dripping from his hands, he dropped onto the
pine storage-box-cum-bench beneath the window at the end of the kitchen. Elbows
on knees, he dropped his forehead into his hands. If only the infernal pounding
would let up, he could think straight.

His memory of the previous evening was patchy, to say the least. He
had a vague recollection of arriving home stressed after a late-night meeting
at the office and, bypassing the dried-out dinner Kirsty had kept warm for him,
heading for the bottle of Chivas Regal. After that, it was anyone’s guess as to
what had happened.

A series of short clips flashed through his mind. In one, he saw
himself shouting at Kirsty, her throwing up her hands and yelling back. What
had they been arguing about? In another, he was picking up his car keys, and…

Damn it! Why can’t I remember?
he
thought, glancing towards the door leading into the garage. It was then he saw
the set of four smudged, rust-brown streaks low on the doorframe. He closed his
eyes, praying for the nightmare to end.

Except he had a feeling the nightmare was only beginning…

SLEIGHT ~ use of
dexterity or cunning, especially so as to deceive.

MALICE ~ the
intention or desire to do evil; ill will.

One cold Melbourne
winter's night a suburban bungalow goes up in flames. Despite their best efforts,
firefighters are unable to save the home. When a badly charred body is
discovered in the remains, web designer Desley James is devastated. Her best
friend, Laura Noble, had been the only one in the house that night - her
partner, Ryan Moore, is away in Sydney on business. Then Desley learns the
unidentified body is male. But it's not Ryan. He and Laura have disappeared…

Not realising
until it's almost too late what some people will do to cover their tracks,
Desley teams up with private investigator Fergus Coleman to search for the
missing couple.

“In perfect Vicki
Tyley fashion, ‘Sleight Malice’ entertains and stuns its readers.” – Lit Fest
Magazine

CHAPTER 1

Rough hands
grabbed her. Clamped across her waist, his powerful arm squeezed the breath
from her lungs. He hauled her backwards, her thrashing arms and legs no more an
inconvenience to him than if she had been a pinned fly.

She coughed, her eyes watering as the hot, acrid air seared the
inside of her throat. With both hands, she tried in desperation to prize the
immovable weight from her stomach. “Let me go! Get…”

Her chest convulsed against the heavy, grit-laden smoke. The man’s
hold on her eased. She seized her chance and wrenched herself from his grip.
She stumbled forward, shielding her face with her arms, but the fire’s
intensity drove her back.

Back into the arms of the firefighter.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there!” shouted the
hulking black and yellow protective-clad figure. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Desley James scarcely heard him over the din of the fire trucks,
pumps and roar of the blaze. Her only concern was for Laura. Where was she? Had
she been at home? Had she escaped the inferno? What about Ryan?

She opened her mouth to speak, inhaling a mouthful of burnt air
instead. Spluttering, she bent her head forward and drew the thin cotton
T-shirt she wore over her mouth and nose.

“Have you got everyone out?”

The firefighter leaned down, his ear almost touching her face.
“Sorry, what was that?”

She repeated her question, watching his face as her words, muffled
by the fine weave of her makeshift filter, sunk in. He averted his gaze, but
not before she had her answer.

“Oh dear God, no. Please tell me it isn’t true. It’s not possible,”
she added in a whisper only audible to herself.

This time when he lifted her off her feet she didn’t resist; all the
fight had left her. A female police officer joined them, draping a blanket
around Desley’s shoulders as the firefighter set her down beside the open back
door of a police car.

She shivered, pulling the blanket in tighter as she sunk onto the
backseat, the wool fibers bristly against her hot skin. The vehicle’s interior
light cast a ghostly pall over the two faces staring down at her.

“...easy, fluid
readability factor. I didn't want to put the book down, and it was immensely
enjoyable.” -MotherLode blog

The lives of two
strangers, Greg Jenkins and Megan Brighton, become inextricably entangled when
they each sign up for a dinner dating agency. Greg's reason for joining has
nothing to do with looking for love. His recently divorced sister Sam has
disappeared and Greg is convinced that Dinner for Twelve, or at least one of
its clients, may be responsible. Neither is Megan looking for love. Although
single, she only joined at her best friend Brenda De Luca's insistence. When a
client of the dating agency is murdered, suspicion falls on several of the
members. Then Megan's friend Brenda disappears without trace, and Megan and
Greg join forces. Will they find Sam and Brenda, or are they about to step into
the same inescapable snare?

CHAPTER 1

As he listened to the second phone
call from his mother, Greg Jenkins noted the increased tremor in her voice.

“Samantha still hasn’t arrived. And she’s still not answering her
phone. I’m so worried. Should I call the hospitals? What—”

“Whoa. Slow down, Mum. Don’t stress out. Remember what the doctor
said. Don’t worry about Sam. We all know how bad she is with time. She’d be
late for her own funeral.” Greg laughed, hoping to ease his mother’s tension.

“Yes, but—”

“Please, Mum, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Sam has—”

“Gregory, dear, I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Sam’s a boy’s
name.”

“Okay, Mum.” He started again, using the name Sam herself loathed.
“Samantha’s a big girl now. I’m sure she’s all right, but just to put your mind
at rest I’ll go and check on her. She’s probably so wrapped up in her new man
she’s forgotten she was supposed to visit you this weekend.” He laughed again.

“What new man?” The pitch of her voice rose.

Greg could almost see her gripping the phone in both hands as she
waited for her eldest child to answer. Silently berating himself for opening
his big mouth, he wrestled with what he could say without digging himself into
a bigger hole.

“Gregory?”

“Sorry, Mum, there’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go, but I
promise I’ll get Sam… Samantha to phone you as soon as I can. Now don’t get all
worked up. There’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see. Bye, Mum.”

He hung up, sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. There
was no one at the door but at short notice, it was the only thing he could
think of to get out of what would’ve been the inevitable interrogation. His
sister needed her butt kicked for letting down their mother like that. Sam, of all
people, knew how over-protective their mother was, more so since Sam divorced
her no-hoper of a husband and moved to Melbourne.

Greg picked up the phone again, and pressed the two buttons that
would dial his sister’s home phone a suburb away. As he waited for the call to
connect, he wandered through the house into the kitchen. The phone started
ringing. Cradling it between his chin and shoulder, he filled the kettle. The
phone rang out, which was good. It probably meant Sam was en route to their
mother’s place. Maybe she’d been unlucky enough to end up with a flat tire or
broken down. It was bound to be something as simple as that.

The kettle boiled as he tried Sam’s mobile number. It too went
unanswered, but at least this time Greg was able to leave a message. He looked
at his watch. He’d give her half an hour and if she hadn’t called him back by
then, he would have to think of what else he could do to try to track her down.
Younger sisters, who’d have them?

Twenty minutes later, he’d emptied the coffee pot and finished off
the best part of a packet of shortbread biscuits without realizing it. His
mother’s anxiety had started to rub off on him. He didn’t wait the half hour
out. Instead, he reached for the phone and dialed Sam’s mobile first and then
her home again, ending up with exactly the same results as before. No answer at
either.

Had it been a Freudian slip when he’d inadvertently mentioned the
new man in Sam’s life to his mother? Greg knew nothing about the guy except he
was, in Sam’s words, “tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous.” He didn’t even know
the guy’s name. What he did know was that Sam had met him through one of those
agencies that specialized in dinner dating. Dinners for the desperate and
dateless. He found the whole concept repugnant, but his sister had assured him
that all was civilized and above board. He’d taken those assurances at face
value, happy she was making an effort to get on with her life.

CHAPTER 2

Megan Brighton peered around the
edge of her menu, flinching as her eyes met the ginger-mustached man’s stare
across the table. What a sad lot her dinner companions were. Even the strained
smiles pasted on the majority of faces at the table did little to lighten the
atmosphere.

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” asked
the man seated on her right, before laughing.

She groaned inwardly. Why’d she allowed herself to be talked into
this? She didn’t belong there. She was single because she chose to be. A single,
professional career woman. Well, at least that’s what she told anyone who cared
to listen, including herself.

“I’m not sure,” she said, her gaze not shifting from her menu. “It’s
not quite what I’d imagined.” If it hadn’t been for Brenda, Megan knew she
would have scarpered as soon as she caught sight of the ten or so
white-tableclothed tables arranged around the room, each set for a dozen
diners. From the company’s blurb, she’d been expecting to be one of “twelve
carefully matched diners” eating at your standard everyday restaurant with
normal people. Where she’d ended up looked more like a function centre,
reminiscent of a wedding reception. The only difference was a lack of bride and
groom, and the guests weren’t related by blood or marriage. Or at least she
hoped not.

A beefy hand cut through her vision. “It’s Wayne, by the way. Wayne
McGurk.”

She blinked and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Wayne. Megan
Brighton.”

“So what do you do?”

“Recruitment consultant. And you?”

Wayne puffed out his chest. “Property entrepreneur. Units, villas,
townhouses, duplexes, houses, vacant land, commercial, residential. You name
it. Not good to have all your eggs in one basket. The key is to buy well under
market price to minimize risk. Instant equity…”

Megan’s gaze swept the table. Next to Mr Ginger Moustache, whose place
tag actually named him as Robert, sat Nick, a square-jawed man with dark-rimmed
spectacles. Thanks to Brenda switching place tags, Nick had to be content
sitting between two males. He was looking off into the distance, his thoughts
obviously further afield than the immediate table. Adam, a hollow-cheeked
pasty-faced man sporting a dark goatee beard was deep in conversation with Kate
who was seated at the end. The boy-girl pattern continued as it was meant to
around the table.

“…investment. You have to have the gift.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught Brenda smirking. Under
the cover of the tablecloth, she kicked her foot sideways and connected with
her friend’s ankle. Brenda chuckled before wincing in overplayed mock pain and
indignation.