Grand Slam (37 page)

‘I'm getting a drink. You want something?'

‘Just you. Don't be long.'

I found Joe in the kitchen wearing tracky dacks, hair messed up, making himself a hot chocolate.

‘Aren't you watching the tennis?'

‘Yep. In my room.' He checked out Jack's T-shirt with a smile. Joe was happy I was here, I knew. I reckoned he wanted a wedding as badly as my mother.

I put the kettle on. ‘Joe.'

‘Uh-huh?'

‘Will Sharon stay here much longer?'

‘She's leaving next week.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. Back to Sydney.'

‘Is that where she'll be based with the Team? In Sydney?'

‘Yep.'

‘Emilio will be happy about that.'

‘I reckon.'

‘So now Sharon and Emilio are together I can stop worrying.'

‘You've never had to worry about Sharon. I keep telling you.'

‘But why? Why
wouldn't
I worry? She's so gorgeous and accomplished and —'

‘Erica —'

‘I thought maybe she was gay but then if she was gay why didn't she —'

Joe slapped his hand on the counter. My mouth snapped shut and I looked at him.

‘The reason you've never had to worry about Sharon,' he said, quietly, ‘is because Jack's with
you
.'

My jaw dropped. I took a moment to respond while my brain processed that information. I could hear the cogs clunking and wheels grinding. ‘He's
with
me?'

‘It's pretty obvious.'

‘Like, in a relationship?'

He nodded, smiling. ‘You haven't figured that out?'

I shook my head slowly, mouth hanging open.

‘Jack's all yours.' Joe gave me a wink, and as he headed back to his room, with a smile in his voice added, ‘Hope you can handle it.'

So I'm standing at my front gate and I'm soaked and it's been the worst day in history. Everything's gone wrong since I got out of bed. The milk was off. I put a finger through my brand-new tights and I don't even have fingernails. I left my umbrella at home knowing full well a storm was coming and now I can't find my keys and the rain's stinging my face.

I booted the gate open and stumbled through it, wondering why I'd forgotten to lock it. My old veranda gave no shelter. I dumped my bag on the ground and squatted over it, gazing into the abyss, hoping for a glimpse of silver, cursing the broken light and my stupid boss and the late, crowded, smelly train. ‘And,' I shouted at my bag, ‘that stupid goddamn police barricade!'

Thunder crashed and I jumped. I whipped my head around to yell at the black sky, but something caught my eye. Something snug and dry by the front door. My stupid yellow umbrella! I swiped at it, launching it into the night, and watched it land with a splat in the middle of my courtyard garden. But the sunny yellow seemed so wrong in this new, strange scene. Which contained a human shape. Lying on its side. Facing me.

Lightning lit the walled space. I thought the guy looked pretty much dead.

I squatted stiff on the doormat, gaping at the dead guy's dark form.

He lifted his head and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘No police. Please.'

‘Not dead,' I whispered back.

Fitful flashes of light froze the scene. He squinted at me through the rain. I stood slowly and glanced at the gate, which suddenly seemed a long way away. I let out my held breath in a long slow trickle, trying to be invisible, and edged towards the gate.

‘
Please help
,' he groaned.

But I dashed for the gate, wrenched it open and ran through. I stood in the gutter between parked cars, watching the gate swing shut, peering back through the wrought iron rails at my sprawled bag.
No. This is not happening.
Rain pounded my head. I gulped breaths and shaded my eyes, looking over the roofs of parked cars at the blurred flashing lights at the end of my street. I looked back at the gate, breathed in –
should've gone to the pub
– breathed out.

The lights from the police barricade flashed at the edge of my vision. In my mind I heard the man's plea. Could see his eyes. Hear sirens. One more glance down the street and I sucked in a great, deep breath as some invisible force pushed my feet forward, through the gate and up the path to my handbag. I picked it up, hugging it to my chest, and turned slowly to look at the man. He was watching me. I shuffled closer. His face was ghostly white under long straggly black hair and a beard. Dirt streaked his face. I leant in, staring at him in the erratic light as he squinted back at me. Not dirt. Blood. Watery blood seeped from his head and joined a black river that flowed from his body, across the pale pavers and into my geraniums.

‘Shit!' I groped for my phone. ‘I'll get help!'

‘
No!
' he gasped, his hand stretching towards me and I stepped back. ‘No doctors. No police. Please!' The man's fingers held a small white card. I stared at it. His hand started to shake and his breath came in quick puffs. I reached out slowly and took the card. He groaned and rolled onto his back, his head flopping to one side.

‘Are you all right?' No response. I poked him. The storm was retreating; rain stopping as abruptly as it had started an hour earlier. A dark puddle formed under the man. I tilted the card towards a street light. Through bloody fingerprints I could just make out a mobile phone number, embossed in gold. No other details, just the number.

No doctors, no police.
I found my phone and pressed 000. I looked at the phone and back at the card, my thumb hovering over the green button. The man's hand closed suddenly around my wrist. I jumped and tried to pull away but he was strong. In the weak light, his dark eyes held mine for a long moment.

‘I can't just let you die,' I whispered.

He shut his eyes and his head rocked from side to side. ‘Don't call police. National importance . . .'

I could barely hear him. I leant closer.

‘Death is better. Trust me, please,
Erica
.'

I'm not sure how I would have pulled this off without the usual collection of dedicated professionals, friends, family, writing buddies, associates and associations cheering me on, whispering advice and, where necessary (and it's often necessary) bossing me about.

First, thank you to my editor, Sarah Fairhall, and the crack team of professionals at Penguin Random House for this opportunity. Also my agent, Sheila Drummond, for her sound guidance.

But mostly, to these people who had little to gain by parting with their precious time and priceless advice:

Sydney Smith and Belinda Byrne – your instincts for great story and your coaching skills are incomparable. I can't express my grati­tude enough. Truly, I would not have a writing career without you.

These friends, who read the
whole thing
and gave me such valuable feedback: Pam Higgins, one of my dearest friends and who really gets my work. Thank you – you had better things to do. Alli Sinclair, who took my manuscript on a cruise! Thank you, most generous friend, especially for your Spanish translations. Nigelle-Ann Blaser, who doesn't even know me. Thank you for loving my work, and for helping me keep the faith when it slipped.

These friends, who helped with the detail that adds so much colour and depth to a story: Dave Bilton, Ashley Carr, Annette Ellis, Nan Entink, Kerrie Mason, Denise Sleeth, Glen Thompson, and my gorgeous hairdressers, Jasmin and Lauren.

My writing buddies: LLGs – I've missed you. The awesome AWSOMs – I love our ‘meetings'; may there be many more that I actually attend. The outstanding RWA 2015 conference team. Romance Writers of Australia and Sisters in Crime. Vikki Petraitis, for her help-with-keeping-the-faith skills. Kate Belle – one of those friends I thank heaven for sending my way. Elaine Fry – I'm not sure why I deserve your friendship and support.

My family members, who are so patient when I need to shut myself away and write. Dad – you didn't get to read this book but you might think that's a good thing. Mum – I'm so proud of you and I promise Mrs Jewell is not you. My sister Annette – you are the best person I know. Okay? So just shut up.

And my darling hubs, Paul Sleeth, who supports me in every way and who read the first draft, gave stern advice on house renovations, prowled with me around St Kilda marina, and – while I burned the midnight oil to meet deadlines – vacuumed the floor, cooked the barby, sent me on a holiday, and didn't complain about my unshaved legs.

To all these people, I am so grateful.