 
# Losing Your Head

### A Charlie Davies Mystery

## Clare Kauter
Copyright © 2015 by Clare Kauter

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover produced with help from Brusheezy.com.

Wow, wasn't that a riveting copyright page? You should keep reading. It gets even better after this.

### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Also by Clare Kauter

About the Author

What now?

Deadhead
For my Grandma, who would have been really handy during the editing process.

* * *

(Seriously, even this dedication has a green squiggly line under it. _What do you want from me, Microsoft Word?!)_

# Chapter One

Why is it that every time you do something you hope no one will notice, you get found out?

I read once that the chance someone's watching you is directly connected to how much of an idiot you're being. I know this is true, because I screw up a lot and I have never gotten away with it.

Seriously. Not even once.

It has been that way since the day I was born – when I did a poo during my first ever bath, which my father kindly documented on film so that he may bring it out at dinner parties forevermore – and it will probably be that way until the day I die. Given the number of ridiculous injuries I incur on a daily basis, my death can't be too far away. Frankly I'm surprised I've lasted this long.

I know I'm not the only person who gets embarrassed, but I seem to receive more than my fair share of public humiliation.

Just look at my time in high school. I did a lot of stupid things in the space of those six years. (Yes, six years – I went to an Australian high school, I'm not just really bad with numbers. Well OK, I am, but not bad enough to mess up counting how long I was in school.) All the idiotic things I did in that time were noticed. And all were highly embarrassing.

As early as my first high school assembly, the rest of the school learned my propensity for bad luck when I was called upon to receive an award. The laughter started the second I stood up and began walking towards the stage. I ploughed on regardless, hoping against hope that there was some event entirely unrelated to me that was causing this hysteria.

I made it up to the stage, peals of laughter ringing through the hall, and accepted the certificate. That was when the man presenting the award leaned forward and whispered, "Your skirt's tucked in at the back."

I know what you're thinking. 'OK, that's mildly embarrassing, sure. It's hardly next-level though. To be honest, I was expecting a little more.'

Well, my friend, you will not be disappointed.

Realising that my bottom was on show to the entire school, I whipped around, trying to hide it. Unfortunately, however, my feet became tangled in a microphone cord and I tripped right into the man presenting the award – also known as the school principal. We both flailed awkwardly for a time, but it was in vain. Down we went, right over the edge of stage left, taking out a few members of the school band on our way down.

Luckily, I came out relatively uninjured. The teacher I had landed on top of (one leg either side, straddling him) was less fortunate. He tried to hold back the tears, but I saw them glistening in the corners of his eyes. He kind of took the brunt of the fall.

He transferred schools not long after.

From then on, people at school were always quick to ask whether my 'boyfriend' would be giving me an award at the next ' _arse_ mbly'. I don't even remember what the award was for. I just remember that I made sure I was at the bottom of the class in every subject for the rest of that year to ensure there'd never be a repeat of the headmaster-humping disaster.

Even after I finished school, if I bumped into someone down the street who knew me from Gerongate High, I still got that same line. Honestly, it was getting a bit old. I mean, c'mon, I'd finished school two years ago. Why were my teachers still tormenting me?

My propensity for messing things up wasn't confined to my school life, either. In fact, my misfortune (exacerbated by my chronic clumsiness) didn't appear to have any confines whatsoever. Every time I thought it had hit the absolute lowest point it possibly could, it plunged to new, previously unfathomable depths.

Take my last job interview. Exactly the kind of circumstance where my anti-superpower thrived.

Things got off to a bad start for me when I was walking into the interview room and realised – drumroll please – my skirt was tucked into my undies at the back, revealing them to the world.

Oh yes. Again.

I know. You'd think I would have learned my lesson the last time. Or that, like, after nearly two decades of multiple trips to the bathroom daily I'd have figured out the routine. But if you think that, you don't know me.

While I was attempting to untangle the clothing wedged in my underwear, I was also trying to focus on balancing in my brand new stilettos. I had worn them in the hope of making a good first impression, although I hadn't quite learned to walk in them yet.

See earlier notes re: never learning my lesson.

I was nearly to the chair when I fell slightly to the left. In a rare display of basic reflexes, I quickly corrected to the right – too quickly, as it turned out. With all that pressure on just one of my shoes, which clearly hadn't been designed to be worn by a trainee, the heel gave way. There was an audible _snap_ and suddenly I was wearing a flat sandal.

As we've already established, balance isn't my strong suit. (I haven't yet figured out what my strong suit actually is, but I'm still holding out hope that I have one.) Destabilised, I fell face first and whacked my head on the table on the way down, then it was lights out for Charlie.

While I don't actually have the clearest memory of what happened thereafter, the paramedics (who I've come to know well over the years) tell me that I hadn't shut the door on my way in, so everyone got to admire me as I lay face down on the floor, unconscious, with my hand still resting on my arse, outlining my failed attempt to pick my skirt out of my crack.

And as though that wasn't bad enough, the only pair of clean undies I'd been able to find that morning was a G-string. Nope. I'm not joking.

The good people at the office dialled emergency services and were advised to leave the injured exactly as she was until the professionals got there, to prevent them from causing any further damage. So I guess they were treated to the view for a while.

As a side note, I feel I should tell you that not all __ of my humiliations involve bums and/or poo. Just the most memorable of them.

I didn't get the job. Not that I wanted it given what had happened. After that display, I would have been more than a little concerned if they had hired me. ('Yes, we liked your... references.' Eek. No thank you.) Plus I probably would have been a major occupational health and safety risk. OK, I _definitely_ would have been. All in all, I wasn't too surprised about the outcome. But I haven't bought shoes from Salina's Sexy Slashed-Price Stilettos since.

Like I said, you can't screw up and expect not to be noticed. It just doesn't work that way. Even if you think no one sees at the time, sooner or later things are going to start to unravel and everyone is going to find out what you've done. That is life and, like it or not, that's just how things go.

Sometimes it can be a good thing. Like when someone commits a crime. A murder, for instance. (Why yes, I am amazing at segues, thank you for noticing.) Obviously, it's not great news for the person who did it, but someone's bound to see something. There will be some piece of evidence, some hint, no matter how hard you try to hide it. Of course, somebody has to figure out what those clues mean, and that doesn't always happen. Which is how people get away with things.

That's what I've learned about crime. At least, that's what I learned from my first case. (Did I just say _my first case_? Argh, that sounds like a Fisher-Price toy. And not even a cool one like plastic dinosaurs or a plushie pig.)

It wasn't like I was a professional case-solver – uh, detective – or anything. I really only did it to prove that I could and I'll admit that I made a few mistakes, but hey, how else are you supposed to learn? Really, given my track record, it's a wonder I survived at all.

So, anyway, My First Case ($15.99 at your local toy store) – the murder of Frank McKenzie.

Gerongate wasn't an exceptionally large place.

I mean, it was a city, but with only 300 000 people, well, it wasn't exactly New York. Even by Australian standards, it was fairly small. It was big enough, though, that you could never know everyone like you could in a country town. You'd get people who seemed to know everyone, but that was just because they always did the same thing and never saw anyone new. I guess I noticed this during the time I spent working at Gregory's Groceries (George Street, Gerongate – just so you can avoid it).

Every customer had a regular shopping day and time, so by the end of the first month I knew everyone's name. Two months and I knew all about everyone's immediate family. Three and I could name everyone in their extended family as well. Four months and they started to let me in on the latest gossip. Five months and my job _really_ pissed me off.

On the rare occasion that we got a new customer, it was normally just one of the regulars' kids who'd grown up and left home. That was fine, but if someone entirely new came in, watch out. The amount of foul looks they received was enough to ensure that they would never return. The way people reacted to newcomers, you'd think that they were criminals. Then again, in the part of Gerongate where I worked, change pretty much was a crime.

So I was about to do something illegal.

I guess this is about time for the boring introduction. Don't worry – I'll keep it short. My name is Charlie Davies. I'm nineteen, and I have sometimes-curly, sometimes-straight blonde hair (it still hasn't decided on its true identity), and dysfunctional blue eyes, meaning I have to wear glasses. Being roughly 5 feet 3 inches (including the height of my hair on a humid day), most fully-grown humans are taller than me. Some people think I have anger management issues. I disagree with this. I disagree with most things.

If you want a concise assessment of my general personality, you could just look at the sum of notes written in my file by the high school counsellor over the course of my two year stint of therapy sessions. It was part of the anger management program that the head of the P.E. department (side note – is it just me or is 'physical education' an exceptionally creepy name for a school subject?) stuck me on after I attempted to assault a guy two years up from me with a hockey stick. Not that it was my fault. He had it coming.

Anyway, the counsellor didn't have much to say about me when I took a sneaky peek at my folder while he was out getting coffee one time. All he had written was 'snide, jaded – would not date.'

Ta-dah, my psychological profile when I was fourteen. Yes _, fourteen,_ and I was already bored with the world. (And also apparently not worthy of the attentions of a paedophile, which is somehow both comforting and offensive.) I haven't changed much since then, except that I'm slightly taller. By roughly a centimetre.

I glanced down at the clock display on the checkout computer. Ten to five. Ten minutes and then my shift was over. I'd been a checkout chick at Gregory's Groceries for more than four years now. Four years of employment at a supermarket that barely passed health regulations. Oh, joy. You'd think that after working somewhere for that long I'd at least have a bit of cash saved up. Only in my dreams.

I cast my gaze around the supermarket. Not that you could really call it that, being that there was nothing exceptionally 'super' about it. Supersized rats emerging at night, maybe. Perhaps you could say that the owner had superpowers in his ability to sweet talk health inspectors. It amazed me that they didn't close Gregory's the moment they entered and were confronted by the cat-sized cockroaches guarding the front door.

I stood there surveying my surroundings, trying to spot the owner-slash-founder-slash-manager of this gem of a store, Mr Gregory himself. Strangely enough, the man's real name was Jeremy Martin. Apparently there had been a misunderstanding when the sign was printed and he was too cheap to get it redone, so the store remains Gregory's to this day.

Jeremy wasn't hard to spot, even amongst the large crowd of Wednesday shoppers. (I think it must have been pension day or something.) Admittedly, it may have been more difficult to find Jeremy were his wife not with him.

Mrs Lea Martin was a nice woman with what most people considered to be a respectable husband. She had married Jeremy at age eighteen and had been regretting it ever since. OK, so that's just speculation on my part, but if I'd somehow ended up married to a ferret like Jeremy, I would _definitely_ be regretting it. And judging by the way Lea was screaming at him now, I was pretty damn sure she agreed.

I didn't really know Jeremy that well as a person. I just knew him as a boss, and he was a crappy one of those. He never paid me enough unless I did special off-the-books jobs for him. Like, say, staying behind after hours to scrub the real best-befores off produce before stamping on new, slightly more optimistic use-by dates. Hey, don't look at me like that. If people lacked the discernment to stay away from this place, they deserved to have natural selection take care of them.

I gathered up my belongings and, standing, took a deep breath. I felt strangely nervous. Was I really going to do this? I shook myself. Come on, Charlie. This should have been the easiest decision of my life. And it was one I should have made a long time ago. No more delaying.

With renewed determination, I set off, striding in Jeremy's direction. As I wove my way through the crowd towards the angry Lea and her cowering ferret, I was able to make out some parts of the torrent of abuse she was hurling at him.

"Just tell me where the hell you were on Monday night, Jeremy! I want the truth. And don't try and spin me that line about you helping your sister. Just admit what you were doing, you little creep!" She let out a stream of descriptive words about her husband. Some people may have said that they were vulgar, but not me. Every single one of those words suited Jeremy down to the ground.

"Sweetheart –"

"Where were you?"

"Darling, I've told you over and over again, I was with Karen. My _sister_. Now, you need to calm down and –"

Trying to tell Lea what to do appeared to be a mistake. Her eyes flashed with fury. "Don't tell me to calm down, you arsehole! It's your own bloody fault I'm so pissed!"

Ah, the joys of married life. I wondered where Jeremy had been. I had no idea of course; he was probably with his sister, like he said. But maybe there was a way I could make use of this situation...

An idea began to form in my head.

Could I really do this? I scoffed at myself. Of course I could. I'd been selling expired groceries to the elderly for years. It wasn't like my conscience played a big role in my life. Besides, what did I have to lose? I'd been planning to quit for a while. Might as well go out with a bang.

I strutted over to Jeremy, pretending not to notice his irate wife, or at least pretending not to care. I gave him a kiss on the cheek (which was kind of gross, but it was for a good cause).

"Hi Jeremy," I said, just loud enough for Lea to hear. "Dinner was great on Monday night. We'll have to do that again some time."

"That's it! I'm getting a divorce!" Lea screamed. And on that note, she left. I thought she did it in a very dignified fashion, considering how angry she'd been a moment before. She walked out as though nothing had happened.

Mission accomplished. Almost. I'd ruined Jeremy's life and reputation. Word of his affair would be out to all the regulars within the next eight and a half minutes, and I doubted they'd think well of him. They might even swap to the new grocery store two blocks over. (Scandalous, I know.) The customers probably wouldn't be too keen on me either, but that wasn't something I needed to worry about. I wasn't going to be around to enjoy it.

Not to mention that I'd saved Lea. She was only twenty-two and beautiful. She'd have no trouble finding a better husband, if her first experience in that arena hadn't put her off for life. I was hoping now that she had a bit of experience behind her she'd pick better second time round.

Now for the next thing on my list. I turned to Jeremy, whose face was red and contorted with rage.

"Charlie – Davies –" he spat at me. "You – are –"

"Suspended pending a review?" I suggested.

"Yes! Two weeks."

I snorted. "Oh dear, how can I live without my pay for two weeks? Oh wait, I've lived without it for the four years I've worked here, so I guess I can manage. By the way, I'm quitting."

"By company rules you're required to give –"

"A two week notice? Yes, I know. This is it. At the end of my suspension, I'm not coming back. Have a nice divorce, Jeremy."

Amazingly, by the time I'd reached the street I still hadn't screwed up. I even checked behind myself as I walked along to confirm that my skirt wasn't tucked into my undies (my classic party trick) and found my cheeks entirely covered for once. Then I turned to look forwards and a brick wall ran straight into my face, breaking the bridge on my glasses, and also possibly my nose.

Oh well. No day is perfect.

# Chapter Two

I walked all the way back to my parents' house holding my specs together with one hand and my face together with the other. I didn't have a car or a house of my own, so I walked to work and lived with my parents. I know, I know. What a grown up.

My parents' house was your average Gerongate abode. There was nothing all that special about it. It was a two storey, three bedroom home designed in the seventies. As it had slowly moved on through the decades, much of the interior and exterior had (thankfully) been updated. However, there was still evidence of the original decorating to be found in the lounge room, where you practically had to wade through the orange shag pile carpet in order to reach the couch.

I once mentioned to my mother that I wasn't a big fan of that rug, and she told me that if I didn't like it I could move out. She'd never changed it, so I guess she was hoping I'd go for the 'leave' option. She'd probably call in the decorators the second I was gone. I was sure she hated it as much as I did – she just liked to give me as many incentives to get my own place as she possibly could. (Please. If her general personality wasn't enough to make me leave, I was hardly going to be brought down by a carpet.)

I entered our house via the front door and walked through to the back, heading for the kitchen to see if I could scrounge up some food. Mum would probably be cooking something, since I hadn't seen her in the garden when I came in.

Before you get the wrong idea, I have to tell you that despite the kind of mental images those hobbies may conjure up – say, my mother as a kind, slightly repressed homemaker – that doesn't even come close to representing her in her entirety. Mama Davies was what you might call a complicated person. Sure, she liked baking, but she was also the person I considered out of all of my relatives the most likely to have murdered someone and gotten away with it. (And if you'd met my relatives, you'd know how many excellent candidates she beat out for that title.)

Another of her favourite pastimes was driving her four-wheel drive Nissan with the massive bull-bar out into the country and 'sight-seeing' – drag racing – with her best friend, Violet McKenzie (who drove a Landcruiser). Mum thought we didn't know what she was doing out there, but it was pretty obvious. I mean, who goes for a country drive with their best friend in two separate cars? Not to mention that she had to replace her tyres monthly because the tread mysteriously vanished.

I stood in the doorway of the kitchen getting high on the smell of biscuits cooking. Mmm. Mum was putting a second round of mixture on the trays ready to go in the oven when the first lot was done. She had her back to me, but she must have heard me come in because before I even spoke she said, "No, there will not be any mixture left over, you won't get it if there is, and you can't lick the bowl. You can eat one of the biscuits when they come out of the oven, like a nice, civilised _grown up_ would do. And –" She turned to face me. "Jeez, what happened to your face? It's hideous!"

I can always rely on Mum for a confidence boost.

"Well, the wall wasn't watching where it was going, and –"

"Get some ice on it or something, for god's sake! It's all bruised and swollen. Where does it hurt?"

Well, I was guessing it was probably hurting in the same place it was bruised and swollen, but I told her anyway.

"Just up the middle of my face." She passed me a bag of frozen peas to put over it, though whether it was to take away the pain or cover it up so she didn't have to look at it I didn't know.

"So, apart from your 'run-in' with the wall," – at this point she began to laugh hysterically at her own joke – "how was your day?"

"Great!" There was no sarcasm in this statement, and my mother cut her eyes to me suspiciously.

"Drugs?"

"No, I – "

"You found a wallet full of money on your way home and you're keeping it?"

"No, I – "

She frowned. "Oh well. Better luck next time."

"I've got big news. It's the reason I'm happy."

"You've finally got a boyfriend and he's asked you to move in with him! Isn't that wonderful? Quick, let's go upstairs and I'll help you pack. Who is he? When do I get to meet him? How old is he? Not that I care too much if he's going to get you out of my house."

"Mum! That's not it. I don't have a boyfriend." She looked a bit put out at that. "But I _did_ quit my job today."

"Really?"

"Yes..."

She was concerned. I could see it on her face.

"Where are you going to work now?"

I paused. I hadn't really thought about that. In fact, I'd totally overlooked it.

"Umm..." I began. "Well..."

"Yes?"

Oops. Forgot about that bit. That whole getting-another-job thing. I wasn't really qualified to do anything. At all. Maybe I could get unemployment benefits. It probably paid better than my last job.

"I don't actually know. I don't suppose you've heard of any jobs available?" I hoped she had. Whatever it was, it couldn't be any worse than working at Gregory's. I was desperate. "Anything?"

"I've heard there's an opening at Coles."

I bit my lip. Well, maybe not _anything._

The next morning I stumbled out of bed far too early. Somehow I managed to make it to the bathroom with my eyes still shut. When I finally opened them and caught sight of myself in the mirror I nearly screamed, thinking there was a monster in the room with me, but when I put on my glasses (which I'd taped together last night) I realised it was just my own purply-blue face in the reflection. The bruise hadn't gotten a lot better while I slept. If anything, it was worse.

I had a quick shower (only half an hour – quick for me), avoided looking at myself in the mirror again, dressed in semi-professional clothes, and headed down to the kitchen for breakfast. After that I planned to spend the rest of the day job seeking.

I settled on a glass of orange juice (which I spilt) and a piece of toast (which I burned) with jam (which kind of made up for the other two mistakes), and then I sat down and grabbed the newspaper to study while I ate. I meant to look for jobs vacant in the Classifieds, but the heading on the front page caught my eye.

This had been the hottest piece of gossip going around Gerongate yesterday. I'd heard about it from everyone I talked to. Well, nearly everyone – Jeremy and I hadn't had a chance to discuss it, for obvious reasons. I'd been far too busy destroying his marriage for that. But everyone else had mentioned it. When I saw the headline I couldn't resist.

OLD MCKENZIE HAS THREE FARMS, $2 BILLION, NO HEAD

What a touchingly sincere title. So sensitive I could barely stand it. The people at the Gazette had really outdone themselves this time.

Francis McKenzie had been found dead on Tuesday morning, when his headless body was discovered by a couple of kids. (They must have been awful burdens on society to get a karma trip like that.) The decapitation wasn't what had killed him, luckily – it looked like he had been shot to death first. Phew. It would suck to be murdered, but if I had a choice between dying of bullets or having my head hacked off, it wouldn't take long for me to decide.

I read further down the article and found out that Frank had left everything he owned (which was quite a substantial amount, what with him being a billionaire and all) to one person – his nephew, James.

I knew James McKenzie. Everyone did. Two grades above me in school, he'd been the most popular guy there, and he also happened to be the youngest child of my my mother's best friend. After completing Year 12 he'd headed straight to police academy, and he must've done OK there because now he was working as a cop in Gerongate.

Oh, and he was a complete and utter jerk.

He had an over-inflated sense of his own importance, although I suppose that wasn't really his fault if you saw the way people acted around him. Not me, obviously. I'd been friends with him when we were little because of our mothers, but he changed. (I know that's ridiculous. 'He's not the same person he was at age four! How shocking!' But whatever. He'd been cooler as a toddler than he was an adult, that's all I'm saying.)

We'd still had to see each other a lot while we were growing up, much to our disgust, but since it generally ended in tears, swearing and/or violence, we tried to keep our contact to a minimum. I'd hardly seen him since his mother kicked him out, and even less since we finished school, which was totally fine by me.

Frank McKenzie had no wife or kids and was a bit of a cranky old fart, to tell the truth. He didn't like many people, but he and his nephew James got on like a house on fire. After James was thrown out of his parents' house at age sixteen, Frank took him in and made him continue on with school. When James had decided to become a cop, Frank had paid his fees and given him a house, free of rent, as a graduation gift.

And it wasn't like this was some dodgy fixer-upper, either. We are talking several million dollars in the form of a mansion. I'd never actually been inside, but I'd driven past and it was massive, beautiful, and probably entirely without shag-pile carpets.

Some people have all the luck.

But now Frank was dead, and everyone was accusing James. It was understandable that they thought it was him. I mean, he had motive (a couple of billion motives, if you catch my drift), and the only person who could give him an alibi had left for South America on Tuesday afternoon, hadn't been questioned, and was currently unable to be contacted.

Not to mention James had means. Frank had been shot with a pistol, and in Gerongate – and the rest of Australia, as far as I knew – only cops were legally allowed to carry pistols. If James had used a registered gun then it was only a matter of time before he was caught. Of course, being a cop, he probably came into contact with plenty of unregistered guns, too.

Poor little James. Means, motive and, right now, no alibi. Everyone thought he was a murderer, and his perfect reputation was in tatters. Boo-hoo. Now don't get the wrong idea – it wasn't like I was _enjoying_ this. Well, maybe I was. It was nice that for once I wasn't the one being publicly shamed.

It was sad about Frank, though. What a gross thing for someone to do. And everyone thought his nephew was responsible. At least, nearly everyone. I thought McKenzie was an arse, sure, but he wasn't a killer. He just didn't have it in him.

That didn't mean I couldn't relish his downfall while it lasted, though.

When I finished reading the article I flipped over to the 'Jobs Vacant' section. Not much there. Coles needed new checkout workers. McDonald's was looking for young people to pedal their grease. A massage salon was looking for 'friendly women' who could 'make sure their clients left happy'. Same old, same old. I checked the date on the paper. It was yesterday's. Hmm. So the jobs in the paper weren't looking incredibly promising. Google didn't throw up much either.

There was only one thing for it.

I shuddered at the mere thought.

# Chapter Three

Have you ever had a week so bad you start believing that God's punishing you for something? (Possibly for being an atheist?) We're talking the sort of week when so many things go wrong that when you're trying to think of a solution, your brain casually offers up death as an answer. Effective, sure Brain, but a little melodramatic.

This week had just become one of those weeks. Why, you ask?

Well.

I was on my way to Centrelink.

For those of you not familiar with this glorious establishment, Centrelink is the place the Australian government sends all the people who need money. Everyone. Just lump them all together, students, pensioners, recently released prisoners, in you go. I had largely managed to avoid it by not going to university, but alas, now I was unemployed and here I was.

I'd tried to sort everything out online, but for whatever reason, even though we're not living in the nineties anymore they insisted I call them. Then the person on the phone told me I'd need to come in. Seriously? What's the point of living in the digital age if you still need to speak to people?

But I did what I was told.

And I may never be the same again.

To give you a sense of the ambience, here is the basic procedural run down: you line up for half an hour, get to the front, they write your name down, and then you're _officially_ in the queue. Usually they'll have a TV playing a handy tutorial on things such as how to wash your hands, the floor will be stained extensively (Blood? Vomit? Cola?), and you'll be sitting next to someone who smells of tuna. The people around you provide quite an interesting cross-section of the community.

If you're lucky, you'll get a good employee and not have to return to fix up their mistakes. If you're unlucky... Well. Apparently, hit one wrong key and instead of earning $500 you've earned half a million. Seven phone calls and four trips to Centrelink later, the benefit fraud inquiry might – _might –_ be under control. Then you'll be able to get back onto your ordinary payments (which, for anyone who isn't well versed in welfare, means you get slightly less money than you're able to live on unless you supplement it with some sort of illegal activity).

My trip to Centrelink was so harrowing that until I've spent some time in therapy I'm really not prepared to go into any more detail other than they basically told me to get a job.

Great.

After wasting two hours of my life to be told, essentially, to go away, I began walking home. Which is when the torrential rain started. I soon discovered that the dye in my brand new blue pants was apparently water soluble. On the bright side, I now had a cool pair of white pants and I wouldn't need to worry about fake-tanning for a while because my usually pasty legs were a bright and vibrant turquoise. I guess the material wasn't really designed for wet weather because the trousers were also now two sizes smaller, having shrunk like my legs were being vacuum sealed. I don't mean to brag, but I had quite a spectacular wedgie going on.

Yep, another wedgie. What a glamorous life I lead.

After arriving home, extracting my pants from my crack, and attempting (that is, failing) to wash the blue dye off my legs, I decided to take action.

I needed a résumé.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen so that I could write up a draft, and began by scrawling 'Résumé' up the top. So far, so good. I'd even remembered to put the accents in (and I hadn't even had to google the spelling). Underneath the heading, I wrote my name and a brief description of myself and my goals. Well, I wrote that I wanted a job I enjoyed, anyway. If such a thing was possible. Money probably would have scored higher on my list of priorities right at that time, but I thought that it would be better to leave that off. Might not have come across too well.

Next I wrote down my qualifications. It wasn't a lengthy inventory. Just my (rather mediocre) HSC scores. That was it. Jeez, prospective employers would be really interested to know that I scored a 63 in ceramics. I was definitely going to be at the top of their list. Their 'Who to Avoid Hiring at All Costs' list.

Then came the record of previous employment. After much thought I decided to actually write Gregory's Groceries and just hope like hell that they didn't decide to give Jeremy Martin a call.

I printed off a few sheets and decided to go door-to-door. I handed out copies to shop owners for about two hours before I ran out, then I went home. I made myself a tomato sandwich (tomato: liquid, bread: stale) and sat down at the kitchen table to think. Mum was out in the garden and Dad was down at the mechanic's fixing somebody's car, so I had the room to myself. None of the people I had seen this morning seemed very interested in hiring me and, to be honest, I couldn't blame them. Four years of employment as a checkout chick, no car and still living with parents wasn't exactly an impressive set of credentials. To tell the truth, it was actually pretty sad. They could probably tell I was a walking disaster by the bruise on my face. And let's not forget the sticky-taped bridge on my glasses.

OK, I hadn't done that well with the people I'd met so far. I considered my options. Employment agency? Not exactly appealing. I decided to leave that for when I was getting seriously desperate, which honestly wasn't going to be a long time away. I could visit more of the places in the CBD, but if I really wanted to have a door slammed in my face, I could probably manage it myself. Besides, everyone who needed a job probably went down the main strip looking for one.

There was another option. I could visit new parts of town and see if there were any jobs going there. There were probably a lot less unemployed idiots job-seeking in the backstreets than in downtown Gerongate. There were probably a lot less business owners looking for unemployed idiots in the backstreets than in downtown Gerongate as well, but hey, it was worth a try.

That was how I found myself, an hour later, in a part of Gerongate I'd never been in before, standing out the front of a business I'd never heard of. I'd hesitated and I wasn't quite sure why.

It could have had been that there were about fifty cameras out the front, some trained on the entrance and some on windows and the rest moving to give a full view of the front of the building. There were probably about four cameras filming any one place at a given time. It'd make entering undetected a nightmare. Not that I was planning to break in. It was clear these guys meant business.

I studied the entrance. It had a state-of-the-art security system with a panel to the right of the door, the intercom connecting to somebody inside. There were a few buttons, a screen, a speaker and what looked like a credit card slot (and hell, do I know credit card slots – thank you, retail).

There was one other thing that was bothering me about this place. It wasn't the name. Baxter & Co. wasn't exactly frightening. A little secretive, maybe. But not scary. The thing that was worrying me was how high-tech and expensive this place looked. This wasn't exactly a high-tech and expensive neighbourhood. This was a carry-a-gun-at-all-times kind of neighbourhood. And what bothered me about that was the suspicion I had that maybe that was how these guys _made_ their money – by carrying guns at all times. And using them.

I hadn't exactly meant to end up in this part of town, wherever this part was. I'd taken a wrong turn and kept going, somehow ending up in the seediest back alleys you could imagine. (Hello, metaphor for my life.) At one point I walked past what I thought was a pile of garbage bags, when suddenly they started moving and one of them groaned. Displaying admirable bravery, I screamed and ran away.

The more lost I got, the more smashed windows I saw. Broken bottles on the road, graffiti everywhere. And not even clever graffiti. Just pictures of anatomically incorrect dicks and the word 'gay' scrawled across doorways of abandoned buildings. (But hey, maybe that was a really happy abandoned building, what do I know?)

This was an area in disrepair. It was even worse than that time my parents took me on a family road trip and we ended up eating lunch in a terrifying little country town that looked like the set of _True Detective._ I'm sure everyone there was related.

This Baxter & Co., though? Clean, tidy, untouched. It was fucking pristine.

So that was what had kept me from going up to the door straight away. In this area, a nice building just seemed a little sinister. Oh, who was I kidding? It seemed a _lot_ sinister.

_Don't be stupid,_ my daring side said. _Go in. Just do it! What's the worst that could happen? You could get a job. Ooh, how awful?_

_No,_ my sensible/boring side said. _The worst thing that could happen is that you could get shot._

_Pessimist,_ said Daring. Daring won.

I walked up to the front door and tried the handle. To my amazement, it turned. I had been half hoping it wouldn't so I could leave and not talk to anybody. This situation made me uncomfortable. Either someone had left it unlocked or someone had seen me standing outside and keyed me in. This was not the sort of place where I could imagine people left doors unlocked, at least not if they wanted to live. I was left to conclude that I'd been let in intentionally. And that scared me.

I entered cautiously. More cameras. The reception desk to my right (I use the term loosely – 'reception' sort of implies that there will be someone to receive you) was drowning in unsorted files and pieces of paper. It was chaos. Just seeing it brought out the (formerly latent) neat freak in me. I resisted the urge to move behind the desk and start tidying, however, because firstly that would be weird, and secondly the desk was unattended and I wanted to know who had let me in.

I turned to my left and studied the office door. It was shut, but judging by the nameplate it belonged to the boss. I had a strong suspicion that he'd been the one to let me in, which was odd because 1) why, and 2) what kind of boss could afford this level of security but didn't even hire a receptionist? I quickly knocked on the doorframe before I lost heart, hoping no one would answer. No such luck.

"Come in," called a deep male voice from inside. I opened the door and stepped in. Harry Baxter was a balding man who looked to be in his late fifties and had obviously bought the shirt he was wearing many meals ago because the buttons now had to work pretty hard to keep his belly covered. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, which were resting three-quarters of the way down his nose. He spoke.

"You were standing outside for quite some time. I'm curious. What can I do for you?"

I was impressed that he didn't seem to be put off by the massive bruise on my face, although I was worried that it might be because he had learnt to ignore injuries through practice. They probably got a lot of practice here. I kind of wished I hadn't worn long pants because it would have been interesting to see if he'd be so unruffled about my Smurf legs.

I took a deep breath.

"Iwasjustwonderingwhatexactlyitisyoudohereandifthereareanyjobsavailable?"

I knew I'd said it far too quickly. Great. Another job opportunity gone.

Baxter took off his glasses (not sticky taped, if you're wondering). His green eyes were crinkled at the corners and I could tell he was amused.

"We'reaprivatesecurityandinvestigationfirmandyesthereisonejobvacant."

Great. Now he was mocking me.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell me about yourself."

"Well, um, here's my résumé," I said, passing the sheet of paper across the desk to him as I sat. "Er, my – my name's Charlie Davies. Um, I've lived in Gerongate my whole life. I did OK in my HSC but I didn't really know what I wanted to do so I didn't go to univer–"

"Do tell me – Charlie, isn't it? – tell me, Charlie, why is it you worked at Gregory's Groceries for nearly five years and yet you haven't listed your boss as a referee?"

How could he have noticed that so quickly? Darn private investigator! He was typing something into his computer. I took a deep breath. I should've been ready for this.

"Well, there was some conflict between us shortly before I left and – hey! What are you doing?"

He'd picked up the phone on his desk and I had a pretty good idea who he was calling. Looking at his computer screen, he punched a number into his phone. I swallowed. He must have been searching for Jeremy's contact details when he was typing a second ago. Oh no.

"Hello, Mr Martin? I was just calling about a staff member of yours who left a short while ago, Charlie Davies."

I remained sitting in that same chair, mortified, for the entire duration of the telephone call. I could hear some, uh, colourful language coming from the other end, and slowly sank further into my chair the longer the call went on. Great. Why did everything always go wrong for me?

Eventually, Baxter hung up.

"W–well?" I managed to stammer, staring down at my hands.

"When can you start?" He asked me. I was stunned. I dragged my eyes up to meet his. He shrugged. "I never did like Jeremy Martin much."

I noticed that he was smiling.

"By the way," he asked me, "how did you get that bruise?"

# Chapter Four

"When do you start?" my mother asked me. We were sitting at the table in the kitchen, eating dinner and discussing my new job. I finished the piece of potato I had in my mouth and told her.

She frowned. "Nine o'clock tomorrow? On a Friday? Why?"

"Mum, if you saw the state of my office, you'd understand. They need me ASAP. And Dad, stop eyeing off my chips. I'm going to eat them and I'm not going to give you any. And don't you _dare_ try and steal them. I have sharp cutlery and I am not afraid to use it."

My mother continued, oblivious to the chip war my father and I were engaged in.

"But still," she said, "why not wait until Monday? I mean, new job, new week, new start..."

"I'm not complaining. You know –" Dad made a grab for my food and I stabbed at his hand with a butter knife. He didn't get the chip so I continued. "I'm getting paid pretty good money." I didn't actually know how much money I would make, but I knew saying that would make Mum happy. In Mum's head, Charlie + money = Charlie getting a house. If Charlie got a house, Charlie wouldn't be living with her parents. If Charlie wasn't living with her parents, that, in my mother's head, was a really good thing. It meant Charlie was growing up. Getting a life. And Mum could change that hideous carpet in the lounge room.

"Oh, well, you didn't mention that!" She said it a bit too quickly and looked embarrassed. "I mean, that'll be great for you. Well, I hope you enjoy it."

Dad made another grab for my chips and I tackled him to the ground. For the first time, Mum appeared to notice what was going on.

"What are you two doing on the floor? Charlie, get up and finish your dinner."

That night I slept well. I dreamt that I was back at Gregory's Groceries for the day and I had been crowned honorary checkout chick. Jeremy Martin came along and tried to kick me out but everyone turned against him and he seemed to shrink. Someone put him on the conveyor belt and I swiped his head over and over again. _Beep, beep, beep._

Suddenly I was awake and it took me a moment to realise that it had actually been my alarm clock beeping. Oh well. The image of Jeremy Martin being swiped to death was still great, even if it hadn't actually happened. I lay there for a bit longer, thinking. Hmm. I had the feeling I was forgetting something.

Crap! My new job!

I sprang out of bed (well, I sprang as much as I was capable of at this time of morning) and raced around the room grabbing clothes to wear. I sprinted to the bathroom for a shower and when I got there I was shocked to find that I was puffed. Not a good sign.

"Charlie," I told myself, "you're going to have to do something about this fitness problem."

In true 'I'm finally getting my life together' style, I decided to take a tracksuit along with me to wear while running home after work. _Shouldn't be too hard_ , I lied to myself. _It's probably only five kilometres._ _Really, that isn't very far_. Then again, I'd worked up a sweat jogging the distance to the bathroom and that was literally one thousand times shorter. Hmm.

When I got out of the shower I noticed that my bruise had begun to fade a little overnight, thank goodness. It was not fun to look like you'd been in a car crash. It was also very embarrassing when you had to explain to everyone that, no, you hadn't rolled your mother's Nissan; you'd simply walked into the wall outside Gregory's Groceries because you're a complete and total klutz. I hoped no one else at Baxter & Co. asked me how I'd gotten that particular injury. It probably wasn't the kind of first impression I wanted to make. But hey, given my track record with first impressions, that certainly wouldn't be the worst.

When I finally got downstairs, I was wearing a white blouse, a mid-length black skirt, stockings (dark, to hide the blue legs) and low-heeled pumps. I'd gone for the natural look with the makeup today, with just some mascara and lip-gloss. I went for the natural look everyday. It was the only look I could do.

My hair had decided to be wavy today so I tied it back in a bun. (Well, I tied most of it back in a bun. There were a few wayward hairs that broke free.) I'd chosen my glasses over contact lenses for the added 'professional' look (which worked as long as you ignored the hasty repair job I'd done on them). I had my tracksuit in my black backpack and when I reached the kitchen I added a drink bottle and some food.

While I was sitting down eating breakfast at the table my mother looked at me and sighed.

"What's with the backpack? Why are you trying to ruin an otherwise passable outfit?" She shook her head at me. " _Almost OK_ is becoming your signature look."

I rolled my eyes, although from her that was basically a compliment.

"I'm going for a run this afternoon and I can't take a handbag with me for that." She shook her head. "What? It's not that bad."

"Charlie, your definition of a run is a single step."

"No it isn't," I snapped. "I don't care what you say. I'm going for a run." I gathered up my stuff and left before my mother could exchange my bag for another one. I power-walked down the street, fuming. A single step? Uh! I planned to do _at least_ twenty.

By the time I reached the office an hour later I was puffed and sweating. Gee, if that was what a walk did to me then I was not looking forward to my run. Maybe twenty steps was too ambitious.

As I arrived at my new workplace, I waved to the security cameras and proceeded to the front door. It opened for me. When I stepped inside, I poked my head around the door of Harry's office to say hello, but found it empty. If Harry was away, who had keyed me in? Whoever was monitoring the security cameras, probably. Guess they knew who I was already. I guess I wasn't hard to recognise, what with my intense facial bruising and all. Even in its faded, slightly less swollen state, it was still pretty obvious.

I looked to my right. It was the desk I'd seen when I first came in yesterday, with messy piles of paper balancing precariously all over its surface. It hadn't gotten any better overnight. If anything, it was worse. Today was not going to be fun – I would have to clean it up. After all, it was my __ desk.

I sighed and clomped behind it, nearly slipping on the files strewn all over the floor. It took me ten minutes just to find the desk lamp. (It had been concealed behind a pile of folders which I'd luckily knocked over because I don't think I'd have found it otherwise.) I flicked it on and – wouldn't you just know it? – the bulb blew.

That was all it took. I was working at a place that scared me, I hardly knew anyone, my office looked like a bomb had hit it, _I_ had to clean it up, my face was all weird, and now I didn't even have a light to work by.

I lay down on the floor in one of the few gaps between the piles of mess and closed my eyes, counting to ten, breathing, and envisioning a calm blue ocean.

This sucked. Not as much as Gregory's Groceries, but not far behind. Who the hell used a paper filing system in this day and age? State of the art security system but a filing system from the seventies.

"You must be having a good first day. You can't have been here more than fifteen minutes and it's already put you to sleep."

It was a male voice, but not one I recognised. Whoever it was had an American accent – the kind of Southern drawl I was familiar with from watching _True Blood_. (Don't judge me. It's a modern masterpiece.) I cracked one eye open to look at him, but I couldn't see anything so I opened both eyes. There was a guy standing there, looking down at me with a smile on his face. He looked pretty tall, but I guessed from this angle most people would look kind of big.

"Oh good, you are alive. Do you want a hand up? Or is there a particular reason you're down there?"

"No," I said grumpily, not sure which of his questions I was answering. I felt that I was sort of expected to give an explanation. I didn't feel obliged to tell the truth. Too lazy to come up with a convincing lie, instead I said, "I dropped a contact lens. I was just trying to find it."

"But you're wearing glasses."

"I had to put them on to find my contact lens."

"Fair enough, but you might have better luck with your search if you open your eyes and maybe actually face the floor."

"I'll keep that in mind next time."

I got up and turned to face the guy I'd been talking to. He was still pretty tall, well over six feet if I had to guess. Luckily I was a very threatening five feet three inches, or he might have been intimidating. He had messy blonde hair that was long due for a haircut along with a two-day-old beard and brown eyes. I had a feeling his hair was always like this. He was looking casual and comfy in Levis, a plain black shirt and a worn pair of Vans. I could see his muscles through the shirt and it was pretty obvious that he took working out seriously. I placed him in his mid twenties, and while he seemed pretty friendly, I got the impression that he wouldn't take crap from anyone. People who bothered working out that much had to have _some_ use for their ridiculous strength, right?

"Tim Carter," he said, extending his hand. "Most people here call me Sharps, though." What was that, a street name? What did that even mean? Sharp shooter? Heroin addict? Snazzy dresser?

"Um – Charlie Davies," I said, a bit distracted by imagining his backstory. "Um, I don't – I don't actually have a street – uh, nickname."

He just smiled.

"So, er, what do I call you? Tim or Sharps?"

"Whatever you want, hot stuff," he answered, still smiling. "You appear to be living in the dark here, literally. Why don't you turn on the light?"

"I did. The bulb blew."

"Was that before or after you lost your contact lens?" I gave him a death stare. He grinned back. "I better go, anyway. I was gonna grab a file but I've got no idea where to find it around here so I might wait until you've started to work your filing magic. There's a storeroom next door – there should be light bulbs in there. I'll duck back in later and see how you're doing. See you!"

"Bye."

He left. Great. Now I had no distractions, a.k.a. excuses not to do work.

I decided on an action plan:

  1. Change light bulb.
  2. Clean office.

Simple, to the point, and dead boring.

Oh well, I told myself. Think of the money!

That cheered me up enough to manage the light bulb. I chose one of the environmentally friendly ones that were supposed to last for ages. At least I knew it wasn't going to stop working for a while. OK, so it cast a green glow over the desk and all the stuff on it, but hey, you can't have everything. I tried to use the excitement from the light bulb victory as momentum to get me enthusiastic about cleaning, but unsurprisingly it didn't work.

Eventually I decided to stop procrastinating and just get on with it, which is not as easy as it sounds. There were files inside files inside boxes wedged behind cabinets. The desk and chair were covered in files. It looked like two secretarial factions had gone to a war and these were the remnants of the resulting massacre.

I began by throwing all the files and paper into a big heap in the corner. Maybe I'd put a potted plant there at a later date, I thought – it looked like the kind of place where greenery should go. Where did one buy plants? Hmm... Maybe I wouldn't get one. Didn't you have to give them water or something? I didn't know if I could handle that level of responsibility.

By eleven o'clock I had all the files sorted alphabetically into twenty-six piles. I was surprised to find that there was actually a surprisingly large pile for 'x'. Hah. The X-Files.

I started putting them all in the cabinets. At midday I took a break to eat, and as I pulled my apple, Vegemite sandwich and water bottle out of my bag I wondered if it was strange that my mother still packed my lunch. I would do it myself, but if I touch any food while it is being prepared it inevitably turns rancid. When I'd finished eating, I got back to work.

By one, I had the files done, so I began working on the loose sheets of paper. This was a bit harder, because it involved reading them and then putting them wherever I thought they should go. I was all done at two so I started to wash and dust everything with cleaning supplies from the storeroom. The second the wet cloth touched the desk, the surface turned to mud. Jeez. They mustn't have had anyone working in reception for a while. Well, I was probably the only one desperate enough to take on the job.

I sat down at the desk. Now that it was tidy, I actually liked the look of it. It definitely needed a plant, I decided. And maybe an electric kettle so that I could make myself tea. And I'd need a water jug as well. Some packets of lollies would be nice to have in the desk drawers, too, for when I was running low on energy.

Come to think of it, what did the drawers have in them currently? I didn't actually know what my job was, but it seemed strange that I didn't have a phone or a computer. Shouldn't I have? I decided to search the desk. Unfortunately, all that the drawers held were three pens (one dead), a stapler and a hole punch. Nothing terribly interesting.

I glanced at my watch. Thirty-eight minutes past four. Only eight minutes since I'd last looked. OK, I could last twenty-two minutes. It wasn't that hard, really. I could sit here and not get into trouble for that long. No need to look through those files. It was none of my business.

Actually, maybe it was my business. I was secretary after all. Shouldn't I know what was going on around the office?

Alright, I wasn't kidding anyone. I was attempting to justify snooping through the classified information – which, you have to admit, is quite tempting. Besides, I'd seen some pretty interesting files under 'M'. Well, just the one curious one, really. Hmm. Come to think of it, I may have filed it in the wrong order. I decided I'd better check.

I opened one of the drawers and looked. Malcolm, Mapholm (was that a name?), Martin, hold on – Martin, Jeremy? What? I picked it up and began to read the first sheet in the file.

Subject – MARTIN, Jeremy

Initiated by – MARTIN, Lea

Investigator – BAXTER, Adam

Lea was having Jeremy investigated! So she'd already suspected he was up to something before __ I'd said anything – a few months ago, by the looks of it. Then he was late home...

I started to feel kind of guilty about what I'd done, pretending Jeremy was my lover and all. I should probably go and apologise. To Lea, of course, not to Jeremy. Chances were OK that she wouldn't hurl rocks at me if I explained myself, right? When she'd had Jeremy investigated there were no photos of me – in fact, most of these pictures were of Jeremy sitting alone, watching people from across the street (ever the creeper) – so she'd probably had a pretty good idea that I was just making it up so Jeremy would look bad in front of his customers.

I decided I'd go visit her and try to smooth things over. We'd always gotten along pretty well, and I didn't want to lose an almost-friend. I couldn't really afford it, given how few I had. Sure, right. I could do this. I'd survive. Probably.

I put back that file. It hadn't even been the one I was looking for. The one I wanted was titled 'MCKENZIE, Frank'... and here it was. I opened it and read:

Subject – MCKENZIE, Francis

Initiated by – MCKENZIE, James

Investigator – CARTER, Timothy

I checked the dates. This file was still current (a bit obvious, really, considering Frank had only died on Monday), but – wow! James McKenzie, the man suspected of murdering his uncle, had ordered an investigation into the death! I wondered if this was the file Sharps had been looking for this morning. He obviously hadn't started work on it yet, seeing as there was just that one sheet inside it – the contract. That's probably what he'd been working on today. Maybe I could ask him when he got back.

Wait, no, I realised. Confidentiality, etc. In fact, he said he was going to come back and visit me this afternoon and if he caught me looking through his file – well, I didn't want to know. I shut the folder and went to put it back in the cabinet when –

"Don't bother. I'll just have to get it out again."

I whipped around, heart thumping. I'd been sprung. Tim was standing only a few steps away, and yet I hadn't even been aware of his presence until he spoke. I was terrified.

That was, until I saw the amusement in his eyes. So I stated the obvious.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"I know. You shouldn't underestimate how sneaky I am. Another thing you shouldn't do is snoop at classified information in full view of anyone who comes through the front door. While I admire your enthusiasm for finding out things that aren't any of your business, there are others in this building who would be... less than thrilled to catch you doing something like that. So, maybe next time be careful."

"I'll think about it." What the hell?! I'll _think_ about it? Gee, I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.

"Think real hard about it. Can I have that?" he asked, gesturing towards the folder that I still held in my hand.

"Oh, oh – sure. Listen, um –" I didn't really know what to say. Please don't get me sacked? Or have me arrested? Or killed?

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "You owe me." Shit.

And on that note, he departed.

# Chapter Five

I shut the drawer of the filing cabinet and glanced at my watch. Five past five. I ducked next door into the storage room and closed (and locked) the door behind me so I could change into my tracksuit. It occurred to me that I really should have asked where the bathrooms were.

My tracksuit was the one I'd had since high school for P.E. and it had definitely seen better days. Even though it had been rarely worn (I'd had a knack for getting out of exercise), I'd put it to use over the years as everything from a shoe-shiner to a mop to a bib for when I was eating in bed like a slob. These days it was saggy and bulgy in unflattering places, as well as riddled with holes.

I was hoping no one would see me in it (not only because it was hideous, but also because the shirt was emblazoned with the Gerongate High logo and people wearing school uniforms when they were no longer students was just sad). That problem was solved when I realised I hadn't brought my joggers (which, admittedly, weren't that crash hot either – another of my high school investments that I pretended were still good enough to wear). Running in pumps not being one of my favourite pastimes (hell, I could hardly walk in them), I decided to skip the jog for today. If I felt like it I might go for a run tomorrow. Or Sunday. That was one of my life mottos: 'Never put off until tomorrow what can be delayed until the day after.'

I gathered up my stuff and left through the front door. I turned to face the building I'd just come out of. Three stories, another building the same size but without the sign to the left, and if you went around the right hand side, there was even an underground car park. I wondered how much was owned by Baxter & Co. Probably all of it.

Out of plain curiosity, I decided to check out this fancy subterranean garage. I headed around the side of the building, being careful not to be seen. I don't know why – after all, I had every right to be there. I mean, OK, so I didn't have a car, but no use worrying about the particulars, right?

When I got to the back of the building, I saw the weirdest thing. Four silver cars left the garage, just to be replaced by four black cars. Huh? I was so curious about this that I actually went into the parking lot.

When I walked down the ramp, I was amazed at what I saw. The whole lot was taken up with black and silver cars. No other colours (or shades, if you want to get all technical). Just black and silver. These must belong to the Baxter & Co. workers. Hmm. This might give me a vague idea of how many people were working here. I began to count. 2, 4, 6, 8 –

Suddenly I felt a hand clap over my mouth as I was seized from behind. I struggled against my captor but couldn't break free. The stranger had too strong a hold on me.

"What are you doing?" the person asked me quietly. It was a male voice and it was coming from an incredibly strong guy. Even with all my failed attempts to free myself the man's feet still hadn't moved. Or it could just be that I was incredibly weak. Probably the latter. Either way, my attacker had his arm around my neck and I couldn't loosen it. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now so you can answer, but don't even think about screaming or I'll snap your neck like a twig. Understand?"

I nodded (at least, I tried – not the easiest thing to do when you're in a headlock). It's amazing how clear things seem when your life is threatened. Agree or die. Very simple.

He took his hand away from my mouth.

"I'm just walking through a car park and you attack me for it? How dare you?" I took a deep breath (or as deep as I could, given the circumstances) and hit him with another torrent of abuse. "You should be ashamed of yourself, assaulting innocent young ladies here. Or, for that matter, assaulting innocent ladies anywhere." Did I just refer to myself as an innocent young lady? "You are a disgusting man. What appalling behaviour! You repulse me."

I blame the way I was speaking on the restricted blood/oxygen flow to my brain. I'd started talking like my grandmother did whenever she came across an 'impolite young man' – all I can say in my defence is that it seemed to work when she did it.

In this case, the 'impolite young man' himself seemed too stunned to speak. I didn't give him a chance to compose himself before continuing. "Well? Are you going to let me go and apologise profusely for what you've done? Or continue to act like the unpleasant character you are and entertain yourself with this ridiculous power trip?"

Still no answer.

By now I was so worked up, I no longer cared that my life could be in danger. "Well, come on then. Do something. Say something."

His grip loosened and I ducked down to pull my head away from him. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Impolite Young Man himself. And just about had to wipe the drool off my face as I stared at him.

He had jet-black hair that curled a little at the ends. His clothes, too, were jet black – black jeans, black T-shirt (despite how lean he was, I could see his muscles clearly through it – it seemed like most people at Baxter & Co. were big fans of that mystical place known as the gymnasium) and black Converse sneakers.

The amount of muscle wasn't the only impressive thing about him. With his flawless brown skin, defined jaw line, and symmetrical features, he looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Photoshopped magazine picture advertising cologne or designer underwear or something. He was probably around six foot, but he didn't look lanky – the height suited him. I guessed he was Indigenous, though it didn't seem the right time to ask.

"You're the new receptionist, right? I heard your face was –"

"Beautiful?"

"A total mess." Oh. Not quite as flattering as I'd hoped. Guess he hadn't been as taken with me as I had with him. Wait, no! Don't be distracted by the prettiness! He'd just threatened to kill me! With his beautiful biceps! "Quite a nasty bruise you've got there. Probably from sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, if your behaviour today is anything to go by."

"Actually it was from walking into a wall, but whatever." I crossed my arms. "Are you this friendly all the time?"

He shrugged. "Sorry for restraining you like that, but I didn't recognise you and this is a security company. Can't have people who aren't meant to be here just wandering around the car park."

"That was a pathetic apology."

He sighed, like he was working in retail and I was an annoying customer who wouldn't leave until he gave me a refund for that $0.33 he overcharged me. (Trust me, I know that look well. It's one I've worn many a time.) "I'm sorry that I snuck up on you ."

"Sneaked."

"What?"

"Technically the – the proper word is 'sneaked', although it's become common to say 'snuck' instead." I stammered halfway through the sentence, realising that no one with a face that beautiful cared about whether it was 'snuck' or 'sneaked'. He probably had a fashion show to be getting to and I was just holding him up.

"I also apologise for my appalling use of the English language." He shrugged. "Although since 'snuck' has been used in North American English since the late 1800s, I'm not too embarrassed."

Oh, OK. I'd accidentally corrected the word usage of a linguistics professor.

"Wow. Thank you." Wait, what? Why was I thanking him? I blame his face. It was distracting. No one should be that symmetrical. I cleared my throat and continued. "For that incredibly boring history lesson. Don't think that's going to make me forget how impolite you've been."

"It's just my general unpleasant character, I guess," he said, quoting my earlier words.

I narrowed my eyes. "You grabbed me! I had the right to call you that and worse."

He nodded. "Oh, absolutely. When I'm threatened I act like an old person who's forgotten their medication as well."

I don't know why I felt compelled to explain, but I did. "I have a theory that if you sound like someone's grandmother they'll do what they're told." I wondered how far I could go with this. _On your knees, young man. Now remove that tight-fitting shirt._ Wait, what?

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Well, you're still wearing, uh, on my nerves," – nice save, Charlie – "so I guess it's not going that well."

"Who could have predicted that?" He shook his head in disbelief and then exhaled. "Do I have to apologise for anything else or are you going to leave quietly now?"

Somehow I didn't think the question was entirely sincere. I wanted to press for a better apology, but I decided it was best not to antagonise him further. He was tall and be-muscled and, you know, I was kind of trespassing.

I tried to change the topic of conversation. "What's with the cars? Every time one leaves another car comes to replace it."

"I guess it was too much to hope you'd just go," he muttered. Rude. "It's around five now, so some people are finishing work for the day. They're being replaced by people on the first night shift."

"And everyone here drives either a black or silver car?"

He nodded. "Company cars."

"Why the black and silver?"

"To blend in."

I studied his face, but I couldn't see even the hint of a smile. I think he was actually serious. My eyebrows rose. Like hell this sea of Porches and BMWs would 'blend in'. This was Gerongate, capital of the Unnecessary Suburban Four Wheel Drive.

"Blend in? Right, so I guess this company does most of its work with the upper classes."

Impolite Young Man didn't seem to care what I was saying. He looked at me, remaining silent. Probably willing me to go away.

I rolled my eyes. "Well, as amazing as this conversation has been, I'm leaving."

It probably won't surprise you that we didn't exchange goodbyes. We hadn't exactly become besties over the course of our chat.

I started to walk away, and I was nearly out of the car park when I tripped over. Impolite Young Man appeared behind me and, shaking his head, gave me a hand up. I was expecting him to laugh, or smile, or react somehow. He just looked disgusted, like he couldn't believe someone had employed me. Hey, you and me both, buddy.

"Don't say anything," I warned him. He was smart enough to oblige.

That night, as my family sat around the dinner table (creamy cashew and mushroom pasta – good, since Mum cooked it), Mum asked me what had happened at work that day.

Well, let's see. I'd met two guys I worked with. I knew that one had a street name. (OK, a nickname, but he seemed tough enough to be known on the streets. No, I don't really know how these things work, but shush.) He'd caught me snooping through files and having a nap on the floor. The other guy I'd met thought I was an idiot because of the abuse I'd directed at him after he restrained and threatened me for walking around a car park. Plus he'd seen me trip over.

And despite my best efforts at telepathically controlling him, he hadn't even taken off his shirt.

"Not much," I answered. "But they're giving me a car."

# Chapter Six

On Saturday morning I slept in late, probably exhausted from all the fun I'd had the day before. I had a feeling that working at Baxter & Co. was going to make me very sleepy. Death threats are so underrated as an alternative to sleeping pills.

I lay in bed for a while after I woke, not quite ready to face the day. Just as I was about to get up, I remembered what I'd promised myself I'd do today and decided that leaving the bed didn't seem so urgent after all.

Two hours later I managed to convince myself to leave the warm, comforting embrace of my one true love (bedsheets), and half an hour after that I actually managed to drag myself into the shower.

I stayed in the shower until I used up all the hot water, and when I got out I spent a very long time putting on my clothes and deciding whether to wear glasses or contact lenses. Then I changed my clothes, ending up in a pair of jeans and a red singlet top. Then I did my hair. And redid it. By the time I was finished I had successfully put it up in a ponytail. Hmm. What now?

For nearly the first time in my life, I actually did my makeup. I had to use my mum's eye shadow and eyeliner because all I had was lip-gloss and mascara. It was kind of hard to do eye makeup when I was wearing glasses, though, so I had to wear contact lenses instead (and I hardly got any mascara on them at all!). The foundation I borrowed definitely wasn't the right shade for my skin, and so far as I could tell wouldn't be the right shade for anyone's unless they liked looking as if they'd dipped their head in a bowl of pumpkin soup, so I ended up scraping as much of that off as I could.

I painted my fingernails clear, and then painted my toenails the same. Then I painted them red to match my shirt. Then I painted clear over the top. By the time I was finished I really couldn't put it off any longer, so I made myself a smoothie (which took a little while because I had to go to the corner shop after discovering we'd run out of almond milk), drank it, gagged at the flavour, wondered why the hell I'd thought kale might taste good in a sweet beverage, googled the address, jumped in Mum's Nissan, and drove.

All too soon I reached my destination. I stared at the steering wheel in utter disbelief. Not once since I had gotten my driver's licence had this car worked properly for me. It always stalled, or wouldn't go into gear, or got a flat tyre, or had some other problem that meant it wouldn't go anywhere. No one else had any issues with it, just me. And now, on the one day when I hadn't wanted it to work, there were no hitches. It ran perfectly.

It hated me. And I hated it right back.

I parked and stepped out of the Patrol, looking around to see if Jeremy's car was here. It wasn't. OK, no excuses now. I walked slowly across the lawn, climbed the steps with all the speed and enthusiasm of a funeral procession, and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so I pressed it again. Any second now. Someone would answer the door very soon.

Oh, crap. __ I'd been pressing a light switch.

I knocked on the door, praying that no one was home. Praying to whom, I do not know. Aphrodite? The goddess of love and beauty was maybe not the most appropriate choice for this situation, but she was the only one I could think of. At least she could help me with the reconstructive surgery after I got my face bashed in.

I heard footsteps on the other side of the wood. Damn. Someone was here. And I was pretty sure it would be the person I was looking for.

I expected the door to swing inwards, but apparently Jeremy's front door was as dodgy as everything else about him because when it flew open it shot straight at me. It whacked me square in the face, extending the life of my bruise by a few days.

I stumbled backwards. "Ouch, fu–"

And that was when I fell arse-first down the steps. Lucky there were only three. I landed on the grass, which was nice and springy, cushioning me from the impact. Plus I was wearing jeans, so no flashing. So far, so good. Thanks Aphrodite!

I sat there on my bum feeling a bit dazed, but aside from that, fine. I glanced back up at the doorway where Lea Martin was standing – well, not so much standing as doubled over laughing at me. It was embarrassing but I comforted myself with the thought that, if nothing else, it was at least better than having her hurl abuse at me. Or having her hurl anything at me, for that matter.

"Are – you – all – right?" Lea squeezed out between barks of laughter. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself then came down the steps to help me up. She was wearing a pair of jeans, black and white spotted Keds and a low-cut singlet to match her shoes. She was trying to keep a straight face but the way she was twitching made it pretty obvious that she was internally laughing at my stupidity.

What is it about people hurting themselves that is so funny? And why do I have to be the one who always seems to be entertaining everyone else? A bit unfair, in my opinion. But anyway, for the moment Lea's laughter was a relief, because her happy vibes obviously meant that she hadn't recognised me yet.

"So, Charlie, are you looking for your _darling_ boyfriend?" she asked with a (gasp!) smile.

Lea seemed to be acting incredibly friendly towards me. And I was pretty sure it was genuine.

My surprise must have registered on my face because the next thing Lea said was, "Oh jeez, love, don't look so shocked! I knew you were lying the moment you started with that story. I mean, come on, everyone knows Jeremy only cheated on me with women who have _big_ tits." Well, thank you for that lovely self-esteem boost, Lea. That comment will stay in my heart forever. "Oh, shit! I didn't mean that! Well, I did, but it came out wrong... You've got beautiful tits," she finished, slightly awkwardly.

"Don't worry," I reassured her. "I get that a lot." I meant the flat chest thing, not the beautiful tits. I'd never __ gotten that before.

We were both quiet for a moment.

"It was an impressive way to quit work," Lea said, breaking the silence. "It's a pity I wasn't around to see Jeremy's face at the end. That would have been classic. I wanted to get a divorce even before I was married, and you gave me an excuse, so... really I should thank you."

If my eyebrows had left my forehead and were up past the clouds by this stage, I wouldn't have been at all surprised. This was ridiculous. No, it was unbelievable. (OK, so those two words mean basically the same thing. Whatever. I don't care.) I had come here to apologise, expecting her to scream insults at me and not even listen to what I had to say. Instead, here was Lea thanking me for giving her a chance to split up with her husband. Thanking __ me.

"Um – well – I, er – um – no worries," I blundered. As you can probably tell, I was a bit shocked. This was definitely not what I had predicted.

However, when I thought about it, it made a lot more sense for her to be glad to get rid of Captain Ferret than to be cut up about it. And really, I had __ done her a favour. I should have expected her to be like this.

But my pessimistic, sensible __ side disagreed. Why was she being nice? She must be angry with me. She was acting. It was all an evil ploy!

Yes, I know. If that was my sensible side, it's a wonder I wasn't in a straitjacket.

"Come inside. Jeremy's out at the moment, thank god. I'm just here to pack up my stuff," Lea said. I followed her in. "D'ya want a cuppa?" she asked. "I was just about to make one."

"No thanks," I answered. I was slightly dubious about how nice she was being, and I wasn't totally above suspecting that she might slip something in my drink. Better safe than sorry, and in this instance I planned to play it very safe.

As we entered, I noticed a large pile of suitcases and luggage in the hall. Well, you'd have a hard time not __ noticing them – we practically had to climb over them to get into the kitchen. Lea filled the jug up with water from the tap and flicked it on.

"This is Jeremy's house and I just can't stand being here with him, so I'm leaving," she explained.

"Where are you going?" As far as I knew, she'd lived with her parents before she was married and had moved straight in with the Ferret afterwards.

"I don't know," she answered. "My parents are out of the country and I don't have a key to their place, so that's out. All my friends either have noisy kids or husbands that couldn't manage on their own if their lives depended on it, and I can't deal with that right now. I guess I'll just check into a hotel or something and look for a job and an apartment from there."

"Have you got enough money for that?"

She frowned. "I'm not really sure. I hope so."

The kettle which had been heating noisily throughout our conversation clicked off and Lea made herself a cup of mint tea. As she put the tea bag in the bin, I had an idea. "You could stay at my parents' house if you want to. It'll cost way too much staying at a hotel."

Look, I said I had an idea. I did not say that it was a good one.

Where was this was coming from? I didn't trust this chick enough to accept a cup of tea from her, and now I was asking her to come live with me. Note to self: make appointment with psychologist.

"Are you serious? Really? That would be OK?"

No, not at all. No!

"Sure it would be."

Revised note to self: make appointment with psychologist TODAY.

"It's lovely of you to offer Charlie, but I couldn't."

Oh, thank god! Don't speak, Charlie. Keep your mouth shut. Don't speak don't speak don't –

"Oh, come on, of course you could!" No, no, shut up! Don't do this! "My family's not that scary!" Well, now I was just flat out lying.

"Really?" she asked me unsurely. When I nodded, her face lit up. "This'll be so great! We might even be able to find a place to move into together!" She caught herself. "You know – only if you want." Guess I must have started to look a bit sceptical.

"Oh, no, yeah – maybe." Charlie Davies, Decision-Making Extraordinaire. "Look, how about I call my parents and clear it with them, then we can pack your luggage into my car and head home?"

"Sure!"

"Great," I said, sounding a lot less angry than I felt. I wasn't so much annoyed with her as with myself. I'd invited her to live with me. Quite apart from the fact that she could potentially end up killing me, I barely even knew her! I was basically flat-out inviting a murderous stranger to come share a room with me. And Murderous Stranger had accepted. "I'll call my mum. Can I use your phone? I don't have one." I know, I know, but I'd only lose or break it if I did.

"Oh, we don't have a landline and I've lost my mobile, sorry," she said.

"Right." Well. What was Plan B? "OK, um, how about while you finish packing I head home and make sure we have a room ready for you, then I'll come back in, say, an hour?"

"That's great. Charlie, I really appreciate this." I could see in her eyes that she was telling the truth.

"Don't worry about it. You better check you've got everything packed. I'll be back soon."

# Chapter Seven

I walked outside and glared at the Nissan. It was really kind of pointless having a four-wheel drive in Gerongate. I guess the Nissan had personality, but that personality didn't like me, and the feeling was mutual.

I jumped into the silver Patrol, inserted the key, held my breath and turned it. It started first go and didn't stall once on the way home. I didn't want to ask my parents about Lea staying, so of course the car wouldn't __ stuff up, would it?

I pulled into my parents' driveway and jumped out of the car. Turning to it, I narrowed my eyes.

"I hate __ you," I hissed.

"Me? What did I do?" came my mother's voice from behind me. She was standing with garden-gloved hands on hips, her big, floppy straw hat resting gently on her head and her skin greased up with sunscreen. She'd obviously been gardening. "Is that why you tried to run me over?"

She thought I'd been talking to her.

"I didn't even know you were there, Mum."

"Yeah, right."

"I didn't! I was talking to the car!" As soon as I said it I realised it was a mistake. Now she was looking at me as though I was insane. Yes, Miss Outback Mario Kart thought _I_ was crazy.

"I think I preferred it when you hated me," she said. "Maybe you should meet up with some friends tomorrow. Can't be good for you to spend so much time alone. It's probably better if you have some other, well, people __ to talk to."

OK, it was official. She thought I'd lost my mind. Probably with good reason. But maybe I could work this to my advantage...

"Actually Mum, I ran into a friend of mine today who's out of a home at the moment. She just separated from her husband and it was his house. Since she's got nowhere else to stay, I was wondering if it would be OK for her to live here for a while."

Mum smiled. I knew what she was thinking. _I'd pay her to stay_ _if she'd get my lump of a daughter out of the house occasionally._

"That's great! Someone you can hang out and go to nightclubs with. Drink alcohol. Find a man. Or a lady. " (Meaningful pause.) "The kinds of things that normal __ people your age do."

When you hear the way she speaks to me, it's no wonder I've got issues.

"Great," I responded. "I'll go pick her up now. Since we're both looking for a house, we could probably find one together. Sooner the better, I reckon."

My mother was beaming. I could virtually see her thoughts spelled out in her eyes. _She's leaving. About bloody time! No, you can't say that, Janine. Make it sound like you're happy for her. Ha, ha, ha – she'll never know_!

"Of course! How nice, living with your friend, meeting new people." Freeing up another room, paying for your own food.

I smiled at her.

"So which friend is this? Joanna hasn't split up with Oswald, I hope?"

Joanna Riley became my best friend when we swapped our lunches on the second day of kindergarten. We agreed on most things, but unfortunately she had developed a crush on James McKenzie in high school (as had just about all of my other friends), which led to many arguments. Stacey, Penelope, Nancy, Joy, Naomi and Rose all had Level One crushes on James. This involved writing their first name with his last name all over their schoolbooks, cutting pictures of him out of the school newsletter and making posters of him to hang up in their bedrooms, attending every sports match where he was playing, and a couple of times they even went to referee training days just to spend more time around him. As a result of this, they all had certificates in refereeing soccer and touch football games. (All except Penny, that is – she never understood offside.)

That was a Level One crush. Jo was on about Level Six, which meant that she was practically a stalker. Luckily when she began dating her now-husband, she fell in love with him and is almost totally over McKenzie. The other girls are also trying to move on, with the help of experienced counsellors and self-medication.

I never thought that I would like Ozzie when Jo first told me about him. You have to admit, 'Oswald Park, the accountant' does sound a bit boring. Firstly, I hate numbers, and since that's what accountants deal with, it stands to reason that I would hate accountants as well. When you think about it, anyone who spends a lot of time around numbers tends to be a bit cuckoo. Take maths teachers for example. I'm yet to meet a normal one. They're obsessed with maths. They talk about algebra as though it is the meaning of life, they discuss pi like it's part of the food pyramid and they worship Pythagoras like he's a god.

Secondly (and I'm aware it might seem kind of shallow), what sort of a name is Oswald Park? Did his parents have something against him? It sounds like he's council property. It's no wonder his parents weren't invited to his wedding after giving him a name like that. I wouldn't forgive them either. I know you shouldn't hold a person's name against them (don't judge a book by its cover, blah blah blah) but I just couldn't help it.

Although I wasn't looking forward to meeting Oswald at first, it turned out that he was OK looking, if a little bit geeky, and although he was kind of shy to start with, after a couple of drinks he opened right up. I discovered he had a great sense of humour. And jeez was he a massive improvement on James McKenzie.

Still, I was kind of glad that Joanna kept her maiden name. I don't know if I could be best friends with someone whose name sounded like a picnic destination.

"No," I answered. "Jo's still going strong with Os. It's another friend of mine."

Mum eyed me suspiciously. "Jo's your only friend who's married," she said accusingly.

"Oh, this girl wasn't in our group at school. She's a bit older than me."

"What's her name?"

A simple question, with all the potential of an atomic bomb. I contemplated lying, but then decided to go for the truth. She'd have to find out one way or another.

"Lea."

"Lea who?"

"I don't know."

Well, sort of the truth, anyway.

"Not Lea Martin!"

"No." Not technically. Technically she'd readopted her maiden name, and since I'd forgotten what that was, I was telling the truth.

Cough.

"Anyway," I continued, "I'll go pick her up. We might go out sometime this week, if that's OK."

"Of course! You're an adult. Go out and have fun with your friend. Please. No, I insist. New job, new lifestyle – your life's really looking up!"

Yeah, my life was looking up – for her.

"It sure is!" was, however, what came out of my mouth. "See ya!"

"Bye!"

I hopped into the driver's seat of the Nissan and turned the key, managing to back it out of the driveway with no dramas. So far, so good. I made it a full two blocks without any problems. I was even beginning to think that maybe this car wasn't so __ bad, when it started spluttering and stalled. I tried to start it again but it didn't work. The car was stubborn. No matter how many times I attempted to turn the engine over, I had no luck. This car hated __ me.

An engine rumbled as another vehicle drove up behind me. I hoped the driver wasn't in a hurry, because it was a narrow street with cars parked either side and there was no way of getting past me. I had been driving in the centre of the road because the white lines were the only way I could line up the wheels in a monster like the Nissan. Thankfully the car behind me didn't have sirens or a flashing light, because I'm pretty sure that was a ticketable offence.

By this point I was fuming, and so was the car. (I'd been revving it pretty hard.) Even though I hadn't been pulled over by the police, I'd managed to accidentally cause a traffic jam in a residential area. OK, so it was only one other car, but it wasn't helped by the fact that all the street's residents had come out onto their verandas to see what was happening.

So I did what anybody in my position would have done. Well, anyone with slight anger management problems, at least. I undid my seatbelt, opened the driver's side door, hauled myself out, kicked the side of the vehicle, and screamed, "Start, you bastard!"

All the local residents retreated back into their lairs, not wanting to have anything to do with the crazy lady who was blocking traffic and attempting to start an argument with a Nissan Patrol.

Oh well. Now that the crazy lady had alleviated some of her anger and there were fewer spectators, she felt slightly better. Only slightly, because now she had a sore foot as well. In a match of foot versus Nissan, foot comes off second best.

A car door closed and I realised that the other driver had gotten out of their vehicle. I didn't look at them – I was too embarrassed.

"Car troubles?" The voice belonged to a young male and sounded very casual considering he'd just seen me lay into a car and call it names. If I'd seen someone do that, I'd be at least mildly concerned, and I'd almost definitely stay in my car. Unless it was someone I knew.

Oh please god, no. Let him be a stranger.

"It won't start." I still couldn't quite bring myself to look at his face.

"Mind if I have a go?"

Glancing past him, I checked what sort of car he was driving to make sure he wouldn't drive off in mine. Not that I normally would have cared a whole heap if someone made off with the Nissan, but today I had to pick up Lea. Plus, Mum probably wouldn't have been too happy if she was kicked out of the Outback Grand Prix because someone Grand Theft Auto-ed her machine. When I saw what he was driving, however, I realised that he wasn't going to take the Nissan. By the look of his vehicle, he probably was a car thief, but if he had the skill to get cars like that, he wasn't going to bother with a Patrol. I certainly wouldn't if I had a Ferrari.

Jeez, __ they were pretty uncommon _._ I only knew of one person in the whole of Gerongate who had one.

Argh. Was my luck really that bad?

I finally dragged my gaze up to his face. Yep, I had guessed right. Standing in front of me wearing faded jeans, a black printed T-shirt and worn-in Vans was James McKenzie.

So that was why I'd experienced a full-body cringe at the sound of his voice.

I finally answered his question. "Be my guest."

He raised his eyebrows at me.

"What?" I snapped. "Do you have a problem?"

"Just not the response I'd expect from you is all. I would have guessed something closer to, 'Piss off, you moron. I don't need your help.' Like that time when you got hit by a car and I found you trying to crawl along the pavement with your arm in a cast from an earlier injury, and it turned out later that you also had a broken leg and three cracked ribs."

"I'm sorry," I said sarcastically. "Would you like me to try again? I didn't mean to be polite."

"Of course you didn't."

Of course I didn't? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"What the hell was that supposed to mean?"

"Well, your behaviour towards me in the past sort of gives me the impression that I'm not one of your favourite people."

"You aren't."

"Oh, don't worry, I know that. But I really have to thank you. If you weren't so horrible to me in high school, having the whole city think I was a murderer might have been hard. Compared to you it's a walk in the park."

"Well, I suppose being named and shamed is what you get for killing someone. And he was the only person who liked you." I shrugged. "Then again, you always have been a bit of a moron."

He crossed his arms. "Unfortunately for you I'm not the murderer, as much as you'd like to think so. The truth can be __ inconvenient."

"Yeah, especially for you."

"I didn't kill him."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know, sweetie. I have confidence in the police force to find that out."

Like I believed that for a second.

"Is that why you hired Sharps Carter, then? Because you have so much confidence in the police?"

His eyes widened. "How do you know about that?"

"I know everything."

"Right. Who killed my uncle, then?"

"Haven't found that out yet."

"Exactly."

"But I will."

He gave a snort of laughter. "Yeah, after it's printed in the newspapers."

"I have a talent for discovering things for myself." I wanted to stick my tongue out, but that seemed like a bit much so I settled for a smug look.

"Right. I look forward to seeing you solve Frank's murder, then."

I raised my eyebrows. "I could do it, you know."

"Of course you could."

"I could!"

He half-rolled his eyes. "Sure. And I _could_ give you a house, but it'll never happen."

While I knew he was just being an arsehole, the idea was too tempting to let go. "A house?"

He frowned. "You heard the part where I said it would never happen, right?"

"What if I solved your uncle's murder?" I said. "Would you give me a house then?"

He laughed. "If you find out who killed Frank, I'll give you anything you want."

I crossed my arms. "That's a dangerous deal to make."

"Fine. I'll give you a house."

"And?"

He raised his eyebrows. "A house isn't enough?"

"From someone as rich as you?" I shook my head. "Absolutely not. Stop being so tight."

He sighed. "Fine. I'll give you the house and..." – he looked up towards the sky, picking a number at random – "... ten thousand dollars."

"Is that all?"

"Excuse me?"

"That's all your uncle's life was worth to you? Wow, James. That's cold."

James shook his head in disbelief. "Are you seriously using my uncle's murder to try and extort money from me?"

"Make it twenty thousand and we have a deal."

"You're on." We shook hands over the bet, with James wearing a massive smirk on his face.

"You know you're going to lose, don't you? Take my advice and leave it. Save yourself the embarrassment."

I smiled. "Getting cold feet, James?"

"No. I'm just being nice. It's gonna hurt your pride when you fail."

I rolled my eyes. Like I hadn't had my pride hurt before. Um, hello, did he not remember the high-school wedgie incident? No pride here. I was like the opposite of a lion.

"If __ I lose," I corrected, "which I won't."

"We have much better resources."

"Who is 'we' – the police?"

"Yeah."

I raised my eyebrows. "So you're still accepted as being one of them, then? That's strange. I would've thought they'd disown a murderer."

"Well, we probably would, but seeing as I haven't killed anyone I'm pretty safe, aren't I?"

"I'm sure I heard they fired you. Maybe because they can't they find the officer who is supposedly your alibi. What happened to her? Wasn't she going to lie for you?"

I could see the anger welling up inside him. And sure, maybe I was enjoying it just a little.

Or a lot.

He spoke through gritted teeth. "I'm not fired, I'm on leave. And they can't find Sarah because she's holidaying in South America with no mobile. When she comes back, she's going to tell the truth and I'll be off the hook. Sorry if that kind of bums you out. Going to make things a lot harder, isn't it?"

"You don't think I can do this."

"No, I don't. You don't have access to any information apart from what's in the paper and the gossip going around your circle of friends."

Wouldn't be so certain of that, mate. Now that I was the secretary-slash-researcher for Baxter & Co., I was pretty sure I'd be able to find out at least a little information from Tim Carter. __ OK, so I had a bit of a head start. Whatever. I needed it.

"I could always question your mother."

"That's low," he said, shaking his head. "Nearly as low as you smashing my car up with a wrecking bar."

I don't know what he was complaining about. His uncle had replaced his old second-hand car with a brand new Ferrari. OK, so he had saved up for months to buy the sound system for his first car, but oh well. You can't take back what you've done. Not that I wanted to.

"She'll probably speak to me a lot more freely than she would a police officer."

He shook his head. "You're still going to lose."

"Oh, come on, McKenzie. A decent proportion of the police force can't even tie their own shoelaces, let alone catch a murderer."

"Which proportion would that be?"

"The male proportion."

"Which includes me."

I glanced at his shoes. Elasticated.

"Yeah, it does."

He laughed humourlessly. "All this coming from someone who can't even make it up a flight of stairs without falling over. Anyway," he said, before I could cut in, "I wasn't talking about the cops. I was talking about Tim Carter. Think you're going to beat him to the murderer?"

"Yeah. I've got some hidden talents." Presumably. Maybe one day I'd even figure out what they were.

"He's got experience, resources, contacts – he's the best." He looked smug.

"Better than Adam Baxter?" I asked, quoting the name I'd read on the Martin file yesterday. Not that I had any clue who he was. He sounded like he might be important, though, what with having the same name as the company and all.

The smug look fell off McKenzie's face.

"How do you know all these guys?"

I shrugged. "Like I said, I know everything."

"Mmm. Sure." Before I could respond, he said, "Look, do you want me to start your car or should I just leave you to it? Maybe you can use your super detective skills to figure out what you're doing wrong."

"Start the car," I said, eyes narrowed. He jumped into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine roared to life first go and I made a noise of disgust. Why did the car hate me so much? As James hopped out I could see he was trying to disguise his amusement.

"Son of a bitch," I said. I don't know where it came from – it just kind of popped out.

"Me or the car?" James asked, still trying not to laugh.

I shrugged. I really didn't know.

I climbed back into the car, attempting to look moderately co-ordinated (which, with a four-wheel drive, is quite difficult at my height) and tried to take off. Ten points to whoever can guess what happened. You got it – the car stalled.

James opened the door and told me to move over. I did. Then he got in and fired up the engine once again.

"Arsehole," I said, knowing very well who I meant that time.

# Chapter Eight

"Where to?"

I gave him the address.

"The Martins' house? Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Oh wait, I'm talking to the girl who once broke fourteen bones in two weeks. I guess you're just outsourcing your injuries now."

"Lea's moving in with me, not that it's any of your business. She's a good friend of mine." Cough. "And why are you helping me? Not trying to suck up so I'll let the bet go, are you?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I want to get my car home and I can't do it with you blocking all exits."

When we pulled up out the front of the Ferret Cage (Jeremy Martin's lair), I asked James how he was planning to get back to his car.

"I'll just jog," he answered. "It's not that far."

Not that far? __ If I ran that distance it would probably be enough to send me into cardiac arrest.

He left and I walked towards the house. The front door was thrown open before I even got halfway across the yard and Lea came bounding out. "Is it OK? Am I allowed to come?"

I laughed at her enthusiasm. "Yeah, sure. Calm down!"

She hugged me for the second time that day. Both her and McKenzie were being nice __ to me – nicer than I would expect, anyway. What was this? International Befriend The Enemy Day or something?

Lea and I carried her stuff out to the Nissan. For the first time since, um, ever _,_ I was glad it was such a big car. Lea's luggage never would have fitted in Dad's vintage Jaguar. Then again, I never would have been allowed to drive Dad's Jag. Even Mum didn't have permission to drive it. It didn't have a bull bar like the Nissan and I guess Dad didn't want to risk Mum's safety. Or more likely he didn't want to risk the car's.

It wasn't just Mum and me – Dad didn't let anyone drive his car. He kept it locked at all times, even when he was inside it. Mum had to park in the driveway so the Jag could have the garage. I suppose that made sense. No one in their right mind would steal a Nissan Patrol. People would consider taking a Jag. I know I would. But I guess that could be because I have always been a little inclined towards criminal activities. (Just minor stuff, you know – it's not like I kidnap people or use guns. Often.)

When we finished putting her suitcases and duffel bags in the car, I looked over at Lea. She was pretty, with wild, shoulder length, reddish-brown hair (blonde highlights) that made her blue eyes really stand out. Actually, it was probably more the masses of mascara that made her eyes stand out rather than her hair, but I'm sure the hair helped. She had so much going for her. How did she ever end up marrying Jeremy? I suppose we all make mistakes. She seemed a lot happier now.

"Um, Lea," I began awkwardly, "you wouldn't mind driving the car back to Elm Avenue, would you? That's where I live."

"OK," she said. She frowned. "Um... Why do I __ have to drive? Where are you going?"

"With you." I paused, thinking of what to tell her. I didn't want to come across as an idiot. Not sure why I cared – she'd already seen me fall down the stairs today. How much more stupid could I make myself seem? Still, if I was her, knowing how clumsy I am, I'd probably rather be driving. I went with the truth. "I just prefer being a passenger in this car."

Well, basically the truth.

"Why's that?"

"Don't ask."

Mum and I helped Lea bring in her luggage. When she went upstairs to unpack, I was left alone in the kitchen with Mum. The argument started straight away. I think it was possibly the first time I'd ever had an entire argument in whispers.

"I thought you said it wasn't Lea Martin!" she hissed at me. "I asked specifically, and you said 'no.' Am I correct here? Or am I remembering this wrong?"

"Well, you're right, but –"

"No buts! You lied to me!"

"Well, I didn't really –"

"You said you didn't know her last name!"

"I don't! She's getting divorced and I don't know her maiden name. Don't look at me like that. I think I'm being the mature adult in this situation."

"You? Mature? Get real! And how could you possibly forget her last name? You still call her mother 'Mrs Walsh' every time you see her. I mean come on _,_ that is just idiotic. __ Even more so than you not being able to walk in high heels."

I glared at her. "At least I don't resort to cheap shots like that. It's immature. Especially from a woman of your advanced years."

Her jaw dropped. "Now that was a cheap insult."

"Aging isn't something to be ashamed of, Mum. It can be a beautiful thing. A chance to gain wisdom." I paused. "I mean, not in your case, but perhaps you can work towards fixing that."

She narrowed her eyes. "I can't believe you grew up to be so rude. You must have gotten that from your father."

She was not the most self-aware person on the planet.

Mum had reminded me I had news so I changed the subject. We could save the discussion about whether or not my arseholishness had come from the Davies side of the family tree for another time.

(Not. The answer was clearly not.)

"Speaking of people being rude, I saw James McKenzie today."

Her eyebrows rose. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah."

"Is he still alive?"

"Mum," I warned.

"I'm sorry. Please continue."

"Anyway, I saw him and –"

"Just casually clipped him with the bull bar? Sorry, I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

I sighed.

"I apologise," Mum said. "Go on. What happened?"

"Well, I was talking to him and –"

"Please don't tell me you fell in love with him."

I gave her a horrified look. "Mum!"

"He is quite good looking, I guess." She sighed. "I support your decision to run away with my best friend's murderous son wholeheartedly. Has he asked you to live with him?"

"Mum! No!" I thought about it. Well, actually he had offered me a house. "I made a bet with him."

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What does he want from you if he wins?"

Um, nothing... as far as I was aware.

"He won't win."

"What's the bet?"

Simple question, but saying the answer aloud I was going to feel like a fool. I took a deep breath and bit the bullet.

"That I can find out who killed Frank before anyone else."

Mum just looked at me.

"He'll give me twenty grand."

More looking.

"And a house."

A look-filled pause and then:

"Are you serious?"

She didn't seem overly enthusiastic.

"Yes."

Nothing.

"I will not be deterred by your apathy."

"Guess you won't want to find a house with me after all, then," came Lea's voice from the doorway, sounding kind of put out. I hadn't even known she was standing there – what was with all the people sneaking up on me these days?

"Well," I said, "we won't have to _find_ a house. We've got one. We just need to figure out who killed Frank so I can win the bet."

"We?" she squealed excitedly. "You mean I can help? That is so cool! I've always thought I'd make a good detective. When do we start?"

Wow. Her sudden enthusiasm was a little unexpected.

"Um, right away, I guess."

I glanced at Mum. She still looked a tad sceptical.

"You didn't tell me what James gets if he wins." Mum started to look worried. "Please tell me he doesn't get this house."

"No, Mum," I said with a laugh. "He doesn't get the house. It's not like he needs another one. I don't know what he gets – probably just a laugh at my expense."

"Alright," she said. "He's pretty much guaranteed that."

Satisfied that I hadn't put her house up as collateral, Mum left to go and see Violet. And probably compare her Nissan's latest off-road top speed with the Prado's.

Realising I was starting to get a bit hungry, I glanced at the clock on the wall. Holy crap, it was twenty to four! I suppose I had __ finished breakfast at half past one. Guess it was probably time for lunch.

"You hungry?" I asked Lea.

"Starving."

I found some leftover mushroom pasta and reheated a plate for each of us. I did an OK job (apart from the edges getting a bit crunchy), but the microwave heated them a little too well and I had to wipe the film of pasta sauce from its interior afterwards.

When we finished our carbs and fungi, we decided to start work on the murder case. But deciding to do it was about as far as we got.

"Um, how about we... uh..." That was Lea's very helpful suggestion.

"Well, we could, yeah..." And that was mine, of pretty much the same amount of usefulness.

Doing well. At this rate, the bet was sure to end in our favour. We thought for a moment longer.

"I've got an idea," Lea said a little reluctantly. "It's pretty stupid, though."

"Hey, it's got to be better than doing nothing."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"It's more useful than anything I've got."

"We could watch crime shows on TV to give us an idea of what we're supposed to do." She sighed. "I told you it was a bad idea."

I shrugged. "Sounds OK to me. And people say that TV teaches us nothing."

She flicked through the TV guide to see if there were any shows on. "There's one in an hour that doesn't sound completely tacky. What are we going to do in the meantime?"

"Maybe we could start a file of all the newspaper articles and stuff. And then we can add other info we find out as we go along."

"Why didn't you say that before? That could actually be useful. It's heaps better than my idea." She shook her head at herself. "Like watching television is going to help us."

"My idea came from a TV show."

I retrieved a manila folder from my room. Jo had given it to me a couple of years back to encourage me to spend more time with her on weekends. Considering what she'd done in her spare time, it was unsurprising that it had never been used. Scrawled across the front cover was the purpose for which the folder had been intended:

Snapshots of James McKenzie

<3 <3 <3

Yes. Disturbing.

I took it back downstairs and picked up a pen, intending to cross the title out, but then I hesitated. There probably would be snapshots of James McKenzie in here by the end of this. Instead of scribbling over the current heading, I wrote another above it.

Frank McKenzie's Murder

OK, so it was a slightly boring title. Oh well. That was what was actually going inside. Lea glanced at the folder.

"What's with the love hearts?"

"Jo Riley gave it to me."

Everyone at school had known about Jo's crush on McKenzie. You couldn't miss it. She spent all her spare time following him, including lunch and recess and any classes she could possibly sneak out of. She even met Oswald while she was in the middle of a stalk session. Guess he must have been kind of a smooth talker if he managed to get her attention while her darling James was around. I can't really imagine Os trying to hit on a girl, but Jo did say it was love at first sight, so maybe it really was _._

"You mean Joanna 'Oh-my-god-do-you-think-he-saw-me-while-I-was-in-his-backyard-trying-to-catch-a-glimpse-of-him-without-his-clothes-on' Riley? That explains it, then. But why do you have it?"

"She used to try and get me to come with her on stakeouts. It was supposed to tempt me into falling in love with him. Give us more hobbies in common, you know." Not likely.

"So you never had a crush on McKenzie? You must be just about the only girl ever __ to be immune."

"You had a crush on him too?" I swear, this guy was like the plague.

"Oh, yeah. I haven't met many girls who didn't want to marry him back in the day."

"What about his sisters?"

"Very funny."

"Anyway, we'd better get to work."

Lea glanced at me, noticing the abrupt change of topic, but she said nothing. I handed her a copy of the Gerongate Gazette.

We went through all the papers we had in the house (including the old ones we found in the garage which should have been thrown away before I was born) and cut out everything that had to do with Frank. By the time our detective show came on, we had a lot of clippings.

"We'll have to take it in turns to read this," Lea said as she flipped through the file during an ad break. "Or we could both read bits of it at the same time to try and get through it quicker."

"Maybe we should just go through it when we run out of things to do," I said. It didn't seem like the most riveting task. "Like, we shouldn't read it now, because we're watching a show and we could get confused. Maybe if we've got some time after Frank's funeral. When is it, again?"

She flipped through until she found the notice.

"Tomorrow," she said.

"Right."

"What are we actually going to do at the funeral?" she asked.

Good question, Lea. I possibly should have given it some thought before now.

"We're going to go and scope it out," I answered, rather vaguely.

"What do you mean?"

What did I mean? I don't know. I wasn't a detective.

"You know, see how people are behaving and all that. If we see anyone acting suspiciously, we'll know to put them on the suspect list." Crime-fighting pro tip right there. See a suspect? Suspect them. "There'll probably be some fancy suits there, since Frank made all his money through investing. Maybe he was involved in something dodgy. If nothing else, it will give us some background on Frank. It would be nice to get some sort of lead."

The show came back on then and we stopped talking. I found it more useful than I thought I would. It gave me a few ideas, but I decided not to tell Lea for the moment, just in case she freaked out. They were not totally legal ideas.

Nothing to do with guns or murdering or anything – just a bit of borrowing-without-permission...

From the police.

# Chapter Nine

When the show ended, it was six. I looked out the window. The sun was still up thanks to daylight savings, and as we were nearing the end of spring in Gerongate, the room was getting a bit stuffy. I stood to open the window and I saw that Mum had brought Violet McKenzie home with her (it must have killed her to be a passenger in the Nissan) for dinner. Probably not literally 'for dinner' – unless Mum was losing the racing competition to Team Prado.

Good. This would give me an opportunity to quiz Violet about the case.

"Lea," I whispered, "James McKenzie's mum is coming for dinner. We should ask her some questions about the case, but try to make it sound natural. We don't want her to know anything's up."

"Sure," Lea whispered back. "This is like we're going undercover – cool!"

The door opened and voices carried through to the lounge room.

"No, you should not make him a casserole. Violet, listen to me," said Mum. "He's twenty-one – he doesn't need you to look after him. And he has a housekeeper to do that anyway. There was a reason you kicked him out, or have you forgotten? Why do you even think you have any responsibility towards him? Do you not remember what you found in his room? Under your roof?"

"Yes, drugs – belonging to his brother! James had no idea they were there. It wasn't his fault."

I groaned. Time to go over the whole drama again.

Don't worry if you have trouble keeping up with this next part – even I have to refer to my notes about this sometimes.

James McKenzie, his older brother William, my older brother Topher and I had been best mates when we were little. Inseparable. That was, until we hit school, when James told his friends he didn't like me, and they told _me_ he didn't like me, and James and I kind of became enemies. But that's getting off topic.

Will was two years older than Topher and James, and I came two years later. When I was in Year 9 (Topher and James were in Year 11, and Will had already left school), James was kicked out by his mother because she found drugs in his room. They were, in fact, Will's, but when Will first told Violet that, she thought he was just trying to stick up for his baby brother. James moved in with Uncle Frank and refused to talk to Will at all.

Soon after, my brother disappeared. Most people thought that Topher had run away because he didn't want to have to deal with his two best friends fighting, but I disagreed (as usual). Frankly, that was a pathetic reason to run away. It was much more Topher's style to, say, lock them in a room together until they'd figured things out. My family was not prone to avoiding confrontation, a trait you may have noticed that I also possess.

A few days after Topher disappeared, Will overdosed. Straight out of hospital he went into rehabilitation, paid for by his parents. As you could imagine, that pissed James off quite a bit. His parents were willing to kick him out for using drugs, but they did everything they could to help his brother. He hadn't spoken to (or been in the same building as) Will since 'the accident.'

I know. It's all rather dramatic.

TL; DR – We had a shitty couple of weeks, after which James was living with his rich uncle, Topher was gone, and Will and I were the only two who were still friends.

Since I was a bit sick of hearing this story being constantly repeated (I know I sound insensitive, but really, after five years you kind of get over it), I headed out into the hallway and cut off their conversation.

"Hi Violet!" I said in fake surprise. "I didn't know you were coming for dinner. It's nice to see you."

"You too, Charlie." She paused. "Janine was just telling me that you're interested in Frank's murder."

OK, so I suppose we didn't have to worry about acting casual. "Um, yeah, I guess," I said, responding more to my own thought than to Violet.

"Got any suspects?"

Lea came out of the lounge room and joined in with, "I thought maybe it was Frank's business partner."

"It could be," said Violet. "I didn't really know Frank that well. Never met his partner." She turned to me. I gulped. Vi had a little bit of the Ol' Crazy Eye going on. "You saw James today."

"Yes," I said. "The Nissan broke down and he had to start it for me."

"And?"

"Oh, nothing serious. I think I just flooded it a bit." Whatever that meant.

"I was talking about James."

"Oh." Here came the interrogation.

Violet had skills in questioning that were not yet mastered by national security organisations. If she wanted to know something, she used the minimum amount of words she could to keep the conversation going, so that the person she was talking to felt like they had to talk more to compensate. That meant that things just tended to slip out. And so she found out everything.

Maybe I could use that technique when I was questioning people about McKenzie.

"So? How was he?"

"Pretty normal."

"Normal?"

"Well, yeah. He brought up the usual embarrassing stories from my past."

"Uh huh."

"He was dressed well." Not that he ever dressed badly. He was one of those annoying people who just seemed to look put together all the time.

"Yep."

"He looked healthy."

"How healthy?"

"Like normal. Maybe a bit tired."

"Right."

"Didn't seem too overcome by grief. Not that I think he did it," I added quickly, catching the anger flaring up in Vi's face. "I just mean he's coping well. That's all. Anyway, we didn't really see each other for that long so I don't have much to tell you."

"That's it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Should I send him a casserole?"

"No," said my mother.

"Why not?" Violet asked, turning the crazy eyes on Mum. Phew. I was safe. Sorry, Mum, but I don't think both of us could have made it out unscathed. I'll always remember your sacrifice.

"He doesn't deserve it."

Farewell, Janine. You were a good parent. I'll miss you. Well, I'll go to your funeral. You were an OK parent. Definitely in my top two.

Luckily, Lea stepped in, potentially saving my mother's life (and saving me from having to write her obituary). "He's got a housekeeper to look after him. From what I know of her she gets narky when other people cook for him. Thinks it's an insult," Lea told us. I wondered how she knew so much about James. Maybe she'd just been playing it cool earlier when she said she no longer had a crush on him. I'd have to ask Jo if she'd ever run into Lea in McKenzie's backyard of an evening.

Violet sighed, thinking for a moment. "I'll sleep on it," she told us finally.

Only in Gerongate would a mother kick her son out at age sixteen and still be cooking his dinner when he was twenty-one.

Over our meal (one of Violet's casseroles – delicious), I tried to find out everything Violet could tell me about Frank. I didn't learn much – she'd hardly known him – but she did tell me something interesting. I already knew Frank didn't get along with his family. He'd never had anything to do with his nieces and nephews while they were little. So how had he and James met? When Violet told me she didn't know, it struck me as more than a little weird. James had met his own uncle without his family knowing. What exactly had he been doing, befriending his uncle (who had disowned the family) behind everyone's backs? That looked bad, like maybe he'd been planning this inheritance thing for a while. James or his uncle must have had a specific reason they wanted to meet. I hoped that reason wasn't so James could kill Frank for his money.

I probably wouldn't have a chance to ask James about it tomorrow – everyone would be trying to talk to him at the funeral – so I'd just have to do it the first opportunity I got.

By the time Violet left it was eleven so I went to bed, though it took me a while to fall asleep. A few things that had happened today were worrying me. It wasn't just what Violet had told me about James and Frank. There was something James had said that wasn't sitting quite right. When he'd driven me to the Martins' place, I'd told him the address, but not who lived there. Yet straight away he'd asked why I wanted to go there and if I had a death wish. There, in one statement, he'd given away two things. Firstly, he knew either Lea or Jeremy well enough to have committed their address to memory. I was going to have to ask Lea about that. And secondly, he knew what I'd done when I'd quit my job, or at least knew that Jeremy and I weren't on great terms.

None of this meant that he had killed Frank, of course. I didn't think __ it did, anyway. Mysteries were a lot more complicated in real life than on television. But I had to solve it. If not for the house and the money, just pissing McKenzie off was a good enough reason.

Lea and I were going to do this. If we got desperate, we could always fall back on police information to assist us. I had a plan for how to get it and I was pretty sure that Lea would help me. She was really getting into this whole amateur detective thing. Surely she wouldn't let a pesky obstacle like the law stand in our way...

And by that stage I was at least fifty percent convinced that she didn't intend to kill me.

# Chapter Ten

Sunday morning came all too soon. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. Ten. Ah. Maybe Sunday hadn't come so soon after all.

I definitely wasn't at my peak in the morning.

As I stood under the spray of the shower, I contemplated – well, considered momentarily – why so many songs had been written about Sunday mornings. Nothing that great seemed to happen. Some people went to church, others slept in. Many nursed post-Saturday night hangovers.

Others woke up thinking that it was Monday and wondering why their alarms hadn't gone off, ran around the house screaming and fretting about losing their jobs, got caught on three separate speed cameras in the space of the ten minute drive to work (which they had condensed into three) and then arrived at the office, finding it closed. OK, so that had never happened to anyone I knew, but it could, right?

What made this particular time so inspirational? Yes, I admit, generally I was only around to see two hours of it and perhaps all the miracles happened before ten, but I doubted it.

I shut off the water and walked back to my room wrapped in a towel. When I'd first gotten up it had seemed too difficult to make such a massive decision as what clothes to wear for the day, so I'd delayed making any commitments until the hot water had activated my brain. At the risk of repeating myself, I really wasn't a morning person.

When I'd finally dressed myself in jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the slogan _Rock Off_ (which for some reason had seemed funny when I was fourteen, although now I wore it 'ironically' and definitely not because I had no money to buy new clothes), I descended the stairs. Mum and Lea were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

Since I'm not much of a fan of bitter, super-caffeinated beverages – or, as my mother puts it, because I'm a wimp – I made myself a cup of green tea. I know, I know, for someone who was about as health conscious as a potato, drinking green tea was kind of weird. The thing is, black tea required sugar. Green tea did not. I drank green tea out of laziness.

As I sat there sipping my hot leaf water I noticed my mother's eye was twitching. I glanced at Lea. She was having trouble staying on the seat.

"How much coffee have you two had?"

"We started when we woke up."

"When was that?"

"When Mrs Stein threw her husband out this morning." Mum's eye started twitching even more frantically.

Mr Stein was an ex-boxing champion who'd been the best in Gerongate back in the day. He and his wife lived in the house one down and across from ours. I had a hard time imagining the smily, polite Mrs Stein kicking her husband out of the home they'd lived in as long as I could remember.

"Were they yelling loudly?"

"No," Mum answered. "It was the sirens that woke us up."

Whoa! What? _Sirens?_

"Sirens? What happened?" My voice had grown a little shrill with the shock.

"I told you," Mum said irritably. "She threw him out."

"Out the second floor window," Lea chimed in.

"What?" I squeaked. "Are you serious? Mrs Stein – frail, dainty old Mrs Stein – literally threw her husband out the second storey window?"

I wondered what he'd done to deserve it. It must have been something big if after all this time together she'd finally gotten angry enough to make him take a two-storey free fall. My brow furrowed. I had not seen that coming. Apparently neither had he, or I'd imagine he might have made some different life choices.

"I know," said Mum, shaking her head and twitching her eye. "It's sad."

"Yeah."

"I mean," she continued, "if he couldn't even defend himself against her, what does this say about the state of boxing in Gerongate?"

I decided to blame it on the coffee.

"When did this happen?"

"Around six."

"You've been downing coffee for four and a half hours?" Hmm. That might explain a few things.

"Yeah," said Lea and started giggling. Mum joined her.

Oh, jeez. That was not a good sign.

"Well," I told Lea, "at least we know you'll have plenty of time to work on the case. You certainly won't be able to sleep for the next week." She just kept on cackling. "I hope you've stopped laughing by the time we get to Frank's funeral."

"That's at two, isn't it?" Lea asked me. When I nodded, she glanced at her watch. Suddenly her eyes grew wide. "Oh crap! I'm supposed to meet my lawyer in ten minutes!"

"You can borrow the car if you want," Mum told her. She seemed to be finding this quite amusing. She'd probably be finding everything quite amusing for the next few days. Too much coffee was like alcohol to my mother.

"No thanks," said Lea. "I'll make it. I'm feeling pretty energetic. I'll jog."

My eyes widened in horror – voluntary exercise? No way could we be friends – but Lea didn't notice. She ran out of the kitchen and I'm pretty sure I heard her puffing as she reached the front door. That made me feel a little better. At least I wasn't the only unfit person I knew.

"I'm feeling pretty zingy, too," Mum told me. "I might go out and do some gardening."

I heard the back door slam and crept over to the window. Mum picked up my old rainbow skipping rope, moved to the cement slab at the back of the garage and started skipping frantically. Oh no. This wasn't good. The last thing we needed was for Janine to get in shape. I had to be able to outrun her in case of emergency.

Heading back to the table, I sat down with my tea. I really needed somewhere to start with this case. A clue, a name... Well, I had a name, but I didn't think it was the right one. I'd known James my whole life, and he wasn't a murderer. Everyone thought he had a motive, but that wasn't true. Frank adored James. It wasn't like James had to kill him if he wanted money – he could have just asked for it.

So, I'd established who hadn't done it. Great. It would have been much more helpful if I'd established who had. A name... I needed a name...

I took out a highlighter and the case file. Names. That's what I wanted. That's what I was going to get.

By the time I finished going through the folder, I had a list of five people. Not terribly impressive, I know, but it was a start. Three that I'd never heard of, one I'd heard a lot about, and one I'd met before.

Michael Andrews, Peter Emmeret and Derek Patel belonged to Group One. Michael Andrews was heading up the investigation, and he'd made it pretty clear who he thought was responsible. There was a photo of him alongside one of the articles, and believe me, if I'd wanted to reassure the people of Gerongate that the murderer was going to be caught, I would not have chosen to attach a picture of this guy.

His suit was somehow saggy and too small at the same time – and honestly, that's kind of how his head looked as well. When I skimmed through a couple of articles and read his quotes, they did nothing to change my mind about him. This guy was not a world-class thinker _or_ dresser.

That explained why James had hired Sharps. Judging by the image he presented in the papers, I wouldn't have trusted Andrews to direct traffic, much less solve a murder. It could have been an act, I guess – a ploy to get people to underestimate him – but I doubted it. Having a useless detective on the case might not have been ideal for James, but it could work in my favour. It probably wouldn't be too hard to get information out of him. If he had any to give.

Peter and Derek, two of the others on the list, were the kids who'd found the body. I was surprised the paper was allowed to print their names. Wasn't there a law about that? Not that laws made a whole lot of difference in Gerongate.

The guy I'd heard a lot about was Frank's business buddy, Larry Jones. He should have been ridiculously rich too, but he gambled, drank and snorted most of his wealth away. Larry had co-owned a few investments with Frank, and he was probably very jealous of McKenzie's good fortune. Or rather his good business sense.

The last person was Sarah Hollis, James's cop buddy and alibi. I'd met her a few years back, and while I didn't know her super well, she'd seemed nice. Currently, however, she was missing, or holidaying in South America – depending who you asked. She was due back in the country this weekend. If she was still alive.

The front door opened and a red-faced and puffing Lea stumbled into the kitchen. She looked even worse than I did after exercise. It was probably because she had to carry all that extra weight on her chest.

"Man, I'm unfit," Lea wheezed. "I only jogged a few blocks."

"Don't feel too guilty about it. I'm pretty unfit as well."

"We should probably do something about that."

"Probably."

And that was all that was said on that topic.

"How long have we got until the funeral?"

"It's only a quarter to twelve now," Lea answered. "We've got heaps of time." She noticed the papers spread out in front of me. "Have you been going through the file?"

"Yeah. I was looking for names of people involved other than the McKenzies. I found five. Two police officers, two kids and one possible suspect."

"Let me guess. The suspect is Larry Jones."

I was intrigued. "How did you know?"

"Well, I kind of already thought he might have done it, so I asked Alice Grey, my solicitor. I saw Larry leaving her office one day, so I figured she must know him. She hadn't talked to Jeremy's lawyer yet and she didn't have much to tell me about the divorce, but the trip was still totally worth it for the case. Apparently she was trying to negotiate with Frank on Larry's behalf." Nice confidentiality there, Alice. Remind me never to go to her with my legal problems. "She couldn't tell me too much. I think Larry was trying to buy some of Frank's property, but he wouldn't sell. She said Larry got really aggressive and she dropped his case."

"What a nice guy." Yeesh. Yep, suspect number one.

"Exactly. I think maybe Larry killed Frank because he thought James would be easier to negotiate with."

Well, I suppose he wasn't to know, but if that was the case then he was certainly going to be disappointed. I couldn't see James being any less stubborn than his uncle.

The back door swung open and Mum entered the room. Her mouth dropped open. "What are you doing?" she asked. "You have to be at the funeral at two!"

"But that's not for ages," I told her.

"Surely you are not that dim, Charlie. The whole of Gerongate is going to be there! You'll never get a seat if you don't leave soon. Look at you! You're not dressed, you haven't had lunch –"

"How do you know we haven't had lunch?" I asked.

"You haven't left a mess." Fair enough. "Hurry up! Go get changed. How do you expect to get a park if you don't turn up early? Come on!"

Lea and I dashed upstairs. Trust me – when Mum gets like that, you do what she says. We pulled random black clothes from cupboards, drawers and suitcases (Lea hadn't unpacked everything yet) and pulled them on.

Lea settled on a black dress that was a modest length (but had a not-so-modest neckline), black pointy-toed heels, and a tonne of mascara. I admired the way she could pull that look off. If I wore that much make-up, I'd just look like a panda. And if I even tried to walk in those shoes...

Instead, I went for a pair of black pants, a black blouse and my old black school shoes. Looking at myself in the mirror, I imagined what my mother would think. I didn't care. If the guys I'd met were good advocates for their gender, I'd rather stay single. Besides, it wasn't like I was going to the funeral to pick up.

When we were back downstairs, we found that Mum had already made us lunch. And wrapped it in cling-wrap. She took one look at what I was wearing, shook her head in disgust, thrust the car keys at me and practically shoved us out the door.

"Wouldn't want you to be late!" she called out as she slammed the door. I could've sworn I heard the lock click behind us.

# Chapter Eleven

When we arrived I was secretly glad that Mum had made us leave so early. We were lucky enough to sneak into a park only one block away from the church. That's what you get when you turn up nearly an hour and a half early for a funeral, I suppose.

When we pulled up, I fell out of the driver's side of the Nissan and whacked my head on the roof of the car parked next to us. Reorienting myself, I blinked a couple of times as I stared at the vehicle I'd just head butted. It was a brand new Porsche, and it was black.

Baxter & Co.

The Porsche provided a huge contrast to the car parked on the other side of us. If you could actually call it a car. It was more like a pile of scrap metal on wheels. How the hell this thing passed its registration was beyond me. Yeesh. I think I preferred the Nissan, and that's saying something.

When we arrived at the church, it was already packed. And I mean _packed._ Even arriving as early as we did, we had to squash up the back, standing. It seemed like half of Gerongate was there. People who arrived at one o'clock had to congregate outside.

I turned to Lea. "Time to do a bit of detective work," I whispered. "If you see anyone you know, make a note of them. We might have to talk to them later."

Lea started ratting through her fake-snake-skin handbag (black, of course, so totally funeral appropriate). Finally she found what she was looking for – a notebook and a pen. I was impressed. I'd meant for us to take mental notes, but this was much better.

"Good thinking," I said, struggling to see through the masses of people. Being five foot three had its advantages, but seeing through a crowd was not one of them. "OK, have you spotted anyone? Oh wait, there's James McKenzie. Who's that woman he's with? I don't recognise her." She was a little taller than me with mousy brown hair, but that was about as much as I could make out from this distance.

Lea glanced over at them. "Oh, that's his housekeeper, Karen Martin. She's Jeremy's sister. Oh, he's there too. I better write these down." So that was how James and the Martins were connected. As she was writing, Lea said, "I can tell you more about them later. Not that much to tell, though. Apart from how desperately Karen's hair needs a deep moisture treatment." To be honest, I didn't think I was the right person to judge someone else's appearance, so I made no comment. "Can you see anyone else?" she asked as she finished writing. She looked up. "Ah, I know him. Oh, and her!"

Lea seemed to know everybody there, so after a while we had a pretty good list. Although she was spotting tonnes of people, I hardly knew anyone. As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. I really did need to get out more. But that was what I was doing, I reminded myself. Making friends was one of the benefits of working at Baxter and Co. Speaking of which...

"What are you doing here, honey?"

I recognised Tim's voice straight away. After all, his accent was kind of distinctive. I wasn't surprised he'd shown up. I'd seen his car outside and anyway, he was working on the same case as me. Of course he'd come to the funeral. Did that make us rivals? I guess so. That could be a problem, considering he was probably trained and licensed to do this, and definitely much better at it – he'd spotted me in the crowd, and I hadn't even noticed him until he spoke. Then again, when I thought back to our last meeting, the fact that he'd managed to sneak up on me in a crowd wasn't that surprising. He'd had no trouble doing so in an empty room.

He wanted to know why I was here, and I wasn't exactly sure what to tell him. I tried to stall until I came up with a good answer.

"What am I doing here? I could ask you the same question." Now that I'd said it, that answer seemed more than a little bit stupid. "I could, but I'd know the answer."

That brought a whole new relevance to the phrase, 'Once you're in a hole, stop digging.'

"Yeah. You know why I'm here. Now you can tell me what you're doing."

When in doubt, bullshit like your life depends on it. Especially if it does.

"Well," I began, "as you know, Frank McKenzie was a pillar of the Gerongate community. He made many sizeable contributions to charity, and I came to pay my respects to him, rest his soul, and –"

"Cut the crap, Charlie."

I turned to face him. Time to try my grandma impersonation again.

"You can't swear in church! That's blasphemous. God, Tim." I clapped my hand to my mouth.

He laughed. "Hypocrite."

"At least I'm remorseful about it." Or pretending to be. "You don't even seem to care."

He shook his head. "You're right. I don't care. I've done worse things than swear in church." He raised his eyebrows. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"You never give up, do you?"

"No."

"Jesus, Tim. Why the hell do you even care?"

"I counted two blasphemies –"

"Oh, shut up," I snapped. "If you really want to know why I'm here, I'm trying to find out who killed Frank. I made a bet with someone that I could figure out who did it, and losing is not an option. If I win, I get some money and a house, and that's kind of big for me, because I'm broke and I still live with my parents. Is that a good enough excuse to be here? Are you satisfied?"

Yeah, I admit, it doesn't take a whole lot to rile me up.

"Who'd you make this bet with?"

"Not telling."

"Then no, I'm not satisfied."

"Well you're just going to have to deal with it." I crossed my arms and put on my defiant face. Which is basically just my regular face.

"You're muscling in on my job, honey. How do you expect me to react?"

"Oh, save it. I know you don't think I'll figure it out. Like I'm a threat. And besides, you get paid for any time you put in on this case. It's not like you have to solve it."

He tilted his head, and then nodded in agreement. "I suppose that's true. Still, I get paid more if I solve it. Calm down. You look like you're about to cry."

I took a deep breath and did my best to keep myself from yelling. "If you want me to calm down," I hissed at him through clenched teeth, "saying I look like I'm going to cry is not the way to go about it."

"Sorry, honey. I'll store that for future reference."

That was when Lea turned around and saw Tim.

"Oh, hey Sharps!"

"Lea," he said with a smile. "I notice that you're not standing with Jeremy. Would that mean you two aren't together anymore?" I decided that was probably a good indicator that I wouldn't have to introduce them, so I didn't.

She grinned. "I've filed for divorce!"

"Congratulations," said Sharps. I thought that was what you were supposed to say when people got together, not when they broke up, but with Jeremy being such an arsehole and all, 'congratulations' was probably an appropriate response.

"Mr Carter?" came a voice from behind Tim. The three of us looked to see who had said it and from the way our shoulders all slumped at the same time, I could tell we were thinking the same thing.

Great. Cops.

And not just any cops, either. I recognised Michael Andrews from the newspaper article. He was wearing a grey suit and a hideous multi-coloured fluorescent tie. I'm not great with ages but I'd guess he was somewhere in his mid-forties. He was balding, with beady little eyes on a face that was too small for his head. His brain was probably too small for his head as well.

His partner was far younger, far better looking, far smarter (I presumed) and far more fashion-conscious. He was familiar, but it took me a second to place him.

"Mr Carter," Andrews repeated, "I'm –"

"Mike Andrews. I know. We've met before. Quite a few times. Remember? By the way, Mikey, you're looking great! Have you lost weight? Grown an extra hair?"

I was a bit worried about Sharps aggravating the cops, but obviously they were used to it because Andrews carried on as though nothing had happened. Or maybe he just didn't get the joke.

"Interesting that you should be here, Mr Carter."

"Really? It's interesting that you two should be here as well. It doesn't look like you're here to comfort James. Maybe you're hoping to arrest someone? That would explain the very stealthily hidden handcuffs. Just as a pointer, if you're trying to blend in, normal clothes do help. It would also be best if you wore a tie that wasn't so loud it drowned out what you were saying. And selling your picture to the tabloids isn't a great move. Only suggestions."

Little Face frowned. He didn't understand what Tim was saying – his tie couldn't talk. "Who are you working for?"

"Sorry, classified information. I'm sure you understand that. It's a professional thing."

"Mr Carter, you are obstructing our investigation. I could arrest you for that." Whatever. Like he had the guts.

"And then I would call my lawyer, Adam Baxter, and he'd get me straight back out. You can't just come and steal the information I've collected as part of a private investigation. Really, I'm starting to think you can't figure out anything yourself."

"Mr Carter, I'm warning you –"

"Mr Andrews, I'm warning _you_. There is a certain amount of professional courtesy between the police and our agency. I suggest you don't test my patience any further. You don't want to tip the balance. This issue is between me and my client, and it is confidential. The reason I am here is a private matter and I don't intend to discuss it any further with you."

When it became clear that Tim wasn't going to answer his questions, Andrews turned to me. "And what are you doing here, Miss, um –"

"Ms," I corrected. "I'm paying my respects. As you do at a funeral."

"So am I," Lea added, before he could question her as well. Andrews left in a huff while his partner stayed behind. He and Tim nodded hello to each other. Now I knew who the cop was.

"Sharps," he said.

"Joe," Tim responded.

Joe Winton turned to me. "Charlie. Been a while."

"Pity it wasn't longer."

He laughed. "James told me he ran into you yesterday. I was surprised he came out alive."

"I've never tried to kill him." Hurt him? Yes. Kill __ him? Of course not. Well, maybe once. OK, OK, twice.

"You did write off his car with a wrecking bar."

"He ran my bra up the school flagpole!"

"Was that your bra?" Lea asked. "Oh, yeah, I remember now. Didn't he get suspended for that?"

"No." Of course not. The teachers had all agreed that 'a nice boy like James wouldn't do something like that, Charlie, and even if he did, that's no excuse to bring a machete to school.' Damn faculty always took his side. "And anyway, he ended up living in a mansion with his billionaire uncle who replaced his car with a Ferrari. He didn't exactly lose out."

"How did he get hold of your bra?" Lea asked.

Not the way she was thinking.

"Sneaked into my room during a party."

"Why was he at your house for a party?" Tim asked.

"Violet McKenzie and my mum are friends," I said. "James was always at our house a lot."

"James said you made a bet with him," said Joe.

I shot him a look telling him to shut up, but Tim had already heard. He smiled at me and I clenched my jaw. Smug bastard.

Joe caught my look and turned to Lea, trying to change the subject. "I, uh, thought you two," he said, gesturing between me and Lea, "were kind of worst enemies at the moment."

"Hell no!" said Lea. "She gave me a chance to get a divorce. We're best mates."

I frowned. "How do you know what happened?"

"Everyone in town knows what happened," Joe said, looking at me like I couldn't have asked a stupider question.

Great. The whole city __ knew.

"So," he continued, "how do _you_ two know each other?" This time he meant Tim and me. "You seeing each other or something?"

Tim snorted. "Yeah, I take girls out to funerals a lot. Lovely setting for a date. No, we only met on Friday. We work together."

Joe turned to me. "You've gone from groceries to security? That's a pretty big jump. What do you do?"

"Receptionist."

"Oh, on account of you being such a people person?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Shut up."

"Did James know where you worked before you made this bet?" he asked.

"No."

"He's in for a shock."

"Yep."

"You don't think it was a bit cruel not to tell him?"

"He didn't ask."

"Fair enough."

We stopped talking then because people were turning around and frowning at us. Apparently the priest (or is it pastor? Minister? Anyway, the Jesus Man) had started to speak sometime during our conversation.

There were sniffles coming from beside me and I realised that Lea was crying. Joe obviously noticed as well, because he squeezed over next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Lea took that as a cue to throw herself at him, embracing Joe way tighter than was appropriate in a church as she wailed into his chest at top volume. After seeing Joe's expression of total terror, Tim and I each began to scan the booklet about Frank we'd been handed at the door, then took a new interest in the ceiling and the floorboards and generally tried not to look at each other in case we started cackling like crones out joy-riding on broomsticks.

What? That's a totally normal simile. Shush.

The Jesus Man finished his speech alarmingly quickly, leading me to think that we must have talked through a fair bit of it. Oops.

Everyone was invited to the burial. The priest said nothing about the wake, so I assumed the general public wasn't invited. Not that that would stop anyone from going.

Joe had to go find Andrews, so he left Lea in the care of Tim and me. We walked Lea back to the car.

"Are you alright to drive?" I asked her.

She nodded. I think she was afraid that if she said anything she might burst into tears again.

"OK. Tim," I said, "can I come with you?"

"To the burial?" he asked. "Sure. I'll have to ask James if you're allowed to go to the wake, though. We don't want to upset him."

"OK. Thanks." I turned to Lea. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," she squeezed out, then dragged in a shaky breath.

She got in the car and we watched her drive away. (No hassles, in case you're wondering. Even more proof that the car only hated me.)

"This is your car, isn't it?" I asked, gesturing to the Porsche.

"No," he answered. "That's my car." He was pointing at the lump of junk that had been parked on the other side of the Nissan.

The horror must've registered on my face, because he said, "Just kidding. No need to have a heart attack." He beeped open the Porsche.

We got a little lost on the way (I blamed the GPS for giving us the wrong directions; Tim blamed me for not being able to work it) so we reached the burial a bit late and they were nearly done when we arrived. Very few of those who had attended the funeral were at the cemetery. Basically it was just cops and McKenzies, although it was really only James who had known Frank. I also recognised Karen Martin from the church. At least, I thought it was her – it was hard to know since I'd only really caught glimpses of her across the hall. The woman's hair was looking a little dry, though, so I made an educated guess based on what Lea had said.

When it was over, most of the McKenzie Clan left, as did Karen. Apparently it was her little pile of silver and rust-coloured junk. Didn't McKenzie pay her enough to buy a decent vehicle? I wondered how she had managed to beat Tim and me there when she left after us. Sure, we got a little lost, but even so... She probably went on all the backstreets and didn't get caught in a traffic jam like we did. And she probably sped and rammed her way through town. Her car was already a write-off – it wouldn't matter if it got a few more dings.

James McKenzie swaggered over to us.

"Sharps," he said, and Tim nodded in recognition. James looked towards me. "Queen Evil."

"King Dickhead."

Tim looked back and forth between us. "This is going to be interesting."

"We don't see eye to eye on a lot of things," James said. "Probably because she's so short. And she's jealous because her friends like me better than her."

"They do not."

"Oh yeah? Well why don't they hang around with you on weekends rather than watching me from my backyard?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't boast about being stalked."

"No, especially not by your freaky friends."

My eyes narrowed. "OK, a) my friends aren't freaky, and b) none of them have ever been accused of murder, which puts them miles ahead of you."

"OK, a) your friends _are_ freaky, they'd have to be to want to hang around you, and b) I haven't killed anyone. Besides, you've tried to kill enough people to make up for all of your friends."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded. "Everyone keeps saying that. Who have I ever tried to kill?"

"OK, you two," said Tim. "There's no need to get worked up."

"It's not funny! He said my friends were freaky and that I try to kill people."

"It's the truth," said James.

"Wanker."

"Alright!" Tim said it so loud that I forgot I was busy arguing. I think he was a bit over it. "Thank you. Now that you've gotten that off your chests – "

"Not that Charlie had much on her chest to start with."

I rolled my eyes. "Really, James? You can't do any better than that?"

He shrugged apologetically. "Not my best, I admit. Sorry. I felt kind of gross even as I said it."

"Attacking someone's appearance is a little bit low."

"I should stick to commenting on personality flaws," he agreed. "Especially when you're someone who has so many."

"And he's back," I muttered.

James caught the look on Tim's face and stopped. "Sorry, are you two together?" There was something weird about the way he said that. It was almost like fear. Maybe he thought Tim was going to bash him. If only.

"No. Colleagues," Tim answered. I was a little flattered that two people today had seen the outfit I was wearing and thought I was still capable of pulling any sort of boyfriend. Take that, Mum.

"Because I was going to say, you must be the first boyfriend Charlie's had that, you know, has any concept of personal hygiene."

"Up yours," I said, giving him the finger. OK, so that was kind of true, but that didn't make it less annoying.

"As I was saying," Tim said, "now that you two mature adults have gotten over that, I think we should get back to the problem at hand. So –"

"Go back a bit," James interrupted. "You two work together?" His facial expression, however, said, 'I hate you.'

I smiled sweetly. "Yeah."

"Doesn't that job require coordination? Something that you quite obviously lack?" I didn't like this guy. I really didn't.

"Well, that doesn't matter too much, being that I'm secretary. Not that I can't do the other stuff if I try," I added quickly. A little too quickly, judging by the smirk on his face. He knew he was getting to me, and that just got to me more.

"Sure you can. Anyway," he said, before I could interrupt, "what were you saying, Sharps?"

Tim had a really pissed off look on his face. I realised that my first impression of him had been right – you did not mess him around. Or talk over the top of him. Or not do what he said.

"Well," he began, in a tone that made it clear that this time we were going to hear what he had to say and there was no alternative, "if you two think that you're ready to listen, then I'll start."

We were ready to listen. Well, we weren't ready to die, so listening seemed like a good idea.

"Good. Now, you two seem to have forgotten the current situation. James, your uncle is dead. Murdered. And we have to find the killer. Got that? The sooner the better, too, because there is no saying the killer won't strike again. You two arguing isn't getting us any closer to a result, so you'll understand if I don't want to waste time bickering in a graveyard." He paused. James and I said nothing, so Tim continued. "I was planning to go to the wake. Is that going to be a problem, James? I might pick up something."

James nodded. "That's fine," he muttered.

"Charlie's coming with me. That cool?"

James closed his eyes for a second. He seemed really stressed and I found myself, momentarily, actually feeling _sorry_ for him.

"I guess it's OK if she comes as long as she doesn't cause a scene."

That seemed like a fair deal.

"Don't worry," I reassured him. "I won't."

And at the time, I meant it.

James frowned. "Why is it that when you do what I ask, I start to get suspicious?"

There. All the proof that he didn't deserve to be pitied contained within that one simple question.

What a prick.

# Chapter Twelve

Only a guy like Tim could get away with driving a car like this. For most people, this Porsche would look like a mid-life crisis. I'm not saying that it was a bad car – it just required a driver who looked cool enough to own it. Especially in black. In black, this vehicle was a tad... sinister.

It was kind of like when you see a hot guy dressed in a black suit. It looks good, but you try to avoid it. With men, that was because it usually meant they were:

  * a cop
  * involved with the Mafia
  * getting married, or
  * the defendant

With the car, you stayed away because the person driving was:

  * a drug dealer
  * too rich to travel without a very large and dangerous bodyguard
  * a very talented thief, and/or
  * carrying a gun

The problem was, I was worried that this rule might also apply to Tim. At a guess, I would have taken option four, because I couldn't see a top PI also being a part-time drug lord, and he didn't seem like he needed a bodyguard. Given the lack of police chasing us, I was fairly certain he hadn't stolen the car. But the gun thing? Totally plausible. (Almost required, what with him being from the Deep South and all.) And since I wasn't a big fan of guns, that was kind of stressful.

So I focussed on the interior instead. Black upholstery, GPS, surround sound. There were so many buttons it was like being inside a spaceship. A stylish spaceship. I wondered whether this was his work vehicle.

"Is this car yours?" I asked him. Shit, that hadn't come out right.

He gave me a funny look then said (sarcastically), "No. I stole it."

"What I meant was, is it your car or is it a company car?" There. It came out better that time.

"Company car." Thought so. I wondered if Baxter & Co. would fork out so much money for me. "Speaking of company cars, I heard about what happened in the parking lot. You getting caught snooping and then using your old lady impression to try to get out of trouble."

"I panicked. I'm not used to being put in a headlock for wandering into a car park."

"Didn't I tell you to be careful?"

"I didn't know that car parks were so dangerous."

"It's a security company, honey. Don't go poking around anywhere unless you're certain you're allowed to be there."

"Yeah, I think I learned that lesson." I crossed my arms. "Reckon they'll give me a car?"

Tim shrugged. "Sure. Maybe not a Porsche, though, given that you're admin."

"At the moment I'd be happy with anything. Just as long as it's not a Nissan."

He laughed. "I'll let Adam know."

"Adam?" As in Adam Baxter, the PI who'd investigated Jeremy? The same Adam who Tim had said was his lawyer?

"Yeah, he basically runs the Gerongate branch. Harry's not around much," he explained. "Travels a lot. Setting up offices overseas, you know. So his son takes care of Gerongate."

"Didn't you say Adam was your solicitor back at the funeral?"

"Yeah. He does that too."

Well, someone was an overachiever. Who runs a security business and does law in their spare time?

"Is he a friend of yours?" I asked.

"Yeah. He's pretty cool once you get to know him." He paused. "Well, he is if he likes you." Oh, good. If.

"He sounds scary."

He thought for a moment, looking like he was choosing what to say carefully. "Well, yeah. He could probably take me in a fight." Oh, right, so he was a PI lawyer ninja. Great. "And he can be a little... standoffish. Kinda has to be like that though, being the boss and all."

"Right." I was not looking forward to meeting this guy.

We rode in silence for a while, until Tim spoke again.

"OK, when we get to the wake, I have three rules. One, we leave when I say, or I'm going without you. Two, don't cause a scene. James is having a bad enough day as it is. Three, don't get so wasted that I have to carry you out of there, or drunk enough that you are going to puke in my car. Got it?"

"Easy." Don't talk or do anything. I could handle that. Probably.

I realised we were travelling in the wrong direction.

"I'm just going to head into the office for a second. You can wait in the car," he said. He parked in the underground car park and turned off the engine before turning to me and saying, "Stay in here. Don't move. OK?"

"OK."

"I mean it. I don't want you causing a lockdown or something."

"I'll stay!"

"Good," he said. "You're learning."

Twenty minutes later he returned, a stack of newspapers in hand. I was going to ask, but from the look on his face I knew he wouldn't tell me what they were about. Back on the road, I broke the silence. "Don't you think having a wake is a bit cruel? I mean, not only is the poor guy dead, but everyone's celebrating it. At the dead guy's house. They're paying for it with his money. It's a bit disrespectful." This was one of the rare moments when my conscience came into action. It only ever happened at inconvenient times.

Tim laughed. "If you put up with the funeral, it's only fair that you're rewarded at the end."

I suppose that made sense. If you didn't think too hard about it.

"So, Charlie," he continued. "You and McKenzie don't get along. Any particular reason?"

"There are too many reasons to even begin to list."

He smirked, but didn't question me further. Not about James, anyway. "Looking forward to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I lied. Sharps shot me a disbelieving look. "No." Another incredulous glance. "I don't know! What do you want me to say?" I snapped at him. This time he was wearing an amused expression, looking self-satisfied. Was he stirring me up on purpose?

I know, stupid question. Of course he was.

I tried again. "I'm a bit nervous."

"With good reason." Thanks, Tim.

"That's a comforting thought."

"I've told you already, honey. It's good money, but it's hard work. And it's dangerous."

"It doesn't seem so hard." But I was pretty sure he was right about the dangerous bit. I was going to have nightmares about that car park for years.

"Are you starting the fitness program?" he asked.

The what now?

"Um, I'm secretary," I reminded him. Why would I need to?

"Yeah, so? Are you starting fitness or not?"

"I don't know." No. Please, god no. Aphrodite? You still there? Lend a sister a hand?

"You probably will." He sucked in some air. "I pity you. You're gonna have a hard time of that. I hope you don't live too far from the office."

"About five Ks. Why's that?"

"Because you're going to have to run that distance five days a week."

Five?! "What are you saying?"

"That's what you do until Adam thinks you're fit enough to cut back."

Had this guy not heard of rest days? Personally, I was a big fan of rest days. I would advocate having rest days as often as possible. Seven days a week was ideal.

"Running?"

"That's part of it. Generally you do two hours of exercise every day when you start. You have to jog to the gym adjoined to the office and then spend the rest of the time working out with a personal trainer. One component of that is self defence."

I was practically hyperventilating by this stage.

"I have to do ten hours of slogging my arse off per week just so that I'm fit enough to be a _secretary_?"

"Yep."

What kind of whacked-out place was Baxter & Co.? You couldn't walk into a car park unarmed and you had to be an Olympian to handle the front desk. That wasn't normal.

Tim spoke again. "You should probably get there a bit early tomorrow. They've been fixing up your desk over the weekend. Adam will have to show you how to work everything and do searches on the computer." He paused. "And organise your fitness classes." I groaned. "Because I can tell you're really looking forward to them."

"Don't even joke about it." I rubbed my eyes, then desperately tried to change the subject like that might get me out of the exercise program. "I guess B-Co didn't have a secretary for a fair while before they hired me."

"I think it was about a month," Tim responded.

"All those files... in one month?" How was I going to keep up if I had to put that many files away each month as well as act as receptionist and researcher?

"Not exactly. Half of them – well, more than half, actually – were old files that the last secretary pulled out of the cabinets to trash the place before she left."

"What possessed her to do that?"

"You don't want to know," he said.

"Just tell me."

He sighed. "Well, there were a few reasons. She sent us a list of complaints and was going to go to court over it, until her solicitor told her that she would be better off leaving it. Partly because she didn't really have any grounds, and partly because we would have been represented by Adam Baxter and he's never lost a court case."

"He's that good?"

"Yeah. He's ridiculous. Did two university courses at once – law externally and medicine internally. Topped both of them."

I decided to pretend I thought Tim was lying, because that would probably make me appear less gullible than if I showed I believed him. Even though I did.

"So, what did she want to complain about?"

"The fitness program."

Oh no.

"How long had she been doing it?"

"I think this is one of those things that you're probably better off not knowing," he warned.

"How long?"

He sighed. "I really think – "

" _How long_?" I demanded.

"A week."

"Please tell me you are joking."

He grimaced. "If only."

I was silent for a moment. The exercise was 'take the company to court' bad? To be fair, I felt that way about most workouts. One pushup and I was ready to sue someone.

"Wow," I said finally, a little shell-shocked. "And I thought the way I quit my last job was impressive. I had over four years to prepare."

"You spent four years planning how to quit your job?"

"Well, not really. I spent four years wanting __ to quit, but I kind of did it on the spur of the moment. I don't know why I left it that long." Now that I thought about it, since I got paid nothing and hated it I really should have left earlier. Sometimes I don't think I'm all that bright.

"What happened?"

"Well," I began, "have you ever heard of Gregory's Groceries?"

"Oh, yeah. Lea's husband – ah... I think I'm starting to see where this is going."

"Well, I kind of got Lea to divorce him and then I quit."

"Nice. And now you and Lea are friends?"

I nodded. "And now Lea and I are friends."

We were silent for a while before Tim said, "So, things aren't exactly friendly between you and James, and you got Jeremy's wife to divorce him." I nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "You should probably avoid Karen Martin at the wake. She might not be your biggest fan. You know who she is?"

I nodded again. He could have a point about steering clear of her. People took time to warm to me in the best of circumstances, and meeting her just after a funeral knowing two people she was close to were my sworn enemies didn't seem ideal, to put it mildly.

# Chapter Thirteen

We found a park pretty close to Frank McKenzie's mansion. The house was situated in a snobby part of town called Madison Hill, which the rest of the town had affectionately nicknamed 'Maddies-on-the-Hill'. (Yeah, not the best pun ever, but don't blame me. I didn't come up with it.) Basically, all the people who lived here were very rich, married to someone who was very rich, or drowning in debt, but everyone in the city wanted to live there anyway.

Frank's house was the crème de la crème of Madison Hill, and therefore it was also the nicest house in Gerongate. It was huge. It was expensive. And it was beautiful. The four-storey mansion was like a palace. I thought back to the conversation I'd had with McKenzie at the cemetery and almost smiled. King Dickhead now owned the castle.

Tim and I hopped out of the car and proceeded to Frank's front door. We passed Karen Martin's super fancy wheels on our way there and I wondered if she knew who I was. I'd keep out of her way just in case.

The front door was being held open by a six-pack of beer (like they couldn't afford a doorstop), setting the tone for the occasion. I was willing to bet that six-pack would be gone before the party was over. It was amazing how much of a head start the other party-goers had gotten in the extra forty minutes or so we'd taken to get here. There was loud music blaring, plenty of food and a lot of people doing the Macarena. Weren't wakes meant to be a sombre sort of affair? Not this one, apparently.

I hoped there was some un-spiked punch or lemonade or something. I wasn't much of a drinker. The one time I'd imbibed more than one gin and tonic, I'd passed out and woken up with a broken arm. Apparently I'd been doing the chicken dance on a table and fallen unconscious. And then just fallen – off the table and onto the concrete floor.

You could imagine what moonshine-laced punch would do to me. Not exactly an experience I was craving.

I looked around the room. I could see eskies filled with ice and drinks, plus a couple of fridges. There were some cans of soft drink lying untouched. It occurred to me that most people were probably here for the free booze. I turned to Tim.

"I'm going to get a can of lemonade. Do you want anything?"

"Can you get me a bottle of water?"

"Sure. You aren't drinking?"

"You should be happy. I'm driving you home. And anyway, I'm not supposed to get drunk on duty," he told me.

"You're working now?"

He gave me a look of disbelief. "You didn't strike me as this thick when we first met."

"I'm just amazed that you're getting paid to go to a party. That's pretty cool."

"You get paid for any work you do. This kind of stuff is classed as overtime."

"Do I get paid for this too?" I joked.

"Depends if you find out any information for me."

"I was only kidding."

"I wasn't."

"I think I could get used to this job."

He grinned. "You just remember that when you're busting your ass in the gym early in the morning." Thanks for bringing that up, Tim. Just when I'd started to breathe normally again.

"Is it really that bad?" I asked hesitantly, not entirely wanting to know the answer.

"They say it gets better after the first couple weeks. Think of it like this: some people pay a lot of money to work out with trainers. You get it for free. And you've got a lot of motivation."

"Motivation?"

"When you get paid you'll know what I mean."

That sounded promising. Mmm. Money. I was pretty sure that even I __ could manage exercise if I got paid enough. And judging by Tim's car, B-Co wasn't exactly hard up for cash. It didn't seem like they were very hesitant to hand it out, either.

"I still don't get why I have to be fit."

"Because you won't spend all your time in the office. You'll realise why you need the exercise after a few weeks. You'll do a lot of filling in." Filling in? What exactly did that entail?

I didn't end up asking Tim about it further, however, because it was then that a very drunk James McKenzie stumbled past us, one hand clasped over his mouth and the other gripping the doorframe for support, heading (I assumed) for a toilet.

"He doesn't look too well," I commented.

Tim grimaced then nodded in agreement. "I'm going to go talk to some people. Stay out of trouble." And he disappeared into the crowd.

I stood there awkwardly for a while, rocking back on my heels, not really sure what to do. Glancing at the doorway behind me, I noted that James hadn't come out yet. I wondered whether he'd passed out or was still throwing up. Yuck. I'd heard of people losing consciousness and drowning in their own vomit. Someone should probably go and check on him.

I looked around. Everyone near me looked too drunk to spell their own name. I doubted they were going to be concerned enough about James to go looking for him. I sighed. He wasn't my favourite person, but I didn't want him dead. And not just because I wouldn't get a house that way. (But maybe partly because I wouldn't get a house that way.) I decided to go check on him, because even though my conscience had never weighed largely on me, I didn't want to be responsible for a death.

I walked through the doorway and continued down the hall for a while. I didn't spot any neon signs saying 'Toilets' with an arrow pointing me in the right direction (or any direction, for that matter – there appeared to be a shortage of neon signs), so I just guessed what way to go. Luckily I guessed correctly and by following the groans of pain I managed to find the correct bathroom.

James hadn't shut the door and I could see him sitting next to the toilet with his back to the wall and his head between his legs. He lifted his head with his eyes still closed and said, "If you need a toilet, there are four others on this floor. You can find them. I believe in you."

He looked awful. I wondered how much he'd had to drink since he got back from the funeral. He was definitely sober when I saw him at the burial, and yet now, not even an hour later, he had the kind of look I associated with a full weekend spent drinking.

"You look like crap," I informed him.

"Shit, no need to sound so sympathetic."

OK, so I admit it did come out sounding a little too cheerful. And yeah, maybe it did make me feel good to see Mr Stuck Up in this state. I guess it made him seem a little less perfect and a little more human.

He opened his eyes. When he recognised me, he smiled. (He smiled?)

"Ah, I should have known."

"Embarrassed?" I suggested.

"We all have our low moments, sweetie. What's the matter – get bored? Need someone to argue with?"

"I was just checking that you weren't drowning in a pool of your own vomit, actually."

He snorted. "What would you do? Hold me under?"

"Of course not."

"That's a relief."

"You're going to owe me a house soon."

His eyes widened in realisation and he nodded. "I should have known there'd be an ulterior motive."

"Is it just me or do you become more intelligent when you're drunk?"

He smiled wordlessly.

"So," I said, "have you decided what house to give me yet? Or are you still being optimistic enough to think you might have a chance of winning?"

"You've got determination, I'll give you that."

"And resources." I tried to give him a sweet smile, but I think it probably came out as more of an evil, scheming smirk.

"It was a bit nasty not mentioning that before we made the bet."

I tried the sweet smile thing again. And failed. Again. "Not my fault. You should have thought before you acted."

"Probably. By the way, we never established what I get if I win."

"Satisfaction at proving me wrong?" I suggested.

"Yet if you win I have to give you a house? That doesn't seem fair."

I tried to raise an eyebrow but couldn't, so I raised both instead. "That's definitely fair payment for catching a murderer. Which I will, so we don't need to worry about what you'd hypothetically get if I failed. I'm going to solve this."

He laughed. "I look forward to it."

I left him in the toilet (not, like, _in_ the toilet – I'm not that mean) and headed back out to the party. Tim walked over to me and I'm proud to say I actually saw him approaching that time.

He handed me a can of lemonade. "I guessed you'd forgotten about the drinks, so I got them myself. Where'd you disappear to?"

"Toilet." I didn't elaborate. Technically I wasn't even lying.

From behind Tim, I saw Karen Martin approaching with a bowl of punch. I was about to get out of her way when she 'tripped' and 'accidentally' poured litres of the sticky juice all over me. My face, my hair, and my clothes were soaked.

I guess she did know who I was.

"Oh," she said pointedly. "Sorry!"

Now, I know I should have let it go, but I have quite an argumentative nature. Basically, that's what makes me _me_.

"It's OK," I said. "I know you didn't mean to spill it everywhere, especially seeing as you're going to be the one who has to scrub it out of the carpet."

For someone with no money, possessions, status, or discernible life skills, I can do quite a good impression of a snob. I mean, let's be real, we all know cleaners are basically magicians – they're, like, the only people on earth with the power to make things _less_ dirty when they touch them – but pouring something on a carpet when you know you'll have to mop it up later doesn't seem like the smartest move.

"At least I have a job."

"Oh, I do too, actually. I work for the top security company in Australia now. They even provide their employees with cars. Good ones."

I could see the anger boiling up inside her. "James offered to buy me a car, actually. As a Christmas bonus. I said no, though. I get paid plenty to buy one for myself if I wanted, but I'm not that superficial."

"Yes, I can tell from your frugal use of hair treatments that you don't really care about outward appearances." Not that I could talk. I hoped she wouldn't call me out on my outfit, because honestly I had nothing to come back with.

"My job is very satisfying," she said, a little too defensively.

"Really? I would have thought you were a bit old for James to want to satisfy you. Aren't you, like, forty?"

Now there was smoke coming out her ears. "You little bitch. You have no right to be here. You ruined my brother's marriage and James hates you. You're pathetic."

"Well, as much as I wish it were, it's not their funeral or yours, so I'm going to stay right here and pay my respects." I gestured to the wet patch of floor around my feet. "You better get to cleaning before it stains." Spoken like I had some idea what I was talking about.

"This stuck up attitude doesn't suit you," she said. "My brother was your boss for five years. You're not better than me."

"Would you prefer if I was openly aggressive?"

"Yeah. Why don't you smash up my car like you did to James?"

"Well," I replied coolly, "I would, but by the looks of it, someone got there before me."

It was at this point that she took a swing at me. Luckily, Sharps caught her arm before it made contact. Now, normally I wouldn't have said that Karen Martin was a big threat, but there was a lot of anger behind that punch, so, as you can imagine, I was a bit relieved when it didn't land.

Sharps led her away, trying to calm her down. Now that the excitement was over, the crowd that had congregated during the argument dispersed and got back to partying. I guess alcohol shortens people's attention spans.

"Got something against their family?" inquired a voice behind me. I turned to face James McKenzie. He was gripping the doorframe for support (again) and grinning.

"I think it's more that they don't like me. And it's not funny."

"Of course not." He was still smiling.

"It isn't!"

"Calm down, sweetie. I'm only happy because I'm tipsy," he explained.

"Really? You've been drinking? I had no idea."

"I see you took a punch," he said, looking way too pleased with himself. It was a decent pun, but I didn't want to show that I was amused.

"I took a whole bowl of it. My clothes are probably ruined."

"No great loss."

"Thanks for the confidence boost."

"To be honest, sweetie, I'm surprised your mum let you come out dressed like that. Not that it isn't a totally functional outfit, and I know it's not my place to tell you what to wear, but I kind of wish you'd worn that pink polka-dot dress with the puffy skirt."

"You mean the one I had when I was three?"

"Yeah. You looked hot in it."

"That's a little creepy. And anyway, I don't care what people think of my clothes." I glared at him, catching his eye-line dipping lower than it should. "Stop looking down the front of my shirt."

"It's a nice view from here."

Jeez, make up your mind. __ "Earlier you said there was nothing there to look at."

"Discredit anything that comes out of my mouth when I'm sober. I only say it to annoy you."

"I think I like you better when you're drunk," I told him. And it was true. I did.

"What?" He pretended to be surprised. "You don't like me normally?"

"Man, you're so good at figuring things out, you should join the police force."

"I tried, but they don't want me."

"Well neither do I, so stop looking down my shirt."

We fell silent for a while. I broke the lull – if you could call it that (the background noises of the party weren't exactly peaceful) – by stating the obvious.

"This place is going to be trashed in the morning."

"Yeah. Karen and I'll probably clean it up tomorrow – well, when I get over my hangover."

I laughed. "Starting work on Wednesday, then."

He laughed too. "If I'm lucky."

"She'll probably be all done by the time you stop heaving your guts up."

"She's a good housekeeper," he said.

"She's a bitch," I contradicted.

"You're just biased."

"I don't like her."

"I know. That's what I mean."

"Her hair's in a shocking state."

"So are your clothes," he countered.

"Yeah, but I'm not trying to impress anyone."

"And she is?" Like he didn't know she had a massive crush on him.

"Hate to break up the party, you two," said Sharps, "but I think it's time for us to leave, Charlie."

"OK," I answered.

"And I think you should go speak to your housekeeper, James. Maybe talk her out of killing Charlie. And flirt with her a little. She could use the boost."

James looked surprised but not unhappy.

"I'm on my way," he said, and stumbled off into the crowd.

"Reckon he'll pass out before he reaches Karen?" asked Sharps.

"Well, normally seeing a person in that state I would say yes, but James McKenzie, with the prospect of flirting? I'd guess he's going to make it."

He laughed. "Well, we better leave quickly in case he doesn't and Karen chases us out with an axe."

"Good idea," I said.

"And speaking of attacking people with tools," he began, "did you really take to McKenzie's car with a wrecking bar? I've heard two people mention it today."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, I did. Yes, I wrote it off. No, James was not in the car. No, I was not on drugs. Yes, I had a reason – it was during a bad patch of my life. No, I have no idea how I managed it when I had a broken leg at the time. No, I wasn't arrested for it. Yes, James has it on DVD and I'm sure he will lend it to you if you ask him. Why don't you invite all the B-Co boys over for a viewing? Hell, why not order some pizza? And maybe afterwards you can sit around and talk about it. Rate it out of five stars. List it on IMDB. Upload it to YouTube. Hey, he's probably got a full collection of embarrassing videos of me. You should ask him about that. It would probably be really amusing for you."

Sharps was giving me a stunned look.

"What?" I demanded.

Still looking shocked, he said, "A 'yes' or 'no' answer would have done."

I was fuming, as you could probably tell. I was kind of sick of people bringing up that story.

"Although I like the idea of that movie night."

I gave him the Evil Eye.

"Kidding!" he said.

By this time we had reached the car. As I was doing up my seatbelt, I could have sworn I heard Tim mumble, "And I thought I had issues," but when I asked him he denied having said anything.

# Chapter Fourteen

Tim parked outside my house and walked me to the door. I was about to go inside when Violet threw the door open.

"Hello," she said to Tim with a big smile. "Staying for dinner?"

"Well, I wasn't planning –"

"Oh, come on! Janine even cleaned up yesterday. Don't worry, you don't have to suffer through her cooking, I'm here. Trust me, I'll feed you well. In you come. What's your name?" She grabbed his wrist and dragged him inside.

"Uh – Tim," he said.

"Well, Tim, it's good to meet you. And how do you know Charlie?"

"Er, we – we work together. Um, look, you don't have to give me dinner. I –"

Violet cut him off again. "So, where are you from? You've got quite a strong accent."

"Um – America. Really, you don't –"

"Well, I could have guessed that much. I meant more specifically, like from California or New York or... one of the other states." A+ for geography there, Vi. "Here we are. Sit down," she ordered. By this time we had reached the dining room.

"I – " Tim protested.

"Would you just _sit down_!" she shrieked.

And he did. Fast.

"Vi," I said, "I'm sure he has a home to go to."

"Oh, Charlie, don't be so rude. Look – he's already sitting down." Tim looked absolutely bewildered. She turned and called out, "Janine, make sure there's enough plates for six. We've got a visitor." She began to talk to herself as she wandered into the kitchen. "OK, so I'll double the recipe. It says that it serves twelve, but I want to make sure there's enough for all of us."

"Who was that?" Tim asked.

"Violet McKenzie," I answered. "James's mother."

"You two have a long history together, don't you?"

"You don't even know the half of it."

At that moment, Mum walked out of the kitchen. "And who's our extra visitor?" She was asking Tim, but I answered anyway.

"He's a male model from Scandinavia. Doesn't speak a word of English. Just Scandinavian," I answered. I didn't want Mum to start trying to set us up.

"You know Scandinavia isn't a country, right, Charlie? If you're going to lie, at least do it properly." Unlike Vi, my mother was actually quite good with geography.

Judging by Mum's cool demeanour, I guessed the coffee had worn off. And judging by the half-empty glass of wine in her hand, I guessed the alcohol had started to kick in.

That was when Lea entered the room.

"Oh, hi Tim!"

"Thank you, Lea," said my mother. She turned back to Tim. "Hello Tim, I'm Janine. Pleased to meet you."

They shook hands. Violet called out from the kitchen.

"Somebody should go and find Bruce."

"I'll go," said Lea. "He's out in the garage, polishing the Jag. I love that car. I mean _really_ love it." She grunted, and then everyone got very uncomfortable and she went out to the garage to find Bruce. Or stroke the car or something.

"She really likes cars," Tim commented. "I wonder why she never got her licence."

"Yeah," I said, not taking in what he said. Then it clicked. "What did you just say?"

He frowned. "Didn't you know? I thought she would have told you before you let her drive your car."

I kind of thought she would have, too.

Mum cut in at that point. "Your __ car? You mean my car! She isn't supposed to drive? Didn't you ask if she had her licence? You let her drive my car?" OK, I guess the alcohol hadn't subdued her as much as I thought.

"Sorry, Mum, I'm not in the habit of asking people if they have their licence when they tell me they can drive."

My mother looked horrified. "You let her drive my car! She could have crashed it! Anything could have happened!"

"Mum, I was in __ the car most of the time she was driving. She's a better driver than I am."

"That wouldn't be hard," she muttered.

"Hey, considering the amount of times you've crashed I really don't think you should –"

"Don't you start on me, Little Miss Car Whisperer."

"At least I don't do off road racing for fun!"

"Neither do I," she said indignantly. "I just have a passion for country scenery. I don't have to apologise for that."

"Oh, whatever," I retorted. "I know that your book club is just a front for the four wheel drive racing cult you belong to. I'm not stupid."

"It is not a cult. And besides, you – "

"I hate to interrupt," said Violet, who had apparently emerged from the kitchen at some point during our argument. "I know how fond you both are of a good quarrel, but we have a guest. And if I were him, I'd be scared after seeing that. Honestly, I don't know how Bruce puts up with you two sometimes."

"He does enough of the silent thing to make up for the both of us," Mum said.

"Well, the way I see it is that we do enough of the loud thing to make up for him being so quiet," I said, "but I suppose it balances out the same way."

An hour later, the six of us were seated around the dinner table tucking into some elaborate pasta dish. When Tim excused himself from the table to use the toilet, Mum gave him directions for the upstairs bathroom. When he was safely out of earshot I spoke.

"Why didn't you just tell him to go to the one at the end of the hallway?" I asked her.

"Because we need time to talk about him. Now, first things first: how well do you know him? Why did you bring him home with you?"

I sighed. "We met on Friday. I didn't 'bring him home' – he was just dropping me off. Violet ambushed him and scared him into staying. To tell the truth I wouldn't be at all surprised if he climbed out the bathroom window to escape. I'm amazed Lea hasn't left yet."

Lea looked shocked. "Oh, this is nothing compared to dinner with Jeremy's family. Like, I'm not saying you would be bad if I didn't have that margin of comparison. You guys are great." I suspected the reason she stayed had a little more to do with the Jag than the company, but I didn't say anything.

"So," Violet asked, "are all the guys at Baxter & Co. as hot as him?"

"Um," I didn't quite know how to answer that. "Some of them." I'd only met three. Harry Baxter didn't especially float my boat, but Impolite Young Man from the car park? Damn. Pity about the personality.

"Does that mean we'll be having another one for dinner tomorrow night?" Mum asked.

"Well," I said, "that all depends if Violet takes another one hostage, I guess."

Tim came back in then and everyone shut up instantly. He raised an eyebrow. Urgh, it seemed like everyone could raise one eyebrow except for me. Perhaps I should grow a mono-brow. Then I could raise a single eyebrow. Unfortunately, I wasn't born with a natural tendency towards mono-browism, so I would probably find it difficult to grow one. As hot as it would look on me.

Tim sat down next to me and leaned over to whisper in my ear. "I heard the whole conversation after I found the downstairs bathroom."

"Do you enjoy eavesdropping?" I whispered back.

"Would I do it for a job if I didn't?" he asked.

"Fair point."

"Actually, I was kinda disappointed. You made it sound as though you didn't want me to come home with you. I liked the part about me being hot, though. I'll have to tell James that his mother has a crush on me."

That got me smiling. "Yeah, but she might change her mind if she kidnaps someone else tomorrow."

Tim frowned. "Who else are you going to bring home? Adam? Somehow I don't know that he would actually stay for dinner."

"I don't know," I answered. "She used to be nicknamed Violent Violet. I reckon she could probably make him stay."

I could tell that amused him. "Maybe you should tell Adam about her, honey. B-Co suffers from a chronic shortage of middle aged female assassins."

"Violet would kill you if she heard you say that."

He raised one eyebrow. Show-off. "She'd kill me for calling her an assassin? That's logical."

I snorted. "No, she'd kill you for calling her a middle aged woman, you dork."

He smiled. "Either way, I doubt she'd actually kill me. I mean, I know she's probably capable, but what with her crush on me and everything..."

I laughed. By this time, our plates had been cleared away and dessert was set out on the table. Yum. Tim said no to cake. I noticed he'd also turned down the beer and wine he'd been offered. I'd passed on the alcohol also, because I didn't drink, but I definitely didn't pass on dessert. Mmm. Pineapple upside-down cake with whipped coconut cream. What was the point of existing if you didn't eat dessert? I suppose you've gotta work for a body like Tim's.

I remembered the fitness program and immediately felt sick. I guess it must have shown on my face because Tim looked at me and said, "You thinking about exercise again, honey?"

It amazed me. I'd only met him on Friday, and already he could read me better than most of my school friends. I guess I wasn't all that enigmatic – at least not to a top private detective like Tim.

I walked Tim to the door when he left that night. Due to the fact that it was nearly summer, the sun was still up and I could watch him as he walked away. Vi kind of had a point. He had a _really_ nice... car.

# Chapter Fifteen

It took a few moments of dazed confusion for me to realise what was going on. What was that noise? Where was I? Then I remembered: I was in bed and that was my alarm clock. I checked the readout. Seven. I looked at my wall clock. No, my alarm wasn't malfunctioning – it really was that early.

Time to get up. Any second now.

But my body wasn't feeling cooperative. It reckoned it needed a few more hours of sleep.

You can have a few hours of rest, my mind promised. When we get to the office.

Grudgingly, my body gave in. I rolled out of bed and whacked my head on the bedside table. At least it was on my scalp – no one would see the bruise that way. And the purple on my face was virtually gone.

I grabbed some clothes and crawled down the hallway to the bathroom. I knocked on the door and when nobody answered I reached up and turned the handle (yes, I reached up – I had literally crawled to the bathroom on all fours).

Whilst under the spray of the shower I became semi-alert, and after about half an hour of shower time I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to fall asleep again. The reason my alarm had rung so early was because I'd decided to follow Tim's advice and get to work a bit before I was meant to start. It seemed like a good idea, seeing as I was going to meet Adam Baxter today and I wanted to make a good first impression and all that.

By the time I'd made it down to the kitchen, wearing a white blouse and a black tailored skirt suit that used to belong to my mother, I could probably have passed for conscious. I wondered what I was going to look like at six tomorrow morning for my exercise class. Eek. I'd gone for the professional look again today, wearing my black-rimmed glasses and tying my hair back in a neat, low, side-parted ponytail.

I glanced at the clock and realised that at the rate I was going, turning up on time was unlikely, let alone getting there early, so I skipped breakfast, shoved my wallet in my handbag and hightailed to the door in panic. I ran as far as the mailbox before realising how much of an idiot I must have looked. I chose not to care, and decided to get a taste of what jogging to the gym tomorrow was going to feel like. By the end of the block I had a pretty good idea. It was going to hurt.

I managed to make it to the office by eight thirty through a combination of power walking, sprinting, raw determination and bravery. (The bravery was when I had jumped fences to cut through people's yards despite the Beware-of-Large-and-Vicious-Dog signs, and when I ran through the middle of heavy traffic and in front of a semi-trailer whose driver had no idea I was there.)

Once outside the office, I took a couple of deep breaths that had nothing to do with being puffed and walked up to the front door. I turned the handle and – nothing. It didn't open. I tried again. Damn. How the hell was I expected to get in there when it was locked?

I was about to try once more when a voice said, "Turn that again and you'll set the alarm off." I was pretty sure it wasn't my common sense talking, partly because my common sense didn't visit very often, and partly because when it did __ visit, it didn't have a man's voice. So I turned around to see who was talking to me.

I was right. It wasn't my common sense. It was Impolite Young Man, wearing faded jeans, a loose-fitting dark blue T-shirt, a peak cap, a pair of blue All-Stars, and a frown (on his beautiful, beautiful face). I chose to see this as a sign that he was surprised that I had turned up so early and not that he was startled by my morning zombie state.

That was until he said, "There's a coffee machine in the hall inside. You look like you could use it." Guess I wasn't looking quite as awake as I had hoped. You'd think my cross-country expedition would have done something for that, but you should never underestimate the power of getting me up earlier than ten. My face at this time of the day would scare the bravest of men. "At least you're here early. It'll give me a chance to run through some things with you before you need to get to work."

Hold on, wasn't Adam Baxter supposed to be showing me around? Unless... Oh, dear god.

So much for making a good first impression.

"Adam Baxter," he said, introducing himself.

"Charlie Davies," I answered.

"I know."

He handed me a card and nodded towards the intercom panel on the right-hand side of the door. I took this as a signal to swipe it. I punched in the code he gave me and there was a little beepy noise and a click. I turned the door handle again and this time it opened. Phew.

I stepped inside and, of course, tripped. Adam grabbed me before I fell, and I was going to thank him but his facial expression stopped me. He was looking at me like I was a poo and he'd found me somewhere he wasn't expecting. "Do you always fall over or do you just do it to impress me?"

Wow. What he made up for in looks he seriously lacked in personality.

"Hate to disappoint you, but I fall in front of a lot of guys," I said, angry but trying to put on a façade of pleasantness.

"Oh good. You'll fit right in around here." The sarcasm was strong with this one. He shut the door behind him and I heard it lock automatically.

"Do you remember the code?"

I said it back to him.

"Good." Yay! Positive feedback! Maybe I was growing on him! Like a fungus!

We walked behind my desk. Holy crap. The in-tray was overflowing and every inch of available space was covered with files, envelopes, and other work for me. "Will it be like this every Monday?" I asked dazedly, staring at the mess on my desk.

"Probably not. For the last month we've had no one to do this for us, so people were supposed to do their own research and filing. This is probably all the work they've had sitting around their offices that they've been avoiding." I nodded. That made me feel a little better. "When you're making your way through this, it's best if you do anything marked 'urgent' first, then open mail. After that just prioritise it in whatever way seems logical."

OK, so do anything for Harry and Adam first, then anything for Tim, I decided. They were definitely the three most important employees I'd met. Also the only ones. I planned to make two copies of anything I did for Tim in case it was connected to McKenzie.

"Alright," Adam continued. "Sit down and I'll tell you about Baxter & Co."

I took a seat behind the desk. It was the first chance I'd had to really look around since they'd installed all the new equipment. There was a brand-new iMac on my desk, which I guessed was connected to the printer/scanner/photocopier/I-don't-know-what-else that sat to the left of it. I pulled out the little ledge of the desk that was designed for holding the computer keyboard and had a mild panic attack.

I don't know what it was on that ledge, but it certainly wasn't a keyboard. OK, so maybe it was, but it wasn't designed for an office. It was designed for NASA's headquarters. I didn't know how they expected me to be able to use it. A cordless telephone sat to my right. It looked like a normal phone, but there were a few extra buttons. Not too scary. There was also another chair off to the side. I guessed it was for clients and workmates and anyone else who might come to visit me.

And, last but not least, there were new Venetian blinds on my window. Ah, the homey touch.

Adam took the spare chair and rolled it over next to me, sitting down. "Baxter & Co. is a security and investigation company now in operation for over thirty-five years. It was founded by my father, Harry Baxter, and started here in Gerongate. We now have branches in all of Australia's major cities, as well as a couple in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa."

"I guess there's not much call for one in Antarctica."

No response. Note to self: gorgeous genius has no time for humour.

"We're still expanding. Controlling quality is hard. That's why we make things difficult for people who want us to employ them."

"I got my job pretty easy."

"It's keeping it that's the hard bit. The fitness program is what most people find trickiest, but it's necessary."

"To weed out the people that aren't committed enough?"

"Partly that," he answered. "And partly because it's essential to be as fit as possible. We do a lot of dangerous work. Fighting and running are necessary skills."

"But I'm admin," is what I said aloud, but my tone said _this doesn't apply to me_. I don't know what I was hoping for. Whining doesn't usually get you out of things you don't want to do. It just kind of annoys everyone. Including yourself.

"Yep. And you'll probably be asked to help out with a lot of odd jobs around the place. We don't have as many women working here as we'd like and those we do are flat out. That means that you will be, too."

I nodded, although I wondered why being a woman meant I'd have extra work. Then I remembered how society functioned and stopped wondering.

Adam continued speaking. "You'll probably be pulled away from the office from time to time. The guys will have to get clearance from my father or me before they take you out of work. You'll get paid overtime for any extra jobs you do."

I nodded again. "So, if someone doesn't keep up with their workload I guess they're axed?"

"Yes."

"Say I didn't get through all these papers today..."

"Judging by the amount of work you got done on Friday, I'd say you're more than capable of completing this." And judging by what he did on Friday, I'd say that he was more than capable of killing someone. But it's best not to dwell on the past. Plus, that was another compliment! Kind of!

"Do people just come in and drop work off whenever they want?" I asked.

"Yes."

I thought for a moment. "How do clients get into the building?"

"When you're not around, they talk to the guys in the control room through the intercom." I worked somewhere with a control room? What was this, a dodgy sci-fi movie? "Otherwise, it's your job. Not just anyone can walk in here. They have to have an appointment booked. Again, that's your responsibility."

He booted up the computer. While it was warming up he talked me through the keyboard.

"This part here is the normal keyboard. Got that?" I nodded. I think he was intending to be patronising, but I was clinging to his every word. Normal. Keyboard. "This little extra bit off to the side is the intercom panel that connects to the one outside. That's where you slide your card and punch in your code to let people in or to log on to the computer. Some programs will also require you to swipe and code again. It's the same code as the entry code." I nodded. So far, so good. "When someone buzzes, the picture for the intercom comes up on your computer screen, so you can see who's outside. Hit this to let them in." I nodded again. "So you feel confident with the keyboard now?"

"Yeah. I guess I'm just the confident type." I waited. Nothing. "Type. You know. Like you do on a keyboard."

Nope. My earlier assessment had been correct. Zero sense of humour.

"With the files, there are a few things you could be asked to do. Some will be closed cases and they'll just need filing away. Others will require research. You might need to run names, photos, symbols, businesses and stuff through the system. The folder might tell you what program to use or you may have to run things through all programs. You print out everything you find, add it to the folder and put the file in the out-tray."

"Right." That didn't seem too tricky.

"Now the phone." He reached over and picked it up. "Pretty straightforward. If someone rings, press the green button. The red one ends the call. When someone calls wanting to talk to someone specific, like me, press this button and it puts the caller on hold as well as bringing up an alphabetical list of all employees on the screen. You use the arrows to scroll down, and when you get to the name you want, in this case mine, you press this button. Then you tell me who it is, like, 'Adam, it's someone who wants you to track down their missing pet rabbit' and you press this button to put them through to me."

I pressed my hand to my chest. "Have you actually had to find someone's missing bunny? Please tell me the story has a happy ending." Contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart, but it only really reacts to stories about animals.

His brow wrinkled. "That's not the part you should be focussing on."

I pointed to the button. "That one. See? I was listening. Now tell me what happened with the rabbit."

"He was fine."

My eyebrows rose. "Seriously? That's all you're going to say?"

He sighed, definitely wondering why the hell his father had hired me. "I found him a couple of blocks from home playing with a Golden Retriever puppy."

The cuteness was too much for me and I made a little noise of delight. "He'd made a friend?"

"He had." I couldn't believe how matter-of-fact he was being about the most adorable tale ever told. "I returned him to his owner and everything was fine. Now –"

"Do they still get to see each other?" I asked, eyes wide. "The bunny and the puppy?"

"This isn't exactly relevant to what we're talking about."

"It's relevant to my quality of life."

He definitely considered an eye roll but settled for a look of disdain instead. "Yes. They have weekly play dates. Now can we return to the matter at hand?"

I nodded, satisfied with the story. And also intrigued. He knew the rabbit and the puppy had regular hangouts – which meant he'd totally checked up on them after closing the case. He did have feelings! Maybe his 'I'll snap your neck thing' was just an act. Wait, Tim had told me this guy was a doctor, right? He'd taken an oath to heal people, not hurt them. The car park thing was definitely a bluff. This guy cared about animal friendships – he couldn't be all bad. Maybe I'd even get to see a friendly side to him one day.

If he didn't fire me before then.

"Every office has an individual phone number so if the person wants to talk to us they'll generally just call us specifically. However, it's your number listed in the phone book, so you'll get most of the calls."

"OK." I paused. "What if I want to call someone else in the office to ask a question or something?"

"Press the same button you press to find their name when they have a caller. After you speak to them, hang up like normal. OK, now to the computer."

By the time Adam left forty-five minutes later, I was pretty sure I knew what to do. I could run names and photos and stuff through all the computer programs. I could send messages to other staff members. I could open letters. I could enter appointments on the computer so that everyone (including the guys in the control room) knew who was coming, when, and why.

I went through my in-tray and the documents strewn all over my desk and filed away the completed cases, then opened mail and entered appointments. After completing that, I prioritised the research tasks. Three were for Harry, four were for Adam and one was for Tim. I left the rest mixed up because I didn't know any of them. I had just started the second search for Harry when a pop-up appeared on my computer screen. It was the visual for my intercom system. James McKenzie.

# Chapter Sixteen

I unlocked the door. As soon as he opened it, my mouth started watering. Not at him, if that's what you were thinking. There was no mistaking the smell of the fatty hangover-cure breakfast. McKenzie stumbled through the doorway carrying a paper bag with grease-spots in one hand and a takeaway cup in the other. It smelled good, and I hadn't eaten all day. I licked my lips.

James caught me doing that and raised an eyebrow (was I the only one in the world who couldn't?) but then he put the pieces together.

"You didn't have breakfast."

"How could you tell?"

"You were either licking you lips at me or my breakfast and my luck hasn't been that good lately."

Me licking my lips at him would be something he considered lucky these days? Wow. He really had fallen from grace.

"Well, you're right. I'm hungry."

"Want a hash brown?"

"It poisoned?"

He frowned, wounded. "Just being friendly."

"Just being cautious, what with your reputation and all," I responded.

"I'm not a murderer."

He looked like crap. Too much alcohol and not enough sleep, I guess. I actually found myself feeling sorry for him for a second. Kind of. No, that was stupid. He didn't need my sympathy. I, on the other hand, did need breakfast.

"Is the hash brown still on offer?"

James smiled and sat down on the chair next to me where Adam had been sitting earlier. He opened the bag, took out the box of hash browns and handed me one. I don't think I'd liked him that much in the past fifteen years. Well, he was OK when he was drunk, but that hardly counted. He was in danger of being kicked out of my 'Worst Enemy' position and being replaced by Jeremy or Karen Martin. In fact, maybe they'd replaced him already.

I tucked into the hash brown. It was good, but I wanted more. I glanced at McKenzie. He was sipping his iced coffee – if I knew him at all, made on soy with a pump of hazelnut. He looked at me, then at the cup, then at me again. With a sigh, he handed me the drink. I hesitated for a moment and then took it. So shoot me, I was thirsty.

I took a sip. Yum.

"Soy iced coffee with hazelnut?"

"You know me too well."

Normally I didn't like coffee, but in this? Perfection.

"Did you drive here?" I asked him.

"No, Karen dropped me off. Why's that?"

"You don't look fit to drive."

He frowned. "Uncharacteristic of you to be concerned about my safety."

"I was more worried about the other people on the road."

He smiled at that, an 'I-should-have-known' smile.

"What are you here for, anyway?" I asked.

"I need to talk to Tim."

"Oh. Do you want me to send him a message?" I asked, gesturing towards the computer.

"Yeah, thanks."

I went into the message program and clicked on Tim's name.

_James is here to see you – waiting at my desk._

Ten seconds later I got one back.

_Thanks honey. Be right there._

_Hurry, looks like he might pass out if you leave it too long._

James gave me another hash brown and I drank some more of his coffee. A minute later Tim arrived.

"Morning, honey. And you too, Charlie," said Tim. I smiled at him and he winked back. He turned to James. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah," answered McKenzie. "Karen's cleaning up my uncle's house today and reckons I'll just get in her way if I try to help. I don't have anything else to do, so I thought I'd come visit, see if you found anything in those newspapers." Those newspapers, huh? The ones I'd seen Tim with yesterday? I was going to have to find out more about this.

"Come down to my office, James. I'll give you an update there," said Tim.

"Not willing to do it in front of me?"

"Using my information would be cheating," he teased. They walked away, James leaving his coffee with me.

Great. So there were potential clues in some newspapers. I didn't know what clues. I didn't know what newspapers. What now?

I got back to work.

Now that I'd eaten and drunk something I felt a bit better. It really was a good iced coffee. If I'd had one of these, I wouldn't share it with anyone, let alone my worst enemy. It wasn't like I had been particularly friendly to him. So what was he up to with this nice guy act?

OK, I admit it – I have a slightly suspicious nature. People can't be kind without me thinking that they're up to something. What did McKenzie want? To soften me up on the deal?

I guess this goes to show something. If you asked me to sum myself up in three traits, I would say no. But if I actually had to do it, I would probably say: argumentative, under-active conscience, and suspicious. After that would follow clumsy, lazy, pessimistic and many other negative and unflattering adjectives. About my only positive trait is my honesty, and I only ever seem to use that when it's inappropriate. Like when someone asks, 'How do I look?' (Spoiler alert: they don't really want to know the answer.)

By lunchtime, I'd had about five hundred phone calls and booked them all in on the computer, let a bunch of people in for appointments, and made it through about half of the files (making two copies of all Tim's info). I'd also, sadly, finished the soy coffee.

I was doing work for some guy named Panther when Tim came back. With food.

"Where's James?"

"Went out the back way," he answered. "How are you doing?"

"Hungry."

He handed me one of his subs and I opened the wrapper to see what was on it. Fancy-looking salad with hummus. I took a bite, eyes widening appreciatively. This was a good sub. It had proper lettuce leaves on it – like, not just soggy iceberg. Rocket and baby spinach and that purple one you only get in top quality salads. "I got it from the cafeteria next door."

"There's a cafeteria?"

"Yeah. It's joined onto the gym."

"Is it a private gym or can anyone use it?"

"Private. The cafeteria's private, too. All healthy food, unfortunately." He'd answered my next two questions without me having to ask. "Do you know what's going on with your exercise yet?"

"No. I forgot to ask Adam this morning," I lied. I hadn't forgotten. I'd avoided the topic.

"Well I'll have to remind him then. You're not getting out of it."

Gee, cheers Tim. Thanks a heap.

"How nice of you."

"Yeah."

I tried to change the subject. "Would you like some money for this?" I nodded at the sub.

"Nah. You can buy me lunch sometime."

"I don't know where to go."

He smiled. "It's a date."

"Another date already?"

He laughed. "What can I say? I enjoyed our last one." He took a few more bites of his sub before growing serious. "Charlie... You know how I didn't dob you in for reading confidential files?"

Oh, shit. "Yes?"

"And you were so grateful about that."

"Yes?" I answered hesitantly.

"Well, I need a hand with a job after work this afternoon. Nothing hard, just talking to a guy in a pub. Keeping him out of the way while I search his office."

"Is that legal?"

"Talking to a guy in a pub?"

"No, searching –"

He cut me off. "From what I've heard about you, Charlie, you don't worry too much about what's legal or not. So what's the big deal?"

He had a point.

"It was just a question."

"See ya, honey." He walked towards the exit.

"Tim –"

The door swung shut behind him.

In the middle of the afternoon, Adam came to visit me.

"OK. You begin fitness training tomorrow at six in the morning. Someone will pick you up from your house at that time. Be ready. The basic outline of your program is that first, you and your trainer jog down here from your house. If it takes you any longer than an hour to get here, you'll be doing cardio drills on the treadmill and exercise bike."

"An hour!" It had taken me longer than that to get here this morning and I'd cut out about a kilometre by jumping through people's yards.

"Yes. Next week it will be fifty-five minutes. Now, should you arrive early, you'll do some yoga, Pilates or stretching until seven, at which time you'll start strength and resistance training. That will involve weights, squats, crunches, push-ups – circuit training, you know the deal." Sure I did. Cough. It involved circuits and stuff. "You do that for thirty minutes. At seven thirty you start self-defence and do that until eight. You have from eight until nine to eat breakfast, have a shower and get to your office."

My head was still swimming from the talk of all the exercise, but the mention of breakfast cheered me up a little.

"We have womens' showers and toilet facilities and a cafeteria at the gym. Any food you buy will go on a tab and it will be taken out of your pay."

Food. Just think about the food. Deep breaths. Everything will be OK.

"Tomorrow at six you will need to be ready in a tracksuit or other suitable clothes and joggers. You'll need to bring work clothes and a bathroom bag for the showers. There are lockers in the showers you'll be able to use. You can leave your toiletries in there if you want."

Showers. I liked showers. Well, I didn't hate them. That much. Cool, so showers and food. Don't think about the other stuff.

"You'll be doing exercise five days a week as a compulsory element of your contract, however as a member of staff you're welcome to use the gym at any time." Unlikely. I wasn't going to spend a second longer in there than necessary. "The gym facilities are private, so only our workers are allowed to use them. You don't have to pay for membership. Any questions?"

Wow. Someone had given that speech a few times. He spoke so quickly that I had to concentrate hard to understand what he was saying. Especially with the added distraction of that face. Ah, that face. The stuff of both my dreams and nightmares.

"Will I have one constant trainer or does it rotate?"

"It rotates. Different people have different methods of teaching and we like you to get a wide range of role models." Role models? Sure, whatever. Pretty sure my role models weren't going to be people who exercised.

"OK." Great. It meant I was going to get embarrassed in front of a diverse array of people.

"Anything else? General questions?"

"Do I have a lunch hour?"

"One until two. Your calls all get diverted to someone else during that time."

"Oh." I was wondering why I'd had that big blank patch with no-one ringing. "Another question. Why wasn't there already a computer in here when I came last week?"

"The last receptionist smashed it to pieces."

"Really? How?" The job was that bad _?_

"With a wrecking bar," he said, completely straight-faced.

I went very still. That bastard Tim had told Adam about McKenzie's car!

"Been talking to Tim, I see." I tried to sound nonchalant. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"Yes. He said he enjoyed having dinner at your house and I should watch out because you're going to be taking me home next."

I was going to kill Tim. Twice, just for added effect.

By five o'clock I'd finished the other half of the files and answered another five hundred phone calls. Since it was time to go, I packed up my stuff (remembering my key card), ready to bolt out the door. Tim came down the corridor just as I was stepping out from behind my desk. He gave me a slow, evil smile.

"You wouldn't be trying to sneak out on me now, would you honey?"

"Yes."

He gave me another grin. "I admire your honesty, but it's not going to get you out of this. You don't want to back out on an agreement with me. I take deals seriously."

"I don't like the fact that you told Adam all the things that happened yesterday."

"He appreciated it."

I frowned. Did that mean he had a secret sense of humour?

Suddenly I had a frightening thought. "You didn't actually ask James for that DVD of me smashing up his car, did you?"

"I'm not that bad." Not exactly an answer, but I let it go, Elsa style.

I thought for a second, and then sighed. "What do you need me to do?"

"You've just got to distract an old guy for me. Nothing scary. I wouldn't put you in danger."

I snorted. "Bullshit." I considered it for a moment. "Do I get paid?"

He gave me a nicer smile this time. "Yeah."

"How much?"

He told me.

"Is what I'm wearing OK?"

# Chapter Seventeen

Tim passed me a photo. We were sitting in his Porsche, parked across the road from a seedy pub with a sign that read 'ill's Bar'. __ I think it was supposed to say 'Bill's Bar' but the other letter appeared to have fallen off at some point. Still, since it was a cheap bar on Sump Street, the name 'ill' seemed quite fitting. And I was supposed to go in there and chat up some old guy. Great.

I looked down at the photo.

"This is the target. I need you to keep him occupied until I come in and bail you out. His name's –"

"Larry Jones. I recognise him."

"Yeah. Frank's business partner. He's a real asshole." (I know it's 'arsehole' in Australia, but it was 'ass' in Tim's accent.) "He hates James too, so you've got one thing in common."

"Anything else I should know?"

"He has a thing for women who aren't from around here."

I frowned. "You mean I should pretend to be from Sydney or something?"

"No."

"God, not Brisbane?"

"Even further than that," he said with a smile. "If you feel comfortable with it, faking an accent will probably hold his attention for longer."

I frowned. "Why do you need me to distract him at all? If he's left work for the day, surely he'll just head home after this. He's not going to catch you searching his office."

He gave me a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Look at you, using your sleuthing skills. His wife divorced him recently. Took the house, among other things. He's living at his office at the moment."

"OK," I said. "What nationality does he prefer?"

Tim smiled. "Go get 'em, tiger."

When I stepped into the pub, I looked around and realised just how heavily I was in the minority here. I'm not talking about being a woman, although I was definitely outnumbered in that way as well. I mean I was probably the only one in there without a criminal record. That's not to say I'd never done anything illegal, but at least I was smart enough not to get caught. I doubted anyone else in here could say that.

I made my way to the bar, well aware that everyone was watching me. This place was the Gregory's Groceries of pubs. Afraid of change, living on illegal funds, and operating far below health regulations.

"Watcha want?" the barman demanded. He was an odd looking fellow, a fact that was not helped by his unfriendly manner. It was difficult to know whether he'd lost his teeth in pub brawls or whether they'd just rotted away due to neglect. His head was shaved bald, which seemed strange considering he had three days' worth of beard growth on his face. I immediately got the impression that the majority of his brain cells had been killed off by liquor. This must have been especially detrimental to him as I doubted he'd had that many to start with.

I'd sooner scoop out my own eye with a spoon than accept a drink from him.

"I vant a drink. Vot else vould I come into a bar for?" I had no idea what accent it was, but I'd done it now. Time to commit.

"Waddid ya say?" He looked confused. He probably always looked like that.

"She said she wanted a drink," came a voice from down the end of the bar. I looked to see who had spoken. Yes! I'd struck gold.

Larry Jones was staring at me like he'd never seen a woman before. I guess Tim was right about the accent thing. Jones couldn't take his eyes off me.

"Zank you," I said to Jones. "I am glad zat somebody in zis room isn't a total neander-tal."

He smiled. "What is it you want to drink?"

I pretended to think for a moment. Like I needed to think. Like I hadn't decided the moment I walked in that there was no chance of me _ever_ accepting a drink from that barman. "'Is stupidity 'as put me off my drink. I am zinking that per'aps I do not want to even stay in zis... zis... nesting room for cockroaches." (Not my wittiest statement, I'll admit, but I was pretending that English was my second language. Couldn't be too quippy or people would get suspicious.) I turned and pretended that I was going to leave.

"Wait!" Larry called. I turned around and he continued in a slightly more composed manner. "Don't go. I want to get to know you better."

This was normally the part where I would have said, "I'm sorry, I don't date anyone older than Tutankhamen," or "I don't talk to strange men and, from what I've seen, they don't come much stranger than you," or even "I have to go, but could I offer you a lift back to the graveyard on my way?" However, since this was a special occasion, I decided to give the old man a thrill and I sat one stool down from him.

"The name's Jones," he said. "Larry Jones."

Oh, try as you might, Larry, you're never going to be James Bond.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones."

He laughed in a way that made me feel sick, and said, "Really, the pleasure's all mine. And please, call me Larry."

I'd rather not call him at all. Why had Tim made me do this? Why had I agreed? "OK Larry, if zat is vot you vant. My name is Imaso."

"Imaso?" he repeated.

"Yes. Imaso Pissedoffattim-ski."

"Pretty name."

Uh huh.

"Zank you."

"So, Imaso," he said, flashing me what he probably thought was a charming grin but really looked more like constipation. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from a foreign country." Oh, good, that sounded legit. Why hadn't I just told him I was a Nigerian prince looking to give him lots of money? "I'm having a gap year from school." That bit was better.

"You speak very good English. What country is it that you come from?"

I picked a random country out of the air. "Euthanasia."

It was only after I said it that I remembered 'Euthanasia' wasn't __ a country. He looked stupid enough not to notice that small mistake. I thought that maybe if I acted like that was what I meant to say, he would just ask some idiotic question like, 'Which part of Asia is that?' Or maybe he hadn't even heard what I said. Most of his attention seemed to be directed at my breasts.

"Euthanasia?" He looked confused. "I thought that was when you, um, you..." He trailed off.

"Zat is a common misconception. People zink zat it is just a vord, a... what do you call it? A euphemism. Zey don't realise zat vord comes from ze name of our country. You know vhy it is named after our country? I tell you. It is because in our country, homicide is legal. You don't like someone? Easy. Bang and zey are dead. Nobody in Euthanasia does anything wrong by anybody else, because zey know what the consequence will be." How soon could I get an appointment with my psychologist, I wondered? Surely she wouldn't mind if I called her out of hours with this sort of mental emergency.

"Really?"

"One 'undred percent." Yes, one hundred percent lies.

"Sorry for my ignorance, but you can really kill anyone you want in this country?" He seemed far too enthusiastic about the idea.

"Vell, obviously zere are some restrictions. I mean, you have to be ten or older before you can kill anyone, and to kill anyone under ze age of five you must have zeir parents' permission." I blame my state of mind on my harsh upbringing. Which would be a better excuse if I'd actually had a harsh upbringing.

"Jeez, I know a few people I wouldn't mind taking there," he said.

"Who in particular?" I asked him.

"Well, I'm supposed to be meeting one of them here tonight. If you really want to know, you can stay and meet him."

Oh, how could I turn down an offer like that? Answer: quite easily. Plus I already had a sneaking suspicion of who this might be.

"I don't know. I'm meeting someone 'ere too. It depends vot 'appens."

He looked a bit put out. "Pity. We were getting along so well." Mmm. It's amazing how nice I can be when I'm getting paid for it. "Anyway," he continued. "Tell me more about Euthanasia. It sounds like a fascinating country. Can anybody travel there?"

"Anybody. Just ask for a ticket at ze travel agency." Yes. And watch them freak out when you try to give them a description of the place.

He groaned. "The person I'm meeting just walked in," he explained. I was amazed that he'd actually noticed someone walk through the door. His eyes hadn't moved from my chest. I was about to turn to see who Larry was talking about when his 'friend' pulled up the stool between Larry and me.

"James," said Larry. "This is Imaso. I'm only introducing you as a formality, even though I'm sure she doesn't want to know you." And for once, he'd hit the nail right on the head.

"Larry vos just telling me 'ow 'e vanted to kill you," I informed James. "I zink it would probably be best to use poison." Larry nodded in agreement.

James raised his eyebrows. "Are you likely to act on this?" he asked Larry.

"It can be arranged."

There was a long moment of silence.

Well, I was certainly feeling pretty sure of who my number one suspect for Frank's murder was.

"Would you like a drink, James?" Larry asked. I wasn't sure if that was a change of topic or not.

"I'd sooner chew off my arm than have a drink in this place."

"And you, Imaso?"

"I'm fine, zank you."

Larry stood and wobbled down to the other end of the bar. When he was safely out of earshot, James spoke.

"I'm afraid you might have just given him an idea, Charlie. I think he asked Bob to slip cyanide into my drink. That's probably how a publican makes most of his income in a place like this."

"All the people in here are giving you really foul looks. It's making me uncomfortable."

He shrugged. "I've arrested most of them before."

I guess that explained it, then.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "You've barely gotten over your last hangover and you're in another bar already."

He looked like he was choosing his words carefully. Finally, he said, "Business deal."

"Don't sell," I told him.

"Why not?"

"I don't like him."

"You don't like me either," he countered.

"I dislike him more."

"Your reputation's going to be in tatters if that gets out."

"It won't get out."

"As a rule, Charlie, how do you feel about men?"

I frowned. That seemed like an odd question. "I don't have a problem with men." Just don't get me started on the patriarchy. "I'm not gay, if that's what you mean. Unfortunately, and somewhat inexplicably, I'm a fan of the penis."

He snorted, amused. "How come you never date anyone, then?"

"I've had plenty of boyfriends."

"I only remember one. That dude who really liked space ships. I used to call him Rocket Man." He stopped to think. "He hated me."

"Fancy that."

"Oh, and there was Creepy Elliot."

"Did you give all my boyfriends unflattering nicknames?"

"Possibly. Jog my memory. Who else have you dated?"

"Not telling."

"Why?"

"After how you treated Rocket M–" Cough. "I mean Gerald?"

He laughed. "Were they all that bad?"

"Shut up."

"Big sci-fi fans?" he guessed.

"Not funny."

"Chess squad?"

"They were all very nice guys, James. You can't judge someone based on what social group they were in at high school."

"Is that what you're looking for in a life partner? A nice guy?"

I ignored him. "How about your girlfriends?"

"What about them?" Like he didn't know.

"Are you telling me you dated them because of their personalities?"

"One of them used to be your best friend."

OK, so I may have misled you a little. I kind of lied before when I said it was just Joanna Riley and me that became best friends on the second day of kindergarten. What actually happened was that Jo already had a best friend from the _first_ day of school, and since they were nice they let me sit with them and swap lunches. The other girl was Celia Stanton.

The three of us stayed best friends until we were in Year 9. The reason we (Jo, me and all our other friends) stopped being pals with Celia was because of James McKenzie. Celia had never hated him like I had, but she'd never had a crush on him like the other girls, either. When she and James got together it caused a massive fight in our group. There were various reasons:

Other girls **–** "But you're not in love with him like us! Why did you agree to go out with him when you don't even like him? You're going to break his heart!"

Me – "What the hell are you thinking?"

While this may seem like a pretty shallow kind of argument, we never made up with her. Even after she broke up with him and things should have gone back to normal, they didn't. She stayed friends with McKenzie. (This was another thing I kind of held against him. He stole my most normal friend. Why couldn't he have taken one of the weird ones?)

"Well, we're not friends anymore, are we?"

"Would you have disowned any of your other friends if I dated them?"

"No." He looked confused. "It's complicated," I explained.

"Yeah, it sounds complicated," he agreed. "Although I'm sure your Nice Guy boyfriends would have understood."

"No doubt." I figured if I stopped biting, he might stop baiting.

"Why did you date those guys? They don't really seem to suit you."

"Maybe you should mind your own business."

"What would my chances be?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"I got you a drink anyway, James," Jones said, saving me from responding to James's question. "You have to learn not to be so fussy. A drink's a drink as far as I'm concerned." He plonked a glass (or, rather, a plastic) containing a cloudy brown concoction on the bar in front of us.

Oh. James had been serious about the poisoning. He didn't make any move to pick up the drink.

"C'mon, rich boy," growled Larry. "We don't got all day. Hurry up."

"I thought I'd wait until the cyanide's dissolved properly before drinking it," James replied coolly. "Anyway, we're here for business. So, no."

"What?"

"My answer is no. I'm not selling or doing any deals with you, and if you continue to harass me, expect to get a letter from my solicitor."

Well, that was a hell of a way to do business.

It was then that I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey James. 'Sup?" Tim asked.

I looked at my watch and gave an over-exaggerated start. "Oh no! I just remembered I'm supposed to be vorking tonight. I 'ave to go. It was so nice meeting you Larry. I could 'ave done without meeting you _,_ James, but it was an experience anyway. Goodbye!"

I bolted out the door. When I reached Tim's car, I realised I'd left my handbag inside. Screw it. There was nothing in it I couldn't replace. It was staying there. Wild horses couldn't drag me back into the same room as Larry. He was creepy and definitely a dodgy businessman, plus my exit hadn't exactly been smooth. He must have realised I was there to distract him. Also, there was the matter of the awkward conversation with –

"Don't kill me," said a voice behind me. "I've come with a peace offering."

I was leaning on the roof of Tim's (conveniently low) sports car, with my elbows resting on it and my head in my hands. I turned and looked at James. He was carrying my handbag.

"You better take it before I get too attached to it, Charlie."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. And that embarrassed me. And he knew that I was embarrassed. And that just embarrassed me more.

He grinned as he handed me the bag. "It's not every day you smile at me, sweetie. Maybe my chances aren't as bad as they used to be."

"In your dreams."

"Every night."

That was when Tim interrupted. "I hate to butt in when you two are getting so chummy because I know it's a rare occasion and all, but I have some very bad news so if you'd kindly get your asses into the car we can discuss how we're going to keep James out of jail."

# Chapter Eighteen

James and I both sat in the back of the car, partly because we were likely to have a fight if one of us got to sit in the front and the other didn't (immature, yes, but we both knew it would happen), and partly because neither of us wanted to get any closer to Tim in his current pissed off, revved up state.

Tim pulled out of the park and began talking.

"OK, I'll put it this way – if the police decide to search Larry's office, you're screwed. There's incriminating evidence on his computer relating to several murders. Including the contract for your uncle's murder."

"I thought 'contract killing' was just a turn of phrase," I said. "Surely writing up an actual contract is asking to get caught." How stupid was this guy?

"Not actual contracts, Charlie. But there's a paper trail. There are emails on his computer with coded messages, plus corresponding large payments in his bank records to an offshore account. He's tried to wipe the evidence but if I can find it, the police won't have any trouble. James, you're already a suspect. If the cops find this, you're doomed. Jones has done a really good job of screwing both of you over."

"OK," I said. "Let me get this straight. Are you saying Larry hired someone to kill not only Frank, but other people too?"

James looked a bit sick. "Why will I be screwed if they search the office?"

"These emails? They were sent from an old Hotmail account set up about five years ago."

"And?"

"Well... the address starts with your initials _._ "

James stared at the back of Tim's head blankly. "That's hardly going to secure my conviction. It must be a set-up."

"Andrews will roll with it though. Five years is a long time to plan a set-up, James, and that's how long ago these emails started being sent. And seeing as your alibi is missing –"

"Hiking! She's just out of range at the moment. She'll be back soon."

"Hiking, right. It doesn't look good."

"I'm not stupid enough to set up an account with my initials in it to use as my special hit-man email account."

"Hitmail, you mean?" I said. No one laughed. OK, so maybe it wasn't the most appropriate time for puns. "Does that mean James has to keep the police away from the evidence in Larry's office? Even though Larry's clearly guilty?" I asked, trying to break the awkward silence I'd created. I don't know why – I didn't think the pun was that __ bad.

"Yes," said Tim.

"Why don't we just destroy it?"

"We can't destroy evidence!" said James, ever the cop.

"But it's been faked to set you up, hasn't it?" I said. "That doesn't count as destroying evidence. Not really."

"It links Larry to the murders," said Tim. "We can't destroy it, but we need to come up with something that clears James before the police find it so they know it's fake."

"So for now we have to keep the police away."

"Yes," said Tim.

"How do you propose we do that?" asked James. "Hypnosis? Subliminal messages?"

"You're going to need to have another chat with Joe," Tim said.

"No," said James. "I can't drag him into this again. He's doing way too much for me already."

"So Joe's your guy on the inside," I realised. Yeah, I said 'guy on the inside.' This was starting to feel like a 70s cop drama.

"He is," Tim replied.

"I'm not asking him to stay away from Jones's office," James told us.

"Then what was the point of me searching it?" asked Tim. "If the police go in there, that's it. You're done for. You can't just refuse to ask for help."

"You mean I just sat in the pub with that evil bastard for no reason?" I demanded.

"Well," said James, "I wouldn't say it was pointless. I bet it was a step up from dating a guy in the debating squad."

I groaned. "I never should have told you about my boyfriends."

"You didn't," James reminded me. "I remembered a couple and guessed the rest."

"Whatever."

"I formed a hypothesis, and upon testing it in the field I discovered – "

"Shut up!" I snapped.

"Sorry. I just thought that if I talked like the guy you met at science camp –"

My eyebrows rose sharply. "You know about him?"

"Not until just then," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk. "But I bet he was pretty hot. Probably nearly as sexy as the dude who started the lunchtime LARPing club in the school library."

"He wasn't that unattractive. And actually, he was pretty good with his sword."

"You dated him too?"

"No," I said quickly.

"You did so," he said, grinning. "You're a nerd groupie."

That was when Tim spoke. "Hey, you called me a dork last night Charlie. Does that mean that you think I'm an eligible bachelor?"

This was beyond a joke.

"Um, don't you two have more important things to do than tease me over my ex-boyfriends? Like _finding out who murdered your uncle_ , James? I don't think that Jones seems smart enough to pull off a caper like that, framing you and all," I said, desperate to get off the subject of my past (and future) boyfriends.

"Don't try to change the topic," said James. "Although I do agree with you that he's not intelligent enough to set me up on his own. I don't think he has the technical know-how to fake emails, either."

"Assuming the email address is fake," said Tim. James scowled at him. Tim caught sight of James in the mirror and added quickly: "And not just a coincidence." Nice, Tim. Smooth.

James rolled his eyes and turned to me. "So, did you ever date anyone in my grade?"

I thought for a moment. "Maybe there's someone else that hates James who's killing these people for Larry and they've thought of all this stuff. So they've masterminded an operation where even if Larry gets discovered, they'll still be safe because James will take the rap for it and Larry will be too scared to turn them in."

"I love how you talk about me as though I'm not here. And you didn't answer my question, Charlie."

I rolled my eyes. How did anyone find this guy charming?

"Why do you care?" I demanded. "What does it matter to you who I went out with?"

James's face lit up. "I know! There was that guy in my grade who wore the glasses. I bet you dated him."

I gave him a foul look. "There is nothing wrong with wearing glasses."

"I agree. But I don't mean a guy who wore reading glasses. I'm talking about that dude that wore the star-shaped sunglasses around all the time and said they helped him see people's auras. Remember him?"

That was when I lost it. "OK, I draw the line at that. Yes, I admit, I dated a lot of uncool people, but he was not one of them! I do have some standards!"

Following my outburst, we sat in silence for a moment. Tim was the first to speak.

"James," he said, "Charlie told me you had this DVD I thought sounded interesting."

I threw my hands in the air. "You two are so immature! James, you're probably heading off to jail soon and all you can talk about is my past relationships! And you, Tim – a second ago you were so pissed-off it was scary, and now you're just stirring me up as well!"

"Well," James reasoned, "they do say laughter is the best medicine."

"Maybe we should talk through the case instead of wasting our energy with trivial information."

"Why?" Tim asked. "You already talked it all through. We're done. Do you want me to drop you off at your house, James?"

"Yes please."

James's house was on Madison Hill, two streets down from Frank's house.

"Wow," I whispered. It wasn't the first time I'd seen it, but it still had the same effect on me. "James, that's the house I want when I win the bet."

He smiled at me and my heart raced. I panicked. What was wrong with me? Get a grip, Charlie _._ No need to start contemplating how straight his teeth were. Or how OK his face was. Sure, it was well-proportioned. Whatever. Like that mattered. Think about something else. Something boring. Like his legs. His tanned, shapely legs. Damn it! His arms, then. There was nothing attractive about arms. Except, you know, hugs and stuff. And those hands. Holding hands while walking down the beach at sunset, a string quartet playing softly in the background...

Wait, what the hell? I sounded like one of the romance novels I definitely didn't read in bed every night. Next thing I would be planning our spring wedding in his beautiful garden. And thinking that his rose-covered archway would be perfect for photos.

Luckily I told myself to get a grip before I started thinking those things, so they never even entered my mind.

"Well," he responded, "I'm moving into my uncle's house so I guess that's an option. Although that would mean we were only living two blocks away from each other and I'm not sure that would be wise."

He had a point.

"I promise I'd leave you alone."

He smiled again. Fortunately I still had a grip from the first smile. "I'll think about it." And with that he got out of the car and waltzed to his front door. He had a nice, uh, door.

When Tim pulled up in front of my house I invited him in for dinner. "Although I should warn you, I'm cooking so it's probably best to decline."

He laughed. "Thanks anyway, but I have to babysit my niece tonight. I'll see you in the morning, all ready for exercise."

I grimaced. "See ya."

"Sleep tight, honey."

Lea and I joined forces to make dinner. That was good, because then only the half I cooked was a disaster. She made some wonderful sauce with tomato and other stuff, and all I had to cook was the spaghetti. Ha.

The small table in the kitchen was covered with Frank McKenzie murder memorabilia, so instead we sat at the big table in the dining room. Dad was at one end, Mum was at the other, and Lea and I were sitting halfway up the table, directly across from each other. I could hear everyone crunching away on the pasta.

"The sauce is beautiful, Lea," said Mum. She turned to me. "I'm assuming it was you who cooked, or rather didn't cook _,_ the pasta, Charlie?"

"Maybe I should have left the pot on for longer," I answered. "I was just a bit worried it was going to burn."

Mum gave me a look of disbelief. "Burn?" she repeated. "Didn't you put water in?"

Shit. I knew I'd forgotten something.

It was after eight and I was getting ready for bed (due to having a ridiculously early start in the morning) when the phone rang. It was Jo Riley. Ah. I should have known I couldn't avoid her for long.

"What's this I hear about you quitting your job last week?" She didn't give me a chance to answer. "It's great news! There's a heap of other weird rumours going around about you as well. Not that that's anything new." Wait, what? "I want to know everything!"

I took a deep breath and told her, right from the bit where I quit my job up until when McKenzie started my car. That was when she interrupted.

"You are kidding!" she squealed. "Oh my god! How did he look? He isn't the murderer is he? Is he? What was he wearing? What happened? Did you talk for very long? Did he look incredibly hot? Stupid question. Of course he did. Oh wow. Oh wow!"

"Jo!" I said. "Keep your voice down! What if Os hears you? He probably thinks you're over this whole thing." Like that was ever going to happen.

"Oh, he's not here at the moment. Anyway, keep going with your story."

When I finally finished, there were a few seconds of stunned silence before she spoke. "So... You quit your job at a grocery store, and then the next day got a job at an international security agency, which means you now have to start a fitness plan, where you – _you_ – have to work out with a personal trainer? And when you quit your job, your boss's wife divorced him because of you. You then went to apologise to her, and instead of being angry with you, she thanked you, so you asked her to come and live with you. How am I going so far?"

"Well –"

She talked over the top of me. "Then, while you were driving back to pick her up after clearing it with your parents – _cough_ you need a life _cough_ – your car broke down in the middle of the road and the world's sexiest guy had to start it for you." Debatable. Like, James was up there, but Adam Baxter was definitely a contender. I didn't want to tell her that, though. If she started stalking Adam it could only end badly. I didn't think he'd be as easy-going about it as James. We all remember Headlockgate, and that was just in a car park. Imagine how he'd react if someone broke into his house. "Then you made a bet with him that you could find his uncle's murderer – because even though you don't like James you think he's innocent – and you could end up going halves with your ex-boss's ex-wife in twenty grand and a mansion."

"Yep. Although you totally missed an opportunity there. My ex-boss's ex-wife and I will get an ex-tra large house." I paused. "Also known as a mansion."

"Can you please not interrupt me to make a bad half-pun when I'm clearly in the middle of something?"

"Sorry, but I'm physically incapable of stopping myself. You'll have to ex-cuse me."

I could just about hear her narrowing her eyes. "You showed up to McKenzie's uncle's funeral, ran into a guy from work who's investigating the same thing as you, lied to the cops, and found out that Joe Winton is helping dig James out of trouble. You then gatecrashed the wake, saw James drunk, liked him more, and got a bowl of punch tipped over you by his housekeeper-slash-your-ex-boss's-sister who hates you. The guy from work saved you, and you took him home for dinner. Is he hot?"

"Ridiculously."

"So he isn't your type."

"Ha ha."

"Are my notes correct thus far?"

"More or less. Brilliant nut-shelling, Jo." I paused. "Wait, are you actually taking notes?"

"Then today you found out that the guy who hugged you in the car park –"

"You are definitely mischaracterising that."

"– is your new boss, or at least one of them, and you aren't totally friendly towards each other, although for once you're not in the wrong."

"Thank you." That's what best friends are for, right? Backhanded compliments?

"And this afternoon you sat in a bar with an old dude and told him you were from a country called _Euthanasia_ and then James came in to make a business deal with him and the old dude tried to poison him. Then you got rescued by the hot guy from work, and he drove you and James home, you talked through the case, and then they somewhat rightfully teased you about your past boyfriends."

I clenched my jaw. "Is this going somewhere?"

She ignored the question. "So now if James turns out to be guilty, you don't get anything out of the bet."

"Pretty much."

"Good thing he's not guilty."

"Yeah."

"And I know you don't need me to tell you this –"

"Then don't feel obliged to continue."

"– but only a complete idiot would forget to put water in the pot when they cook pasta."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks, Joanna. Love you too."

# Chapter Nineteen

I woke up screaming. There was a siren blaring somewhere very close to me. In all the excitement, I somehow slipped out of bed and hit the ground. By the time I stood up, I'd finally realised what was going on. It wasn't a siren at all – it was my alarm clock screeching at me to get up. It was half past five and I was due for my two hours of torture.

I'd packed my bag last night, as I knew I wouldn't be capable at this time of morning. I tugged my tracksuit on and laced up my shoes, making a half-arsed attempt to brush my hair, before giving up and forcing it back into a ponytail. What the hell. It was too dark for anyone to see it anyway.

I grabbed my bag, headed down to the kitchen and screamed for the second time that morning at the sight of someone sitting at the table.

"Honey, when your hair looks like that, I should be the one screaming."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "How did you get in here?"

Tim looked ready for exercise. He had the right clothes, the right body and the right attitude. I, on the other hand, was not ready, and I doubted I ever would be.

"Through the door," he answered. Right. "Ready?"

I groaned inwardly. "Let's get this over with."

We began to jog as soon as we got to the pavement. I made it easily to the end of the block. Well, I say 'easily'. That might be an exaggeration. By the end of the second block I was puffing pretty heavily. At the end of the third block I collapsed against a fence. My lungs were on fire and it felt like I was having an asthma attack – which, considering I don't have asthma, is really quite worrying. I sat down on the ground.

Tim groaned. "C'mon, honey. We have to make it there before seven or else you'll spend the next hour doing drills on the treadmill."

"I can't do this. I quit. Go. Leave me. It's too hard."

He scowled and made a noise of disgust. "This is so pathetic. I thought you had more drive than that. I've never had to pick up anyone that hasn't made it in an hour. Even that last secretary didn't complain this much about it. You are a hypochondriac."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'm not a hypochondriac." OK, so I was complaining, but I wasn't pretending things were worse than they were. I really couldn't __ run any further. "You're a real prick of a personal trainer."

"You're not even puffing! How can you say it's too hard when you're not even having trouble breathing?"

"I am having trouble breathing, you bastard!"

"Well if you put all the energy you're using arguing with me into running, we might actually make it," he said. "Get your fat ass off the ground and keep jogging."

"Um, excuse me – what did you just say?"

"What?"

"It's really none of your concern what size my arse is."

He rolled his eyes. "It's a figure of speech."

"You shouldn't use 'fat' as an insult, you know. Haven't you ever heard of body positivity?"

"If you want to continue this social theory lecture, you're going to have to catch me first," he said before running off.

Standing, I started to jog, mumbling things under my breath. After another block, mumbling as well __ as running became too hard so I just thought nasty things and hoped that Tim could read my mind.

By the time I caught up to him, we were about a kilometre away from my parents' house and I thought I was going to collapse.

"I need a break," I wheezed. "Please. Pretty please with sugar on top. I can't keep going. I'm not cut out for this. I've never been good at exercise. Ask anyone who knows me what I hate and you know what they'll say? Everything. Including exercise."

"It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, you need to do it."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to tell me I should burn off weight by running? If so, then I'd rather burn it off by punching him in the face. Did he mean I needed exercise so I could let off my extra energy (read: aggression) like my PE teachers in high school used to tell me? Or did he just mean I had to be fit to work at Baxter & Co.?

"Are you trying to body shame me again?" I asked. "Because if so, I have half a mind to slap you. The other half is too oxygen-starved to think right now, but I'm pretty sure it'll get on board with the slap when it recovers."

"I'd like to see you try."

He took off again and I chased after him, spurred on by my anger. However, the energy it had given me faded all too quickly. By the time we'd made it two kilometres, my vision was blurred (even with glasses on), my face was on fire, I was struggling to breathe, I was soaked in sweat and I felt like throwing up. I glanced at Tim. He looked just like he had in the kitchen.

"Please can I walk for a while? Please? _Please_?" I don't beg often, so this goes to show just how bad it was.

He thought for a second, both of us still jogging.

"We'll slow down to a walk for the next twenty metres."

"Please, at least five hundred."

"Fifty. Starting... now."

I swear it was the shortest fifty metres in history. When we got to three kilometres, we started to do intervals of walking and running, and then for the last kilometre I lumbered along in the slowest jog ever executed.

Eventually we rounded a corner and the office was in sight. Tim took me up a flight of stairs (argh) to the door of the three-storey building next to Baxter & Co. He swiped his card and we went inside.

"Wow," I said. (Actually, I may have just thought it because I was puffing pretty hard by that point which made talking quite difficult.)

The gym was _big_. There looked to be about fifty treadmills and the same number of exercise bikes, as well as roughly a thousand other machines I'd never seen before, much less used. There were mini-trampolines and gymnastics equipment set up in one area. There was a section devoted to weight lifting. There were boxing rings and punching bags. There were people coaching and training. People sweating, jogging, cycling, punching, kicking and swearing everywhere.

If there is a hell, this is what it looks like.

"Did we make it in time?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"No. It's 7:01."

"You're kidding!"

"Yep. It's 6:52," he said, gesturing towards the clock on the wall. "Now for the speed tour. This is the main section of the gym. Over there behind that screen is the cafeteria. Straight ahead are the toilets and showers. Over there is the staircase to the offices next door."

"No elevator?"

"Honey, if people can't handle stairs what the hell would they be doing here? Downstairs is the swimming pool. You'll probably have to go in there at some point. Upstairs are the security offices."

Tim turned to face a desk to our left. "Charlie Davies," he told the lady who stood there. She was short, about the same shape as a beach ball, and probably somewhere in her late fifties. Her hair was dyed red (not orange, more crimson) and cut short, spiked up with gel. She handed Tim a clipboard and said good luck to me.

"Wouldn't catch me exercising," she said. I found myself growing incredibly jealous of her.

"What's that?" I asked Tim, gesturing towards the clipboard.

"Progress report," he answered. "I have to write down when we get here, what we do, your weaknesses and strengths, how long you take to do things, whether you get the hang of things quickly, how enthusiastic you are, what you already know, whether you injure yourself – all that bullshit."

"Fun."

"You bet. Come on, we might be able to sneak in to the early-morning yoga session to give you a little break before self defence."

He led me off to a room on the right. When we entered, people were starting to lay their mats on the ground. Apparently the teacher hadn't arrived yet. Tim took a mat off a shelf near the door and handed it to me.

"Make sure you sit somewhere I can see you properly."

I laid the mat down right next to him. "How's this?"

"Maybe we should move away from the door," he suggested. I ended up on the right hand side of the room in the second row back. I had my shoes off, just like everyone else in the room except Tim. He was standing near the back wall, ready to take notes on how I was doing. That was when the teacher walked in.

"I'm sorry I'm late. Well done on getting ready without me. Half an hour is barely enough time for a yoga class as it is. OK, let's start with _Savasana_. Lay down on your back. Relax. Palms facing up." She continued to give us instructions on how to lie down.

I knew the teacher. She was Maria Dennis, friend and colleague of Julie McKenzie, James's older sister. Together, Julie and Maria ran well-being classes and ever since they'd started, they'd been trying to rope me into going. They said they'd do it for free, but the prospect of attending one scared me. I think they wanted to help me with my 'difficult past' and 'anger-management issues', but since the idea of it stressed me out so much it was probably better that I stayed away.

We stayed lying down for about two minutes before moving onto other poses. I was struggling a bit, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I think it was a beginner's class. There were a lot of big guys around me trying to do the poses and not having a lot of luck either, so I fitted in better than you'd think.

"This pose is wonderful for toning the backside," Maria announced.

That reminded me of Tim's earlier comments, and I paused what I was doing to glare at him. He gave me a confused shrug and I gave him the finger in return. OK, I admit it, I was probably not getting into the spirit of yoga.

We got to a particularly hard position and Maria came around the class to check we were all doing it right. When she got to me, she was amazed. Not by my ability, unfortunately. More by my presence.

"Charlie! How are you? I didn't expect to see you here! So, you work here now? Are you doing yoga out of your own free will or has somebody forced you into it?"

"Forced," I answered. "And this doesn't mean that I am coming to one of your well-being classes. This is purely for work, and I don't plan to do any more than I have to."

"Whatever," she said. "I'm still telling Julie you were here. I think you could really use some more lessons. It's a great relaxation tool."

Sure, I was feeling SO RELAXED about being in a gym.

After we wrapped up the class, Tim and I lingered until everyone else had gone. I walked over to him.

"Good job, honey," he said. "Time to move on to resistance training. Get back on your mat. We'll stay in here for this first part. I have to see you do push-ups, sit-ups, handstands, star-jumps, lunges, blah, blah, blah. It's less embarrassing if you do it in here and not in front of everyone." He shut the door and the test began.

"OK," he said when we finished. "Now we know what aspects of fitness we have to work on."

"Everything?" I guessed.

"No. You did pretty good star jumps."

Yeah, they were shining specimens. Both of them.

We emerged from the room and he took me to the muscle-building section of the gym. I went through a few more tests.

"Good news," he told me when I finished. "You're stronger than you look."

I raised my eyebrows. "I can't even do a push-up."

"Yeah, I know. You're still stronger than you look."

"Funny."

We spent the next few minutes going through a sort of circuit thing with three kilogram weights, and by the end of it my arms had seized up. When we finished it was time to move on to self-defence.

"Do you know anything about self-defence?" Tim questioned as we walked over towards the boxing rings and gym mats.

"I can throw a punch, but I've never had lessons. I've been in a few fights, but they were mainly with guys who wouldn't swing back, so I know more about attacking than defending."

Tim smiled. "I'm assuming James was one of those guys?"

James was most of those guys, to be honest.

We reached the mats. "OK," Tim began. "The first rule of self-defence is that flight is better than fight. So today we are going to work on ways to escape if someone attacks you."

By eight o'clock, I had successfully learned how to run away. "We made good progress today," Tim told me as he wrote down what we'd done on the file thingy on his clipboard. "In future, you'll work on different aspects of self-defence with your trainers and then eventually be put in a fight situation with them. That way you'll learn to react in a fight, and also be able to figure out your weaknesses and fix them up. OK, done," he said as he finished writing. "Let's go get breakfast."

In the cafeteria, there was a huge flat-screen TV on one wall and a long glass servery against another. A lot of people, maybe fifty, were sitting at the tables eating breakfast (or lunch or dinner, depending on what shifts they were working). Tim led me over to the servery, where a thin girl with long black hair tied back in a pony-tail was standing, manning the till.

I examined the food. In the hot display case, the top shelf was reserved for muffins – oat bran, fruity, cornmeal, savoury and gluten free – and the bottom shelf held buckwheat pancakes and sliced rye bread. The next case along (to the right) was a Bain-Marie with trays full of lightly grilled mushrooms, scrambled tofu, porridge, miso soup, and mixed vegetables.

I continued down the line. The refrigerated section contained fresh fruit of every type, sprouts, Bircher muesli and trays with various packaged-up no-fat/sugar-free/salt-reduced spreads and sauces, probably for the rye-bread and pancakes I'd seen before, plus a tray of coconut yoghurt. On the counter there were menus for fresh juices, protein shakes, health supplements, exotic healthy teas and smoothies.

I had never seen so much health in one place. It was terrifying.

"What would you like, babe?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Um," I responded. "Can I have some coconut yoghurt and mixed fruit? And a, uh, Green Monster smoothie?" Mmmm, greeeeeeens. Shudder.

"OK," she said, punching something into her touch screen. "What's your name, sorry?"

"Charlie Davies."

She reached across the counter and shook my hand. "Jenny," she introduced herself. "So what type of milk do you want in the smoothie? Soy, rice, almond?"

"Almond."

"Cool. Any supplements?"

"Um –"

"Yeah," Tim cut in. "Shots of wheat grass and goji juice. Protein powder and peanut butter in the smoothie."

"Easy done," she said. Tim gave her his order and she went off to get them ready.

"I haven't heard very nice things about wheat grass," I told Tim.

"Yeah, it tastes pretty bad. What I normally do is down the wheat grass, then the goji, and then I take a swig of my drink and a big bite of food, and you don't even notice the taste. Well, OK, you do, but at least it doesn't make you want to throw up."

Great.

When Tim and I sat at the table with our orders, he counted down from three. When he got to one, we both drank our grass, then our goji, just like he'd said. He was right – it was pretty rank, but I could handle it.

Tim left to hand my clipboard in and when he got back, I asked him how I'd done.

"You aren't fit. You did OK in yoga, but we could work on flexibility. Strength needs improvement, but everybody's does when they first start. Your self-defence was average."

"I told you I was bad at this."

"It would help if you tried."

"You aren't nice as a trainer."

"I'm not supposed to be. Besides, you're lazy and that's really annoying. It's hard to be nice to someone when all they do is bitch and complain."

"I've always bitched and complained and it's never gotten to you before."

He smiled, but didn't answer.

When I finished breakfast (co-yo and fruit: good, smoothie: surprisingly decent for something that looked like a tumbler of troll snot, supplements: see above), I picked up my bag and headed to the showers to wash the sweat off so I didn't baste in it for the whole day. Pushing open the door, I walked into the bathroom. It had a strange layout. I mean a _really_ strange layout. How many ladies' bathrooms included a urinal?

I glanced over at the showers just in time to see the lovechild of 50 Cent and the Incredible Hulk wander out of a cubicle. He was roughly seven feet tall, built entirely of muscle, and he was...

Naked. Totally starkers.

He looked at me as though I was an alien. I looked at him with a mixture of fascination and horror. Not because he was ugly or anything – quite the opposite – but because I couldn't believe what I'd just done. I was in the men's room, staring at a nude guy who was twice as tall as me. And probably not very happy. Plus, right at my head-height was his...

I was stunned. Speechless. I'd done some embarrassing things in my time, but this was vying for top place on the list. Wow. I really hoped James McKenzie didn't find out about this. I could already hear his laughter. Finally I got my voice back and spoke.

"Oopsy-daisy. Guess this is the wrong bathroom. Sorry. I'll – I'll – " I pointed to the door. "See ya!"

I barrelled through the door and nearly hit Tim, who was right outside, doubled over laughing.

"It is not funny!" I said to him. "That was mortifying." And then I went through the door into the girls' bathroom.

Yes. I double-checked.

# Chapter Twenty

At nine o'clock I was back in my office, filing. Ah, the joys of being secretary. Still, it beat listening to groceries beeping all day at Gregory's.

I had made arrangements to have lunch with Tim in the cafeteria next door. My plan was to question him about the McKenzie case. That was, if he was willing to talk to me about anything other than me walking into the guys' showers. I doubted it, but I could only hope.

After finishing the filing and sorting through the mail, I started researching urgent files. As I worked, I discovered that every client of Baxter & Co. was checked before the company took on their case or did security for their building, presumably so we could evaluate the risk before working for them. I was curious to see what James McKenzie's background check said.

So curious, in fact, that I decided to look him up for myself.

I didn't find anything new, which isn't exactly surprising since I've known him my whole life. I researched everything I could think of that was connected to Frank and printed all the info.

That meant that I got about half an hour behind with my research and, due to the torrent of telephone calls, I started to get really panicky that I wasn't going to finish everything before the end of the day. Which is why I wasn't in the best of moods when James McKenzie turned up.

"What?" I screamed at him through the intercom.

"Bad day?" was the reply.

I keyed him in. "I'm sending a message to Tim. He'll be down in a sec. Don't you dare try to distract me. I have work to do."

"Don't worry. I won't. I'm not even going to mention that guy you used to date who thought he was a rocket."

That was when I threw the stapler at him. Due to many years of honing his sporting skills, he managed to catch it before it hit him in the face. Normally I can't throw straight, but I can do anything when I'm angry.

I turned back to the computer and continued to frantically work my way through the files. James walked over and sat the stapler back on the desk. I snatched it before he'd fully let go, reefed it towards me and stapled the sheets I'd just printed. Shoving the sheets back in their folder, I threw them into the out-tray.

"Woman on a mission," said James.

I kept researching and when Tim came and took James away, I was too busy to even worry about what they were discussing.

By one, I'd half-finished the files. I picked up my key card and headed for the cafeteria. When I got there, I saw Tim waiting for me, already seated. He stood up when he noticed me and we met at the counter. Looking in the glass cases, I took in the lunchtime menu.

Whoa. Cucumber, avocado and carrot sushi, salad, wraps, rolls, sandwiches, lentil burgers, chickpea burgers, fresh fruit, rice patties, grilled vegetables and more. Five hundred types of each. All bread was whole-meal or whole-grain, of course, and all wraps and sandwiches could be toasted or not. There was nothing fattening, salty or sugary amongst it, except for the fat in the avocado and the sugar in the fruit. If there was such a thing as junk food withdrawals, I expected them to start kicking in soon.

I went for a six-pack of brown rice sushi with cucumber, eggplant and carrot, plus a cacao protein shake. I was feeling adventurous, so I had another shot each of wheat grass and goji. I went through the routine of wheat-goji-swig-bite, gagged, and then ate the rest of my meal (sushi: tasty, shake: pretty decent for health food).

"So, Charlie," Tim said. "See anyone during your trip to the men's bathroom? You were in there for a while."

I didn't dignify that with a response. "Have you got any ideas on the McKenzie case?"

"You're avoiding my question, but I'll ignore that for now. New leads on the murder? No." He was lying. I knew it. He didn't trust me.

"Timothy," I said, "I know that you're lying. You know, it would make a lot more sense for us to work together on this one. We could share resources."

He snorted. "What resources can you give me that I don't already have?"

"Connections," I replied. "I grew up with James McKenzie. I know his parents. I know his siblings. I know his aunts and uncles, even cousins. Plus, my mother is hosting the monthly meeting of her book club tomorrow, and that's always the best place to find out gossip. I have family and friends of the victim and client who will willingly talk to me."

Not to mention the fact that one of my friends was probably stalking McKenzie the night his uncle was killed, and they might be able to give him an alibi if Sarah Hollis couldn't.

"OK," he answered. "As long as you promise to give me everything you've got, I'll work with you."

"Good. Then we both end up with what we want."

"Money?" he asked. "Is that what you're after?"

"A house," I answered. "And some money."

"Alright," he said. "Here's what I've got. Frank's is similar to a few other murders that have occurred over the last five years. Same modus operandi for each of them – fatal gunshot wound, then decapitation."

"That's a pretty memorable method of killing someone. Surely the police would have made the connection between Frank's murder and the others."

Tim nodded. "You'd think so, but a lot of them took place in other cities. Sydney, Brisbane – no one's connected them yet. The only reason I did was because James found a stack of newspapers at his uncle's house mentioning them. I had to go through them a few times before I realised what I was looking at."

"So Frank knew something? That's why he was killed?"

"I guess. I've looked at all the individual cases and I can't find a connection between the victims other than the way they died. Some of the deaths line up with Larry's emails and bank records, including Frank's. But that's not really concrete evidence and we still don't know who did it. Just that it's been going on for a long time."

"Surely that puts James in the clear, though. You said it goes back five years? If he was only sixteen at the time of the first murder, then –"

Tim cut me off. "It doesn't exactly put him in the clear. In fact, it might make things worse."

I was about to ask why, and then it hit me. "Five years ago. Will overdosed and Topher went missing. You think James –"

"I don't think anything. It just doesn't look good." From his lack of reaction, I guessed he didn't know that Topher was my brother. Davies was a pretty common surname.

"That seems a little far fetched." He shrugged and I tried again. "Well, if some of the murders happened in other cities, surely you can just establish where James was at the time, and if he was here then –"

"Not as easy as it sounds. We're talking years __ ago. He can't remember where he was. His bank records are no help because Frank always gave him cash for pocket money. He didn't get a Facebook account until he was eighteen and he hardly uses it, so nothing on that helps. He got a new phone number and we can't track down his old records because he can't remember what his number was or whose name it was in. It's like he's trying to have no alibi."

Or like he was trying to have no incriminating records. This looked bad.

"So now we're not just trying to clear James of killing one person, but a whole bunch of people?"

Tim nodded. "And it's hard. It's really hard."

"Can you give me the dates of those other bodies turning up? I'll see if anyone in my family can remember anything that helps."

"Sure," he said. "Good idea. I didn't know it was possible to be so anonymous."

"It's almost suspicious."

"It's really fucking suspicious. If it were anyone else I'd be handing them in to the police, but I don't think he's the type. Also, surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to put his initials in his serial killer email address."

"Someone wouldn't have spent five years setting James up." I paused. "That means either James did do the killing, the person just happens to have chosen an email address with his initials in it, or..."

"Or the emails are really good fakes."

I didn't even have to think. "I like the third option the best. It seems the most likely."

Tim nodded. "I agree. But my bet is that the police are going to like the first option best, which means that we really need to find the killer or some sort of alibi for James, or else he is going to be labelled as a contract killer and neither of us will get paid."

Hmm. That made things a little more interesting.

"So, how was your workout this morning, Charlie?" Mum asked when I stumbled through the doorway, back in my tracksuit and joggers.

I'd decided to try to get a bit more exercise in after work, figuring that if I got fit quicker then the mornings wouldn't be such torture. About two steps out the office door on my way home I'd given up on that idea and just limped the rest of the way at a snail's pace.

Mum was mocking me. She'd probably heard me scream when my alarm went off this morning, and then again when I found Tim had broken into the house.

"Wonderful. Fan-bloody-tastic. I'm a natural at sports, as you know. Super coordinated and ultra-fit. Plus, I love getting up before the sun does. Me and a couple of hours of exercise in the early morning? It's a match made in heaven."

"Yes. I heard your screams of delight when you first got up. You sounded very excited."

"You bet."

"I pity the guy who came to pick you up. I know what you look like first thing in the morning, and it would take a brave man to deal with that." Gee, thanks Mum. "Any leads on the McKenzie case?"

I considered telling her what I'd found out from Tim, but decided against it for confidentiality reasons. The whole town didn't need to know that James was a suspected serial killer.

"No," I answered.

I walked into the lounge room to find Lea taking notes from the TV. I swam through the shag carpet and sat down on the couch next to her.

_'This afternoon, James McKenzie was taken in for questioning by the local police regarding the murder of his uncle, billionaire Francis McKenzie. As the sole beneficiary of his uncle's will, James has been the number-one suspect in this murder inquiry since the beginning. Information has leaked that police are now not only questioning McKenzie about his uncle's murder, but also about several other murders that have occurred across the country over the past five years. These victims are rumoured to have been killed in the same manner as Francis McKenzie.'_

Good thing I went to all the trouble of not telling Mum what I'd found out.

Behind the reporter, the doors to the police station opened and James McKenzie sauntered out. The press gathered outside began firing questions at him. He stood and calmly answered them.

"I did not kill my uncle or anybody else. Yes, it does offend me that rumours like that are going around. No, I'm not angry at the police force. As a police officer myself, I understand that they must pursue all lines of inquiry. No, I'm not worried about what Officer Hollis will say when she gets back into the country. I have no doubt she will tell the truth and provide me with my alibi. I don't know if she's in danger – I certainly hope not. I'm not answering any more questions, but I will say this. My uncle was one of the kindest people I knew and I don't know why anybody would kill him. I want his murderer caught and brought to justice, and I want to get back to doing my job as a police officer."

And with that, he walked down the steps, through the hordes of reporters, and got into the black Porsche that was waiting for him at the curb.

James looked great on camera – I certainly believed his sob story. Now all we needed was proof he wasn't a murderer. He was safe for now, but sooner or later the police would search Larry's office and it would be better if we had evidence of his innocence before then.

"Find out anything interesting?" I asked Lea.

"Have you heard that he's being questioned for multiple murders?"

"Yep."

"Then no, I haven't found out anything interesting."

I told her the information I'd acquired from Tim at lunch. He hadn't given me the list of dates yet, so we weren't able to start looking into where James had been. Lea added a few more things to her notepad, and then I went to my bedroom. I decided to try some of the yoga poses Maria had shown us this morning, hoping to clear my mind.

Which is why, when my mother came into my room at six-fifteen, I had one leg behind my head while I reached for the toes on my other foot.

"Don't stretch too far," she said. "Knowing you, you'll dislocate something."

I made a noise of disgust and tried to sit up. Unfortunately, my leg stayed behind my head and I was left writhing around on the ground like a fly with its wings pulled off.

My mother shook her head. "You're the epitome of cool."

I grunted in reply.

"Perhaps you and Lea should go out to a nightclub, get drunk and hook up with cute guys and gals, like other people your age do."

Finally I dislodged my leg and was able to breathe properly again. "Sure," I wheezed. "Then I can show them these sweet moves on the dance floor."

Mum grimaced. "On second thoughts, maybe you should stay in."

# Chapter Twenty-One

It was Wednesday.

This time when the alarm went off, I didn't scream. In fact, I was so cool with the alarm clock that I didn't even fall out of bed. Despite the fact that my whole body was aching from yesterday's exertion, I just stood up, got dressed, grabbed my bag and walked slowly downstairs, dreading the cold and the exercise which had made my body so sore. However, whilst I might have been cool with the alarm clock, my reaction when I walked into the kitchen was anything but.

To be fair, I wasn't expecting to run into anyone in the kitchen at this hour – especially not someone who didn't actually live in my house. I admit, I began to scream. The guy screamed back. Then, at exactly the same time, we recognised each other's faces and noise stopped coming out. We both just stood there with our mouths agape, staring, neither of us sure what to say.

It was him. The naked guy from the showers, now fully clothed and standing in my parents' kitchen. I giggled nervously. Even in the dimly lit kitchen I could see him gulp.

"Wow, you're dressed. I was kind of hoping you'd walk around naked all the time," I said. I willed my mouth to shut up, but it wouldn't. "C'mon, dude, let's go."

He stared at me wordlessly, eyes wide.

"What's your name? You kind of remind me of 50 Cent with those magnificent cheekbones, but there's got to be at least 90 cents worth of you." Yeah, those words actually came out of my mouth. "Alright, out we go."

When we reached the pavement, we started running.

"People are going to start talking about the two of us, you know," I wheezed, puffed after three steps. "I don't even know your name and I've already seen you without clothes. What do I call you? You didn't say."

He didn't answer. The dude couldn't even look me in the eye. Not that I blamed him – I couldn't believe the things coming out of my mouth. I was like a talking parrot on steroids.

"You didn't strike me as the shy type the first time I met you, strutting about with your wares on display. I'm surprised. Why aren't you telling me your name? Is this a game? Am I supposed to guess?" No response. No eye contact, either. "You didn't seem too keen on 90 Cent. Um, how about Little John? Irony, obviously, because... I don't need to explain that." Time to move on. Rapidly. "You could be a Pete. Or Norman. Maybe a Pat, or a Greg, or a Leroy. Like Leroy Brown. You know that song? Because you're super bad and all. The bashful expression makes you look extra dangerous."

"Panther," he mumbled, clearly trying to shut me up.

"Panther?" I repeated. "No buddy, you're too late. From now on, you're Leroy. Have you heard the song? I could sing a bit if you like."

"I know the song." He had an accent that I couldn't place, and a tone that I definitely could. It had a distinct 'desperately wishing I'd stop talking' inflection.

"Want to sing it with me? On three. Ready? One, tw– "

"I do not sing."

"Oh come on, I got you to talk. If I can do that, I can do anything." He didn't look like he was going to sing. "OK, some other time. Look, dude, if you think that you're going to get me to shut up by not answering me, you've got another thing coming. I don't know if I've ever heard my father's voice before, and I've managed to hold conversations with him for almost two decades now." Nope, still nothing. "Jeez, this silent thing's irritating. I know you can talk. Why won't you? I'm not going to stop, you know. I could go on for hours. How about I tell you my life story? I was born in Gerongate Hospital on the –"

Panther/Leroy cut me off. "You need your energy for running. Save your breath."

That seemed fair enough. After all, I was starting to pant pretty heavily. (And looking super hot doing it, obviously.)

I think we were about one and a half kilometres into it when I gave up and started to walk. Panther frowned at me.

"Is there any point in telling you to hurry up?"

"No," I replied. "I'm the most determined procrastinator ever born. I don't do hurrying. Although you could probably pick me up and carry me there."

He frowned. "Would you like that?"

I laughed. "No. It would be embarrassing. Almost as embarrassing as getting caught walking around a communal bathroom totally nude."

His jaw, which had just begun to relax, tensed up like a grammar professor again. (Tense? Get it? Look, we all know tenuous jokes are the funniest.)

"It's OK," I said. "It was my fault. I promise I won't tell anyone."

He mumbled something I couldn't hear.

"Pardon?"

"I said that Sharps did not warn me that you do not shut up. Normally he would tell me something like this."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you try to get out of running in any way possible. You have walked for long enough. Time to jog." He took off and with a loud groan I followed.

About two kilometres away from Baxter & Co. I started to walk again. Well, really it was more of a hobble. Panther/Leroy turned to me.

"I intimidate most people," he said. "Why not you? You are scared of Spider Baxter, and yet I do not bother you."

"Spider Baxter? Who – oh, Adam." I frowned. Did everybody at this place have a weird nickname? "Why do you think I'm scared of him? I'm not at all. Seriously, I'm totally fine with him. He doesn't even make me a little nervous."

It wasn't exactly a lie – I wasn't afraid of Adam. I just wasn't comfortable in the presence of such beauty. Probably best not to tell Panther that, though. Didn't want to offend him. He was beautiful too, but not in Adam's engineered-in-a-lab-and-too-fine-for-this-earth-thus-probably-contributing-to-global-warming-with-the-hotness-of-his-face kind of way.

(That's a very normal thing to think about a person. I don't know what you're talking about.)

He didn't seem sold, despite my slightly over-zealous protest. "That is what Sharps told me."

Damn it. Why was Tim spreading malicious and entirely inaccurate rumours about me? I was very brave. Seriously, for someone as clumsy as me, even leaving the house showed admirable courage.

"But you are not even vaguely unnerved by me." Panther's brow wrinkled. "Is it because you saw me in the shower yesterday?"

"I'm afraid that your blushing kind of undercuts your scary façade."

"I do not blush."

"Whatever you say, Leroy."

He smiled. "Keep running."

Yes, I'd made him smile! Achievement unlocked!

When we got to the gym, Panther strode straight to the admin desk and got my clipboard from the funky Grandma. He came back to me and said, "We have missed the start of yoga, so we are going to do some stretching instead."

We walked over to the gym mats near the boxing rings. Panther was surprisingly flexible for a guy his size – a lot more bendy than me. He wrote some notes on the clipboard, probably about how bad I was. I wondered if he would write that I was annoying and wouldn't shut up as well as being unfit and inflexible. I wouldn't blame him if he did.

Next, we moved over to the bodybuilding area and he got me to do rounds with the three-kilo weights like I had yesterday. Then he made me try to do push-ups. Eventually we gave up on that and I had to do sit-ups instead. Then he made me bench-press ten kilos. It was embarrassingly hard.

By the time we finished that, my arms were aching and burning. Leroy read what Tim and I had done yesterday.

"OK," he said. "Today we're going over to the boxing bags and I'm going to teach you how to punch. Got it?"

I nodded. Fine by me. Exercise always got me in the mood to punch something. Plus, I could always think of James McKenzie or Celia Stanton. Hell, even my friend Marney made me want to kill her sometimes. Actually, most of the time – she wasn't really my friend. She kind of just hung around.

Leroy showed me a couple of different punches, and I did them. The boxing bag was hard, but I was angry and barely noticed. Which is why at the end, my knuckles were slightly bruised and even a bit bloodied.

That morning I went for grilled mushrooms and tofu with a slice of rye bread, plus a protein shake for breakfast. I ate alone, as Panther had to get off to a job (at least, that's what he said – he could have just been trying to get away from me). The breakfast tasted surprisingly good, apart from the wheat grass and goji routine.

I went into the women's showers (I checked three times before entering), got my things out of my locker with my key card as one of the girls had shown me yesterday, and hopped under the spray. Baxter & Co. had really nice bathrooms. There were no expenses spared – they were actually individual showers with individual drains and they didn't have a gap under the wall where you got hit with the spray from the person next door.

The only downside of the shower was that my knuckles stung a little when I got soap on them. Couldn't really blame that on the facilities, though.

Back in my office, the in-tray was full. I sorted out the papers, filed some, and then started researching the others. I was halfway through the second file when the telephone rang.

"Good morning, this is Baxter & Co. Gerongate. Charlie speaking."

"You little bitch," said the voice on the other end. "How dare you mess with me? Do you know who I am?"

It was Larry Jones. Apparently he'd found out that Imaso wasn't quite who he thought she was, and now he knew my real identity. I pressed the record button on the telephone. Luckily it didn't beep so he wouldn't know I was taping him.

"Listen, Grandpa," I answered. "I mess with everyone. You're nothing special. Besides, you're hardly terrifying. You can't even kill a person with your own hands. You hired someone to kill Frank because you wanted his assets, and now his heir won't sell to you anyway."

"I didn't –"

"James isn't scared of you either, is he? No. Because you're pathetic. Are you going to take a contract out on him too, Larry, or don't you have the guts?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do. Who did you pay?"

I could practically hear him glaring down the phone at me. "Alright then, lady. I did it. I paid someone."

My eyes widened in shock. Was he actually going to tell me what he'd done?

"James McKenzie killed his uncle," Larry growled. "I heard that he killed all those other people, and I decided to get him to whack off Frank as well." He laughed smugly. "I'd like to see you hand this tape over to the police now!"

And with that, he hung up.

Shit. He'd known that I was recording the conversation, and he'd made sure he'd incriminated James on it so I couldn't give it to the police. And worse, the police were probably tapping Larry's line and would have heard that conversation already. Double shit.

I picked up the phone and called Tim's office.

"You need to get out here now. I think James is about to be arrested."

About two seconds later, Tim barrelled down the corridor and slid to a stop at my desk.

"What? What is it?"

"Larry Jones called me because he found out who I was and rang up to abuse me so I recorded the conversation in case he said anything interesting and he realised I was recording so he said that he hired James to kill Frank because he heard that James was an assassin and the police are probably listening in on his phone calls and if he made that call from his home phone or office or mobile then they're going to arrest James and –"

Tim cut me off. "Charlie, try that again. Slower."

I said it again, only this time there were sentences.

"OK," said Tim when I'd finished. "You're right, honey. His phones are probably being monitored by the police."

My gut sank. "Oh shit. Shit! I don't know why I feel so bad – I mean, I don't even like James – but shit, I don't want him arrested because of me. Oh no. Oh man!"

"Charlie, would you let me finish? The police would only have heard if he made the call on one of _his_ telephones _._ Chances are that he didn't, because while he isn't the smartest person I know, I don't think he's dumb enough to incriminate himself on a phone that he knows is being tapped by the cops. You need to calm down." He paused. "I thought you didn't like McKenzie. He's grown on you, hasn't he?"

I thought about that for a second. "I guess so. Like, I'm not in love with him or anything, but I don't want him to get put away for life."

Tim nodded. "Did you see his speech on the news last night?" he asked. "He was pretty convincing. I don't think anyone who saw that is going to be able to say that they honestly think he did it."

I agreed. He was a natural on film. He made you want to believe what he said so much that even if he did get arrested – even if he confessed – most people would still want him to be found innocent.

Yes. He was that good.

Tim's mobile went off and he left to take the call. I wondered who it was. Maybe James. Or Joe Winton, our mole, with more information for Tim. Or, you know, it could just be a life insurance salesperson. Best not to rest any hopes on it.

After a while Tim came back.

"That was Joe. The police are trying to get a warrant to search Jones's office but he said the earliest they can get it is five this afternoon. Wanna ride along and check it out?"

I thought about it for a second. "Well, book club is on today, but that doesn't start until half past six so as long as I'm home by then, sure."

He smiled. "Your mother is going to think there's something going on between us."

I smiled too. "My mother couldn't care less, really, except if I moved out of her house and in with you. Violet would care more."

"Would Violet be upset if we were going out? Y'know, because of her crush on me and all?" He was grinning even wider now.

I laughed. "Maybe. But then again, her husband is Brian McKenzie and I think she reckons she did alright getting him."

He nodded. "Most women seem to think that getting a McKenzie is alright."

"Most."

"Not you, though."

"No. Not me."

"Any particular reason?"

I wondered how to answer that. "We used to be friends, but we had a fight and didn't make up again. Now it's more natural to stir each other up than to be nice." I shrugged. "Just the way things worked out."

"Did you ever have a crush on James?"

"You're starting to sound like him."

He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't answer my question."

"I don't intend to."

"Why not?"

"Why yes?"

He crossed his arms. "So you did."

"I didn't say that."

"You might as well have."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"So it is a yes, then. You did."

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"You really won't say?

"No."

He sighed. "Fine. I'll go."

"See you."

"Later, honey."

And he (finally) left me alone.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

It was five minutes before five and I was pondering the McKenzie case.

We knew Larry Jones had hired someone to kill Frank (amongst others). We were pretty sure that Jones and the hired hit man were trying to frame James.

That was it. We didn't know anything else.

Well, OK, we did. We knew that James was innocent. We knew that the police suspected Larry Jones. We knew that whoever had killed Frank was an accomplished assassin. We thought that Frank had figured out something about who was responsible. And we knew that we needed to solve the case fast.

Tim appeared in front of my desk once more. "C'mon," he said. "We've gotta get going."

We power-walked back down the corridor, through a doorway, down some stairs, along another corridor and down some more stairs before we eventually emerged in the underground parking lot. We jogged over to Tim's Porsche and jumped in.

"Where are we going?" I asked, a little puffed from all the hurrying.

"Larry's office building. We're going to wait for the police to turn up and then cause a distraction so they don't make it to Jones's office."

"What kind of distraction?" I asked. "The legal kind or the not-so-legal kind?"

"Nothing too bad. Andrews ain't the sharpest tool in the box. It shouldn't be too hard to get rid of him."

Tim pulled up out the front of a six-storey office building in a reserved parking space.

"Um, are you sure we should be parking here?" I asked. I was slightly dubious about Tim's disregard for the rules. He seemed to think that nothing could touch him (which was probably true), but I wasn't nearly as confident.

"It's a Porsche in the VIP parking space. It would look weirder if we parked in a normal spot."

Right. Sure. Anyone who saw it would just assume it was some CEO's midlife crisis. Although I probably shouldn't articulate that opinion to Tim.

Climbing out of the car, we were assaulted by the afternoon heat and I sighed in relief when we walked through the glass doors into the air conditioned office building. We were in a large reception area where a bunch of people were sitting on green lounges. Judging by the impatient body language, most of them had been waiting for a while.

Tim swept over to the lounges and I followed. The people looking at us probably thought that he was an important businessman and I was his PA. Which, when you think about it, wasn't so far off.

Sitting, Tim picked up a seven-month-old magazine from the coffee table near us and pretended to read it. At least, I assumed he was pretending. Tim didn't strike me as the kind of person to worry about celebrity baby dramas, who's on what diet or who was caught wearing that _hideous_ outfit. Tim was the kind of guy you could see dating a celebrity, but not having any idea what she was famous for.

I heard a telephone ring and Tim pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He walked outside to take the call, leaving me and the out of date magazine alone together. I picked it up but flicking through it I remembered why I don't read magazines – I don't care _._ So I flipped to the crossword.

A hot breeze rustled the pages of the magazine as the doors opened again. I looked up, expecting it to be Tim re-entering after his telephone call, and instead saw Joe Winton and Michael Andrews. I thought Tim would follow them, but he was nowhere to be seen. The cops walked over to the front desk and showed the receptionist their badges and a piece of paper. She spoke to them for a while, and then pointed to the elevator. Shit! Where was Tim?

I looked around one last time for Tim but there was no sign of him. I was on my own. Now what? I bolted upstairs. I had no idea which office was Larry's, but somehow I had to cause a distraction before the police got to it.

Think. What's the best way to cause a distraction? Well, that's obvious. Mass hysteria.

But how?

By now I was on the third floor, sprinting down the corridor like someone who was worried that they would lose a house and twenty grand if they didn't beat the police to a certain office. There was no one else in sight. Just me, a rotating security camera and a fire extinguisher.

Perfect.

I studied the camera. At the moment, it was facing away from me. Somehow I was going to have to make it to the other end of the corridor without getting caught on video and then activate the fire alarm. I glanced up. There was a sprinkler system in the roof. If I could get it to go off, everyone would bolt outside onto the street. Between it and the alarm, I figured I'd generate a moderate amount of hysteria.

Pressing my back to the wall, I edged down the hallway, staying in the camera's blind spot. When I reached the fire extinguisher, the camera was facing the other way. I covered my hands with my shirt (didn't want to leave fingerprints) and yanked the extinguisher off the wall. The alarms and sprinklers sprang into action immediately.

I bolted back down the corridor (careful not to get caught on video) and descended the stairs, screaming, "Fire! Everyone get out of here! There's a fire!" When that didn't seem to be getting much of a reaction, I tried, "Bomb! There's a big scary bomb upstairs! It's doing that ticking thing! Like an evil clock! Run for your lives!"

Again, that didn't seem to have a huge impact so I began shrieking as loudly and in as piercing a tone as I could.

People began filing out of offices then, so I started saying things like, "What's going on? Can anyone else smell smoke?" and, "Did anybody else hear that bang upstairs? It sounded like something exploded." By now, there was quite a large mass of people hurrying down the steps, and since most were in white blouses (including me) it was a bit like a crazy wet T-shirt contest.

Everyone started muttering, slowly getting louder. Pretty soon someone screamed, and as we ran through the foyer there was the distinct scent of terror in the air.

(Or maybe someone just took the opportunity to fart when they knew it couldn't be traced back to them. One or the other.)

Everyone who worked in or was visiting the office building was out on the sidewalk. Most people were drenched and a lot were wailing (including Officer Andrews). Suddenly someone put their hand around my waist and I felt myself being dragged out of the crowd.

"Time to go, honey," Tim said. "Wouldn't want the cops to spot us."

After we'd fled the scene of the crime, Tim asked me what had happened. When I told him, he practically collapsed from laughing.

"I meant a small distraction, not a full-building evacuation," he said. "Still, it was effective. And you're sure you didn't get caught on camera?"

I nodded. "We sat on a couch that the camera couldn't see in the waiting room and there weren't any cameras on the stairs. I was pretty careful not to get caught pulling the extinguisher off the wall."

Tim shook his head, still grinning. "You're one of a kind, honey. So, how'd you go with Panther this morning?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Hasn't he told you already?"

"Yeah," he answered. "He also told me about how you two met in the men's showers yesterday." He laughed at the thought of it. "If you guys end up together, that'll be an amazing story to tell your kids."

"Maybe I'll end up with Adam and I'll get to tell everyone how the first time I met him he put me in a chokehold and threatened to kill me."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "You think you could pull Adam? You continue to amaze me, honey."

"Rude."

He laughed. "I didn't mean it like that – I just don't know if you're his type. But hey, if you're brave enough, go for it. I would love to see that play out."

I grimaced. "I don't know if his personality warrants the horrendous amount of patience it would take." No matter how pretty the guy was.

Tim pulled into Elm Avenue and we took in the sight. It was like we'd ended up on a planet entirely populated by SUVs. There was every kind of 4WD you could imagine. Jeep Cherokee, Porsche Cayenne, Prado, Nissan, Toyota, Range Rover – it was the meeting of the book club. I wondered who had 'read the most books' (read: won the drag race) this week.

The meeting wasn't supposed to start for another half hour, but everyone always turned up early so that they could drink wine, eat nibblies and share gossip before the discussion of books, cars and cross-country driving expeditions began.

Tim double-parked at the front of my house and I jumped out of the car. After saying goodbye, I walked to the front door but before I had the chance to touch the handle Violet reefed it open.

"Getting dropped off by Tim again? There's definitely something going on between you two." She frowned at me. "What happened to you? You're soaked."

I looked down. I was wet. Sprinklers tend to do that.

"We just work together, Vi," I said, not answering her question about the water. Best not to worry her. I walked into the lounge room and found everyone crowded around the TV, enthralled. "What's up?"

"There was a fire in Larry Jones's office building," Mum said. "The police think there's someone after him. Probably has something to do with Frank McKenzie. They're trying to put Larry's office out now, but apparently no other offices were damaged."

"Anyone hurt?" I asked.

"No, everyone got out in time."

What exactly was going on? Larry's office had actually caught fire? Someone must have told him the police were on the way and when I activated the alarm, I'd given him the idea to set fire to his office and destroy the evidence against him. Or at least delay its retrieval. Plus, if it looked like he'd been targeted, maybe the cops wouldn't suspect him so much.

His face appeared on the television. "I was lucky to have been downstairs when the fire was started." Liar, liar, pants on fire. "I'm very grateful to the person who noticed my office was alight and raised the alarm. I'm just glad no one was hurt."

I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. I don't drink much (as I've mentioned) but this seemed like a good time to start. I'd set the alarm off and given Larry the opportunity to get himself out of trouble. Great. I took a swig of the wine. And then another.

As I finished the glass, the telephone rang.

It was Tim. "Hey, honey. I guess you've seen the news?"

"Yes. I downed a glass of wine and I'm not feeling any better."

"I didn't think you were much of a drinker."

"I'm not, but it seemed fitting considering what I'd done."

"Hey, it's not that bad. I made copies of all the stuff in his office before it burned down, plus most of it's online anyway and now the police can't get the evidence until we want them to. Things have worked out pretty well."

Looking at it that way, it didn't seem so awful.

"So," I said when I walked back into the lounge room. "What's the latest gossip about the McKenzie case?"

No one cared about discussing the murder in front of Violet. She wasn't close to Frank and nobody thought James had done it after seeing him on telly last night. No reason it would upset her.

"Everyone is saying it's connected to Larry Jones," Mum's friend, Siobhan Letterman, answered. Siobhan was like the Gerongate Bulletin. She was good to have around because she knew what was going on in town but you didn't tell her anything you didn't want to be made public.

"That's it? No one is saying anything other than that?" I found it hard to believe that no one knew anything more. This is Gerongate we're talking about. Someone had to know something.

"Well," Siobhan continued, "there are rumours that Larry Jones hired an assassin to kill Frank, but that hardly seems plausible."

"OK. Let me know if you hear anything else interesting."

Great. Another dead end. That was disappointing.

I didn't hang around for the whole book club. Instead I went to bed early, absolutely exhausted and dreading another day's exercise.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

I hated my alarm clock. It was always rejoicing in my misery, beeping cheerily at me when all I wanted to do was sleep. I smacked it until it shut up and rolled over, listening to the rain pounding the roof. Isn't it funny the calming effect rain has on you when you're in bed?

The next time I opened my eyes I was being wrenched into consciousness by Adam Baxter. He didn't look happy.

"You should be ready to run. Hurry up and get dressed," he ordered.

I frowned at him, blinking sleepily. "Why are you in my bedroom?" I asked, not entirely awake yet. "I didn't know you felt such a spark between us last time we were together. I'm flattered, don't get me wrong, but maybe we should try dinner first."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "You live with your parents."

"So?"

"I can do better." His eyes flicked to my hair. "A lot better."

"Wow. You're a real charmer."

"Get up."

"But it's raining," I whined.

"Get up or get fired. You have two minutes until we're leaving."

He left my room with no further attempts to woo me, so I pulled on my saggy, misshapen tracksuit and my worn-out joggers. I looked ready for life in the gutter. My muscles were sore, my eyes were puffy and red-rimmed and I had a hangover from last night's wine. My head was aching along with the rest of my body, plus I was feeling kind of queasy, and I was expected to do exercise. In the rain.

I found myself wondering – not for the first time – why me? Then I reminded myself that no matter how bad the exercise was, I did actually like the rest of the job. Well, I liked some of it and even the bad parts beat the shit out of being a checkout chick.

Plus I got paid. A lot.

When I reached the kitchen, Adam looked me up and down – and not in a 'come hither' kind of way.

"What?" I demanded.

"Next time you steal an outfit from a homeless man, maybe choose one who isn't twice your size."

I narrowed my eyes at him but didn't reply. He was kind of right about the tracksuit, but I wasn't going to admit that aloud.

I groaned as we walked out the door. My head was throbbing and my body was protesting and to top it off, it was raining. Lovely.

"You shouldn't drink during the week," he told me. "It doesn't feel great running while you're hung over."

Guess I wasn't looking too crash hot.

"Are you speaking from experience?" I wondered how cheeky I could be before he fired me. On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn't test that.

He ignored the question. "You're not going to feel too good after a shot of wheat grass."

The thought made me shudder. "Do I still have to take the wheat grass?"

"Yes. It'll teach you for getting drunk when you have to work the next day."

When we hit the pavement, I was feeling seedy and my head hurt, but I could handle it. By the end of the block, my stomach was churning. We'd made it about a kilometre (with breaks) when I spewed in the gutter.

"Hurry up," said Adam. "I've already told you, a hangover won't save you."

I vomited twice more on the run, which was better than expected. I'd thought that the exercise would get easier over time. That morning changed my mind.

When we got to the gym, Adam picked up the clipboard from the front desk and wrote down the time we got in. 6:59 a.m. A minute later and I would have been running on the treadmill. Lucky – I wouldn't have been up to that at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't the best of times.

Adam flicked through the papers on the clipboard.

"OK," he said. "We'll do some stretches first. I know you did that yesterday but apparently you didn't do too well, so we're going to try it again and hope you improve."

Adam's interpersonal skills left a lot to be desired. Maybe I should pull the grandma act on him again.

He made me stretch so much that it hurt and by the end of our twenty minute stretch-sesh I was just about ready to kill him.

At the weights section, he spent a few minutes re-checking whether or not I could do sit ups, push ups, chin ups and all the other things that I'd been tested on by Tim. Two days ago. __ Did he actually think I'd improve that quickly?

I did rounds with weights until my arms gave out. Then he put me on a gym machine circuit where I had to stay on each one for a minute and then take my heart rate while he wrote down comments (probably all negative). By the time we got to self-defence, I was definitely ready to kill him. And throw up. Again.

"OK, you did punches yesterday, so we'll work on kicks today," said Adam.

He took me over to the boxing bags and showed me a few different types of kicks. "When I call out a certain type of kick, I want you to do that and repeat until I call out another. Got it?"

"Yes," I growled, giving him the Evil Eye.

"Good," he responded. "Right-leg round-house."

When I limped into the cafeteria (kicking for half an hour makes it quite painful to walk), I went straight up to the counter and looked at what was available. This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted a big, fatty fry-up for breakfast, not health food.

I ended up getting scrambled tofu, mushrooms, rye bread and the usual supplements. I did the thing where I downed the juice and nearly spewed. Again.

By the time I got to my desk, I was starting to feel a bit more human. I sat down and got to work. By lunchtime, nothing interesting had happened. No threatening telephone calls. No visits from Tim. McKenzie hadn't even turned up yet, and things were starting to get so boring that I was beginning to wish he would. But then I remembered that I was hung over and having no visitors was probably a good thing. The less people who saw me in my current state, the better.

I skipped lunch that day. The scrambled tofu just wasn't sitting right and I didn't want to provoke my stomach any further. One glass of wine! I was never going to drink again. For a while. Not tonight, anyway. Well, maybe. But not until late.

At five o'clock, I stood up to leave. At the same time, Adam approached my desk.

"Come with me," he said. Not an offer. A command.

I followed him back down the corridor, through a door and down some stairs before I realised where we were going. The car park. My car was here!

(Or he was taking me back to the place where we met to propose to me. Hard to say.)

When we got there, he led me over near where he'd attacked me on my first day. (Ah, the happy memories.) We stopped in front of an empty spot.

"This is your parking space," he told me as he pulled a pair of keys out of his jeans pocket. "You won't have to drive to work for a long time – not until you're fit enough to cut back on how many days you work out with a trainer – but you're welcome to drive it around town for non-work-related things."

He handed me the key. My brow wrinkled when I saw the chain had a horse on it. Was that a...

Adam walked me to another area of the car park where a silver vehicle sat looking totally badarse. Yep, I'd guessed right. It was a convertible Mustang – with P-plates already attached.

"Is – is that –" I tried to say.

"Your car? Yes, it is. You can go now." And with that, he left.

I beeped the car unlocked and got in. Wow. If Baxter & Co. bought their employees Mustangs and Porsches, they weren't exactly hard-up for cash. I didn't realise security and investigations were such big industries.

The seats in the Mustang were covered in a nice dark fabric, the kind that would be good in summer because I wouldn't stick to it if I got sweaty (was that a bit gross? Oh well). I sunk into the chair, put on my seatbelt and then pressed a button to make the convertible top fold down. I squealed. I couldn't help it. This was one cool car.

I followed the arrows out of the car park and pulled onto the road. I set out with no destination in mind, just enjoying cruising around in a car that didn't seem to hate me. Somehow, I ended up parked in front of Will McKenzie's apartment building.

What the hell. I didn't have anything better to do than visit him and maybe he knew something. Unlikely, since he'd barely had anything to do with Uncle Frank and hadn't spoken to James for five years, but hey. YOLO. (Is that the appropriate use of YOLO? Yeah, I'm down with the kids.)

I walked through the foyer and headed up the stairs, trying to convince myself the extra exercise would do me good. When I reached Will's floor I was puffing only slightly. (OK, I was puffing heaps. Rub it in, why don't you?) I waited until I caught my breath and then knocked.

Ten seconds later he opened the door. "Hey, Charlie!" he said with a smile, gesturing for me to come inside. I walked in and plonked on his couch, Will shutting the door before joining me. "What's up? I heard you quit work and there was a contract out on your head so you got a job at a security company."

That was surprisingly close. "I don't know about the contract." Then I thought of what Larry had said yesterday on the phone and decided it was entirely possible. But Will didn't need to know that. "I am working at a security company, though."

"Cool. Going well?"

"Oh __ yeah. I got a company car today. A Mustang."

He raised his eyebrows and his jaw dropped. "How bad's your job that you deserve a Mustang?"

I laughed. "I'm secretary."

He sighed. "And all I get is minimum wage and a name tag with a typo."

I laughed again. Will (or Wull, according to his name tag) worked at the same clinic he'd attended after his drug-induced near-death experience. He certainly wasn't in it for the money or the glamour. He'd told me in the past that the reason he did it was because he figured he could probably understand the patients better than the other people who worked there, seeing as he'd been through the same thing in the past. He helped people with everything from addictions to depression and he was the perfect person for the job. He cared a lot about people.

"While we're on the topic of expensive cars," Will continued, "have you seen my brother lately?"

As nonchalantly as he asked, I knew it was more than a casual question. Will respected James's wish to not be contacted, but I knew Will missed his brother a lot. For some reason.

I groaned. "Only nearly every day this week."

He looked surprised. "Something going on between the two of you?" I gave him a foul look and he grinned back. "Do I hear wedding bells?"

I poked my tongue out. I'd hardly even thought about our wedding at all. "He's got someone from my company looking into your uncle's murder – that's confidential, by the way."

"How is he? He and Frank were pretty close."

"He's fine. No different from normal. Maybe a bit upset, but that didn't stop him from being just as charming as always."

He smiled. "You do bring out the best in him."

I tried to cross my legs and groaned loudly in pain.

"Have you broken something again?"

I shook my head. "No. It's my bum."

He closed his eyes and put his hands up in front of him. "I changed my mind. Don't tell me."

"It's nothing weird."

"I know I work at a clinic, but if you're here for a medical opinion you've come to the wrong place. If you've got some sort of rash, I don't want to know."

"It's not that," I said with an eye roll. "I foolishly climbed the stairs to your apartment after already exercising this morning. I should have sent you a text to meet me down in my car." Then we would have been sitting in air conditioning as well. I really hadn't thought it through.

"Wait, you worked out? Are you trying to get fit or something?" He was grinning, but stopped when I didn't answer. "No way – Charlie Davies, exercising voluntarily?"

"I think 'voluntarily' is a bit of a stretch." I explained the situation at Baxter & Co. "And the trainers are all so mean."

"Maybe you're just a sook."

"One of them said I had a fat ass."

" _Ass_?"

"He's American," I explained.

"Right. Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it."

I raised my eyebrows. "Really? And what is your opinion on my bum?"

"Am I meant to have an opinion on it?"

I could see he was getting uncomfortable and I decided to have some fun with this. "I just meant what do you think of it?"

"I don't think of it."

"You can look at it if you want." I stood and turned so he could see it, looking back at him over my shoulder. Will shifted uneasily as I bit back a smile.

"What is happening?" he asked, bewildered.

"Look at it."

"I don't want to!"

"I don't care what you want! Look at it and tell me what you think."

He looked at it and said, "I think you're a psycho."

"Will!"

"Fine. It's like, a solid six."

"A _six_?"

"I was joking, Charlie. I give it five cracks out of five. You could model any sort of anal salve you wanted with an arse like that. Now can I please stop looking at it? Because I feel like I'm perving on my little sister."

"Fine." I turned back around, deciding to let him off the hook now that I'd had my fun. He seemed relieved as I sunk back down on the couch, whimpering slightly. "I don't suppose you can tell me anything new about Frank or James or the murder or anything?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Well," I said. "I kind of made this bet with James..."

I explained the story to him.

"You set off the fire alarm but he torched his own __ office?" Will asked. I nodded. "You're not getting back into the arson thing? You promise?"

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Do you think James is in danger?" he asked.

I thought for a second. "I doubt it. With him dead, there's no one to take the fall. I don't think whoever's doing this would risk offing him."

"So you don't think he's a killer."

I shrugged. "Just because I don't like someone doesn't make them a murderer."

"You've gone sweet on him, haven't you?"

I gave him a look of horror. "No!"

"Have too."

"Have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"Have too."

"Grow up, William. Unlike the rest of the world, I don't idolise your brother, and I have definitely not gone sweet on him." I resisted the urge to poke my tongue out. Just barely.

"You used to be in love with him," he retorted.

"When I was four years old! That hardly counts."

"Whatever."

"I'm leaving!" With some difficulty, I stood and turned to go.

"Say hi to your lover boy for me."

I exited, slamming the door so hard I was pretty sure I heard it crack. I had not gone soft on James McKenzie. At all. Absolutely not. In any way. Whatsoever.

Had I?

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Friday should be declared part of the weekend. No one functions on Friday. Especially not if they've spent six hours of the past three days doing exercise. If that's the case, they're sore, grumpy, tired and liable to commit some sort of major felony if things get too much for them. Which they will. Oh, how they will.

Wait, is that just me?

On top of the completely crap state my body was in, things were even worse when I caught sight of my hair in the mirror. Adam was lucky he wasn't seeing it today if he'd thought yesterday morning was bad. From my reflection I could tell you today's weather forecast: minor showers in the morning with heavy rain around midday and my hair frizzing up to maximum capacity at approximately 12:22 p.m.

I decided not to try to look professional today. No one else bothered. Why should I? I grabbed a nice pair of black jeans and a cute black and white striped T-shirt, then ducked next door into Lea's room to borrow a pair of shoes. (She was still snoring away but I knew she wouldn't care.)

I settled on a pair of pumps (low-heel) that were black with white spots. I tried them on and they fit. More importantly, I could walk in them. I shoved everything in my bag and got dressed in my stinky tracksuit. I should really do some washing. Note to self: learn how to do laundry.

Tim collected me again and we jogged together in the rain, which is about as hellish an activity as I could imagine. (Sub-par weather, an outdoor activity, exercise and another person. Awful on all fronts.) I ran the first kilometre too fast, all the while bitching about Adam. Then I ran out of breath and walked for a while. We got there in fifty minutes and I sneaked into the yoga class.

After that, Tim made me do fifty sit-ups and try to do push-ups and chin-ups. I hadn't improved. Next he put me on some weird machine to work out my arm and back muscles. (Who knew back muscles were a thing?) I was glad we weren't focusing on my posterior today – it still hadn't fully recovered from yesterday. I smiled when I remembered my conversation with Will. Apparently I had a nice arse. OK, so he would have said that even if I had, like, an extra bum cheek, but whatever.

Tim said I was performing at an 'almost average' level on some of the machines today. Yay! I was improving.

For martial arts, Tim took me to a group class. I enjoyed that a lot more than the one-on-one sessions. It had music and it was fun. Plus, there were other people who couldn't perform the steps as well as me, which made me feel better. Well, there was one guy. Admittedly he did have a leg in a cast, but let's not get pernickety.

That morning for breakfast I had miso soup with brown rice, fresh pineapple juice and the supplements. I sat with Tim and asked him about the case.

"Anything new come up?"

"No. I've tried everything but it's not getting me anywhere. I don't suppose you've found out anything?"

I shook my head. "Afraid not." Apart from the fact that my arse was fine, thank you very much Tim, and I might have fallen for McKenzie. But that didn't relate to the case at all so I kept it to myself.

"Well," he said, "I'm afraid we're not having much luck digging your boyfriend out of trouble, honey."

What? He thought I liked McKenzie as well?

I narrowed my eyes. "He is _not_ my boyfriend."

He smiled. "Sure."

When I stepped into the shower, I tried to wet my hair so that I could wash it but it had frizzed up so much I could barely get it under the nozzle. Finally it became moist enough (ew) to shampoo and condition. After dressing – thanks for teaching me that lesson so spectacularly, Panther – I left my cubicle and walked over to the sinks. I attempted to run a comb through my curls but it stuck after about a centimetre. Borrowing another lady's blow dryer, I again tried to tame it.

That backfired spectacularly.

Now I appeared to have a small, very wooly sheep perched atop my head.

The girl who'd lent me the blow dryer came over and introduced herself. "Hi. I'm Lilly."

"Charlie," I said, by way of introduction.

"I install security systems."

"Secretary," I said vacantly. I was still staring at the mirror in horror.

"Here, sweetie," said Lilly, handing me a tube of hair gloop. "Use as much as you want. My sister gets it free from the salon for me – she's a hair dresser," she explained. "I don't know if it will completely fix it, but it might help."

After drinking up the entire tube, my hair looked slightly better than it had at the start.

"Thanks," I said to Lilly.

"No worries. I know what it's like. My hair does that too." She grimaced. "Just, you know, not quite to the same extent."

There wasn't too much work for me today. A few folders to put away and three things to research for Adam, plus an envelope with my name on it, containing my pay slip. I checked my bank account and found that the money had already gone in. When I finished the files, I felt my hair and tried not to scream. Maybe I could spend my pay on a treatment.

After lunch, I had no work left. There was nothing for me to do except answer the telephone occasionally and contemplate my scary hair. By the time five o'clock arrived, I was more than ready to leave. I gathered my stuff and headed out.

It was pouring. And because I'd jogged here this morning, I had to walk home. I stood out on the sidewalk, wondering what the people watching the monitors would think of my hairstyle. They had a clear view of all angles. It probably looked like my head was being swallowed by a giant blonde spider.

I was panicking about how wet Lea's shoes were going to get in this rain when a black Ferrari pulled up in front of me. Hmm. Wonder who this could be?

The door opened and James leant across to speak to me.

"Need a lift?" he asked.

I sighed. My hair looked like it had been possessed by the troubled cousin of a perm and my glasses were wet and foggy. I was sore from too much exercise, grumpy from the rain and tired, and now I was being offered a lift home by a guy who was potentially a murderer and whom everyone thought I was in love with.

"Thanks," I said flatly, sliding in next to him. I pulled the door shut and grabbed the seatbelt. "I hope you don't mind getting your seats wet."

"Bad hair day?" James asked. I let go of the seatbelt and reached for the door handle to get out. Only trouble was, I couldn't find it. Argh! Stupid super-car. I was trying to leave in anger but I was trapped.

James laughed. "Charlie, I'm sorry. Calm down. I was just joking."

"I'm leaving."

"You don't even know how to get the door open. Look, I'm sorry I teased you. I like the hair."

"Don't lie to me. You're not sorry and you don't like the hair."

"I do like the hair. It looks soft and fluffy. Like a bunny."

I thought for a moment. "Well, I guess I don't mind looking fluffy like a bunny."

"Exactly. Everyone likes bunnies." That was true. Even the heartless Adam Baxter had gone back to check on the rabbit and his new puppy friend. "Besides, you don't want to walk home in the rain."

He was right. I didn't. I pulled the seatbelt over me again and tried to find where to plug it in. James reached over and did it up for me.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

"So," he said when we started driving. "Did you set Larry's office on fire?"

I snorted. "No."

"I'm not going to get annoyed at you for it," he said quickly. "That probably saved me from going to jail."

"I really didn't. I just set the fire alarm off. Larry must have torched his own office while everyone was distracted." We were silent for a while, so I looked around at the Ferrari's interior, trying to figure out how anything in it worked. "Nice car."

He was trying to hide a smile. "Not going to smash it up, are you?"

"Not unless you're planning on turning my bra into a flag again," I said.

He sighed. "That was a long time ago, Charlie. I'd like to think I'm a bit more mature now."

Sure. He'd _like_ to think that. __ "What prompted this uncharacteristic act of kindness towards me?"

He looked wounded. "I couldn't just drive past you. You bring out the worst in me, but even my worst isn't that bad. Besides, I wanted an update on how you're going."

"With the case?"

"Yeah. I thought maybe you'd have something that Sharps doesn't."

I raised my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "You have that much confidence in me?"

He smiled. "I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask."

"Well, I don't really have anything at the moment. Isn't Sarah Hollis supposed to be getting back to Gerongate soon?"

James nodded. "Sunday."

"Well, we'll see what happens then." I realised there was something I hadn't asked McKenzie that I'd been meaning to. "James, how did you even meet your uncle? He's about the only relative of yours I've never met."

He smiled slightly as he told me the story. "We were fundraising for a football trip or something. I don't really remember. Anyway, your brother dared me to hit Frank up for some money so I did. He liked my sales pitch, thought it was funny, so we talked for a while. We just got along, you know?" He was silent for a moment. "I didn't kill him, Charlie."

"I know."

We didn't speak again until he was about three blocks from my parents' place.

"Do you want me to drop you off at your parents' house or somewhere they won't see?"

I laughed. "At the house."

I didn't think it really mattered anymore if I was seen with McKenzie. In fact, I was kind of hoping that Violet would give up on the idea that I was with Tim if she saw me also coming home with James. She'd realise these were simply working relationships.

James idled out the front of the house. It was still pouring outside and I wondered how wet I'd get dashing from the car to the door. Then I looked down at myself and sighed. It didn't matter. I was saturated anyway.

"I hate rain," I said.

James laughed. "Is there anything you don't hate?"

_You?_ suggested my mind.

"Chocolate?" was the response that rolled off my tongue, however, and for once I was glad that my mouth was working independently to my brain. The very fact that I'd thought that was troubling.

My response (the verbal one, not the mental one) drew another smile from James. He was obviously unaware of the acute internal embarrassment I was suffering from. Oh my god. Maybe Tim and Will were right and I _had_ gone sweet on James.

"Bye," I said, keen to get the hell out of there. I didn't have time to be doubting my eternal hatred of McKenzie. I had shit to do.

"See you."

I turned for the door and stopped. Huh. I'd never actually figured out where the handle was. "Um, how do I get out?"

James reached over and did it for me, trying to hide his smile. As soon as he got it open, I leapt out of the car.

"Thanks! Bye!"

I hit the ground running.

Then I tripped and hit the ground for real.

Splat.

Sigh.

Had I really expected anything less?

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Pulling myself to my feet, I shouted over my shoulder that I was fine and bolted to the front door. Apparently convinced that I was OK, James drove away while I searched through my bag for my keys.

Finally my fingers closed around them. I was about to unlock the door when I heard another car pull up. I thought maybe I'd left something in McKenzie's car and he'd come back to return it, but when I turned around it was a black Porsche. Tim.

I ran back to the road and jumped in the passenger's side.

"Hey, honey," he said. "Thought I'd go Q The Prince about the killer. Guessed you'd wanna slide along."

I blinked. "Was that in code?"

He laughed. "I'm going to go visit an informant. He calls himself The Prince. He knows what's up and what's going down around town so I thought I'd ask him what he knows about our killer. I hate visiting him, but at this stage we don't have a choice. Thought you'd want to know what he had to say."

"So, uh, who exactly is this... Prince?"

"Ah, well. You're in for a fun trip."

We drove for a long time, talking through the case and coming up with nothing new. I hadn't been paying attention to where we were going and suddenly I realised what street we'd ended up on.

"Slade?" I hissed. "Why the hell do we need to come to Slade Street?"

Slade was dead centre of the worst area of the city. All things bad in Gerongate stemmed from here. You could get anything on Slade. Drugs, guns, very cheap (read: stolen) cars – in fact, very cheap anything. Really. Forged papers, human entrails, _anything_.

And apparently this was where The Prince resided.

"This is where he lives. Anything bad going down, he knows about it. He trades information for money. Well, for other things too, but since you're still a teenager I don't think you should know about them."

"How do you know how old I am?"

"McKenzie. He tells me everything about you."

I groaned. "Don't know that he's the most reliable source."

Tim was smiling. "He actually talks quite fondly of you, Charlie. He reckons you're going to beat me in this case."

I shrugged. "That's because I am."

He just smiled.

Tim parked the Porsche and we climbed out. As he beeped it shut, I asked, "Aren't you worried about leaving your car here? This neighbourhood doesn't have the best reputation."

"Everyone knows that you don't touch a B-Co car."

Okey dokey.

We walked across the street into a shabby looking block of flats. Like, boarded-up ground floor windows kind of shabby. Tim led me up a flight of stairs and when we reached the top, we walked over to flat 2C. The number was peeling off the door and there was a hole in it where somebody's foot had gone through. It was taped up but if anything that made it more obvious. Yeesh.

"What's with the hole in the door?" I asked.

"No need to worry about that."

I disagreed. "How do you know whoever did that isn't going to turn up while we're here? What if we're attacked?"

He sighed. "If you really must know, honey, I did that last time I visited. And don't worry, no one is going to come in while my car's parked outside."

"Do the people around here think you're dangerous or something?" I asked.

"You have no idea." Tim knocked three times on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He knocked continuously until finally the door opened. There was no one there. I looked down. Ah. There he was.

The Prince was short. Seriously, even littler than me. By, like, a centimetre but Lea's shoes had given me an extra height boost and I was drunk with power. Or maybe it was altitude sickness. I wasn't the shortest person here! I'd found someone five-two-and-a-half! Praise Aphrodite!

"Timothy," said The Prince. "Back again. Not going to kick my door down this time, I hope." He turned to me. "You've brought someone with you. Name?"

"Charlie," Tim answered for me.

"Charlie," The Prince repeated dreamily. Urgh, what a creep.

"What kind of prince are __ you?" I asked. "Lord Farquad?"

He scowled at me. Guess he wasn't a Shrek fan. To be fair to him, I hadn't liked it when people had used that line on me either but now that I was one of the elite Tall Humans – basically a basketball champion – it seemed a lot funnier.

The Prince turned to Tim and hissed, "Your bitch speaks to me that way again and you won't get any answers."

"Hey, I'm not –"

Tim cut me off. "Honey, leave it."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Way to defend my honour."

"He's not worth the effort. Believe me."

The Prince walked back into his lair and Tim followed, me behind him. We found ourselves in a little room with a lot of lounge chairs. The Prince climbed up into an armchair and motioned for us to sit down as well. I'd never felt tall before, but when I was able to sit on the sofa next to Tim and my feet still touched the ground, I felt positively gangly.

"So," The Prince began. "What are we bartering?"

"Money for information."

"Then what is the girl for?"

"Urgh! Tim, you didn't mention that I might be part of a payment. Yuck!"

"You won't be part of a payment, honey. I'm not a pimp," he told me. He looked at The Prince. "As you well know."

"I didn't mean it like that," said The Prince. He turned to me. "We would just kill you and sell your body parts. Nothing untoward." He said it as though it was supposed to make me feel better.

"Reassuring," I answered.

"Now," said The Prince. "What is it you wish to know?"

He spoke too well to be from this part of town. He didn't quite have the bogan twang I associated with the area. (Or most areas of Australia, if we're honest – including Elm Avenue.) The way he enunciated made him sound like a snob from Madison Hill.

"The serial killer the police are looking for," Tim answered. "The one who got McKenzie."

"Yes?"

"What can you tell us about them?"

"What would you like to know?"

"What can you tell us?"

"About what?"

"The killer," said Tim, starting to sound slightly irate.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"The serial killer that you just said you knew about," said Tim. I could see him breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down. I was starting to understand why he'd put his foot through the door last time.

"I didn't say I knew about them."

"Well, do you?"

"Yes."

"What do you know?"

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Gender, appearance, name, height, anything," I snapped. Tim smiled slightly at me, then turned back to The Prince and nodded once.

The Prince sighed. "This isn't going to come cheaply."

"Just tell us," said Tim. "Before I get impatient."

I didn't generally think Tim was all that intimidating, but right now even I felt a little nervous.

The Prince shifted in his seat, suddenly looking a little less cocky. "Fine," he said, his voice a slightly higher pitch now. "It is a man."

I crossed my arms. "If that's all you've got, buddy –"

"Don't interrupt," he snapped. Then, more calmly, "It is a man, but they say for this last one he killed, he had a lady helping. The Rodent is his name. No one knows who he is. He's not a serial killer exactly. It's more like he... provides a service for money. Does all his business over the internet so no one can ever identify him. He's very expensive. Speaking of which, one hundred dollars."

Tim handed him the note.

"The police won't find him," His Royal Highness continued. "He's been doing this for a long time and he knows how to get away with it. Single shot to the head from a distance, then decapitation. That's his signature. One hundred." Tim handed over two fifties. "That is all I know."

"You just paid two hundred dollars for that information?" I said when we were back in the car. "What was with that? Is he even reliable? He kept saying 'they' say this and 'they' say that. Who the hell are 'they'?"

"If I knew who 'they' were, I wouldn't be going to him. Generally he's pretty reliable. I mean, yeah, it costs a little, but I'll just tack it onto McKenzie's bill. Besides, he gave us a lot of valuable information."

Yeah, right. "Such as?"

"The name 'Rodent'."

"Big deal. Unless that's the nickname of someone you already know, it doesn't help much."

Tim rolled his eyes at me. "How do people get names like that?"

"Being an Animagus?"

"What?"

"Never mind." Apparently Tim wasn't a Harry Potter fan. I'd have to work on that if we were going to be friends. "Appearance?"

"Exactly."

"But The Prince said no one had ever seen him."

"Maybe not recently, but he must have gotten that nickname somehow. I'd say that there's a fair chance there's something rat-like about the way he looks or moves."

I wasn't totally convinced. It seemed like a bit of a leap to me.

Tim continued. "Plus, we know he does his business online, so he must be pretty good at covering his tracks. That would mean he'd probably be able to set up McKenzie fairly easily."

"OK, so what's our next move?"

"Go over the case again, see what we've missed. Try to find out how this guy fits in. Lea's helping you, right?"

"Right."

"So fill her in and see what she picks up from the files. I'm guessing you've got copies of all my information?"

"Yep."

"Good. Go through that and whatever else you've got and see if anything jumps out at you. I'm going to spend some time trying to track down where this Rodent has been sending his emails from."

I thought for a moment. "It's the two-week anniversary of Frank's death on Monday."

"Yep."

"The police aren't going to find the killer, are they?"

"Not with Andrews in charge."

"Do you think James will go down for it?"

"I hope not."

That wasn't particularly comforting.

"He has an alibi, though, right? When she gets back –"

"If."

"What?"

"If she gets back, honey. A contract killer isn't going to leave his fall-guy's alibi alive if he can help it."

I was getting a sick feeling in my stomach. I'd met Sarah Hollis a few times, the first being right after my brother went missing. She'd been pretty young, just out of the academy – closer to me in age than she was to most of her fellow officers. She'd made me tea and looked after me and just made things feel OK for a while. I couldn't handle the thought of someone killing a person who was so nice. I hadn't known any of the other victims, but I knew Sarah didn't deserve this.

"If we don't find him, no one will, will they?" I asked. Tim didn't answer. He didn't need to. It hadn't really been a question. "Any ideas on how?"

He sighed. "I'm sure it'll come to us."

# Chapter Twenty-Six

When I woke up on Saturday morning, the sun was shining through my window. Not something I remembered seeing before. I felt around clumsily on the nightstand for my glasses. When I put them on and looked at my clock, I was shocked.

It was seven.

In the morning.

Where was my big weekend sleep-in? Argh, Baxter & Co. was doing weird things to me. I mean, seven! Absolutely disgusting.

I stepped out of bed (yes, I was alert enough to step out of bed, not just roll out) and walked down to the kitchen. When I entered, Mum and Lea looked up at me, shocked.

"What?" I asked.

"It's not even ten yet and you're up," Mum answered.

"So? I've been getting up at five-thirty the rest of the week. Seven is late for me these days." OK, so that was a stretch, but I really was getting used to it. It was weird.

"Whatever," said Mum. She wasn't buying it. "Are you doing anything on the McKenzie case today?"

"Yeah," I answered. "We've got a heap of information to go through, plus I got some more yesterday. We're going to be busy."

I retrieved our research from upstairs and spread it over the kitchen table. Once I'd filled Lea in on what The Prince had said, we started sorting through the information. By nine o'clock we were done and had nothing interesting to report. We'd even Facebook-stalked James to try to alibi him for the dates Tim had given me of the more recent murders. No luck there. I could only think of one thing to do, and I really hoped that Lea wasn't going to freak when I told her.

It's now or never, I decided. "We need to see what the police have got."

She turned to me. "I was just about to say that. How do we get hold of it?"

"Well, I have a plan, but it's slightly illegal."

She nodded. "Sounds good."

Right. Convincing her was going to be easier than I thought.

"OK," I said. "Here's the vague outline. You and I go to the station and ask to see Michael Andrews. I haven't figured out what we'll say, but he's not the smartest cookie in the jar so it won't have to be too believable."

She nodded. "Stupid cookie. Got it."

"One of us goes to his office with him and the other follows, looking inconspicuous. When one is in the office, the other bangs on the office door and pretends to be an annoying journalist trying to get information."

"A distraction, I'm guessing?"

I nodded. "While this is happening, the person in the office finds whatever they can on McKenzie and puts it in their bag. If there's stuff on the computer, they save it to USB. Then we exit very quickly and come back here to look at it and make copies if we have to. After that we somehow get it back to the police. We'll have all their information and they'll be none the wiser."

"Like on that TV show the other night?"

I nodded.

"Can I be the one in the office? Please? Pretty please?"

I took that to mean she was in.

"Sure. I make a good annoying journo. It'll be fun." If fun was the right word. Nerve-racking or incredibly dangerous were probably more accurate, but I was going with fun for the moment.

Lea cracked her knuckles. "When are we going to do this thing?"

"ASAP."

Which is how we found ourselves, one and a half hours later, standing out the front of the police station, psyching ourselves up.

"Let's do this," said Lea.

"Up and at 'em."

"Time to pounce!"

"We're gonna get that file!"

Ten minutes later, we still hadn't gone inside.

Lea took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders like she was gearing up for a fight and said, "Now or never," before walking in. To tell the truth, now that we were here I would prefer it to be never. Or perhaps even later than never. Not that I could tell Lea that, what with this being my idea and all.

I followed her in. Due to enormous good fortune, Michael Andrews – the stupid cookie himself – was in the front foyer, about to head up the stairs.

"Officer," said Lea, as she swung her arse over towards him. With all that hip swagger I was amazed she could stay upright, especially with boobs like hers – I certainly didn't have that kind of balance. He turned to look at her and I realised that she wasn't going to need an excuse to get into his office. "Officer," she repeated. "I knew Frank McKenzie quite well and I thought I might be able to help with your inquiries."

His mouth was hanging open. "Yes," he said. "I'd love for you to tell us anything you know. Come with me. We'll talk in my office if you like."

I followed them at a safe distance. Andrews led Lea up a flight of stairs and down a corridor lined with posters saying things like 'Gerongate says NO to domestic violence' and 'Drink-driving is a crime'. Fascinating. I wondered what the point of these posters was. Surely the police should have known this stuff already. To be fair, Andrews may have found them a handy reminder. He probably couldn't hold too much information in his brain at any one time.

I pursued them through a doorway and found myself in a big room with about twenty different desks in it. Oh no. This wasn't what we'd planned for. Andrews walked over to a desk (I assumed it was his) and asked Lea what she knew. That was my cue.

"Officer Andrews," I said in my best snooty-reporter imitation. "How is the McKenzie case going? Any new leads? Is it true that James McKenzie, Frank's nephew, is a suspect?"

Andrews walked towards me and behind him I could see Lea frantically searching through his desk drawers. This wasn't what we'd imagined. We'd thought that the offices would be separated and I could lure him out into the corridor while Lea searched inside. In here, if Andrews turned around, Lea would be caught. In fact, if any of the other officers looked over, we were in big trouble.

"There are rumours going around that there have been other murders similar to this occurring across Australia over the last five years. Can you confirm or deny this? Does this mean we may have a serial killer on the loose? Don't you think the people of Gerongate have a right to know if they're in danger?"

Lea still hadn't managed to find the stuff we wanted. With our luck, it was probably all on computer and there wasn't a hard copy. She definitely wouldn't have time to save anything onto a USB drive. She signalled at me to keep him talking.

"What about Sarah Hollis? Have you heard from her yet? Can you confirm whether she is alive or dead? She's due back in the country tomorrow. Will she be brought in for questioning? Is she in danger?"

Andrews looked a bit overwhelmed with all these questions. Over his shoulder I saw Lea grab something from a drawer and shove it in her bag. Andrews turned around to catch Lea shutting the drawer.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Looking for a pen," she replied. "I know an answer to this crossword." She gestured to a magazine sitting on top of the desk. Apparently Andrews had been trying to expand his limited vocabulary.

"Oh," he said to her. He turned to me, pointed at the door and said, "Out. Now!"

I left and walked to my car, beeped it open and hopped into the driver's seat. I put the key in the ignition but didn't start the engine. The only radio station I could tune into that wasn't advertisements or classical music was a local news station. I listened to it for a while, but it didn't tell me anything relevant to the McKenzie case.

Ten minutes later, Lea still hadn't returned. I wasn't too worried about her. She was probably just helping Andrews with his crossword or answering some questions about Frank with completely fabricated responses.

I was bored. I picked up my handbag from the passenger-seat floor and poured the contents onto the seat. Nothing interesting. A wallet, some tissues, sunglasses. No food. No mobile. Nothing to keep me occupied. OK, so maybe it was a good thing that I had no food. Eating healthy would probably make my fitness training go more smoothly.

The mere thought of the fitness training was enough to make me groan aloud. Why did it have to be so awful? I needed to get fit as fast as possible so my mornings wouldn't be such torture. Maybe I could go for a run now to pass time. But I didn't want to keep Lea waiting if she turned up.

I thought for a while. I knew what I should do. And I knew what I wanted to do. And they were two very different things. I wanted to avoid the gym at all costs. However, I knew the only way to improve would be to go there and exercise. I was going to do it, I decided. I was going to sacrifice my happiness for two hours after dinner tonight on the quest for a slightly less shit morning routine.

I was already dreading it.

I put all my things apart from my wallet back in my bag. It wasn't a cool bag. It wasn't an expensive bag. And the wallet wasn't too flash either. I knew what I was going to be spending my pay on – a new wardrobe.

Yeesh, who had I become?

My wallet contained my driver's licence, my Baxter & Co. key card and my pay packet. I opened up the envelope and took the slip out. It showed my normal pay (minus the money I'd spent on food at the cafeteria), as well as $500 extra for the two jobs I'd helped Tim with. Wow. I got paid $250 each time for setting off a fire alarm and sitting in a pub. This was a cool job.

I scrunched up the envelope and shoved it into a side pocket on my bag. Just as I was putting my wallet away, the door opened and Lea slid in next to me.

"Sorry I took so long," she said. "He insisted I stay and help him with the crossword. It was pathetic. Canine. Three letters, D-something-G. Whatever could it be _."_ She shook her head in disgust. "He didn't even ask me about McKenzie after you left. Oh, that reminds me." She retrieved the file from her bag. "Let's get home and solve this thing."

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lea read out the post mortem results as I drove back to Elm Avenue. Nothing new there. Method of killing was exactly the same as it said in the papers. Toxicology report came back clean, so we knew he wasn't drugged.

"I think we should leave the forensic photos until last," said Lea, avoiding one particular section of the file. "You know, exhaust all other avenues first."

All the information from the related murders was included in this file, too. The pathologist had concluded that the bullet in McKenzie's head had not been shot from the same gun as any of the other killings, so apparently the murderer used a different firearm each time. Also, the weapon used to remove the head varied from victim to victim. That was probably why no one had connected the crimes sooner.

"Frank McKenzie's head was removed with a hacksaw," Lea said, flipping through the file in horror.

She was right. I didn't feel much desire to look at those autopsy pictures either.

The forensics had also concluded that there were no DNA traces left by the killer. The Prince was right – this guy was a pro. The police were never going to find The Rodent.

There were also copies of everyone's statements (no contact details for anyone, though, so follow-up interviews would be hard for us). James's was just as you'd expect. He didn't do it. He had an alibi. He didn't know why anyone would want to kill his uncle (which was bullshit – he knew exactly who had his uncle killed and why).

Larry Jones's statement said that he hadn't had anything to do with it, he got along well with Frank and he had an alibi. He didn't know who had torched his office. Everything he'd said was a lie.

When we got home, we sat at the table with the file and looked through the stuff we hadn't read in the car. Lea had also managed to swipe one extra thing from the office – Frank's digital organiser. I didn't know people even had these anymore. Surely most people just used their phone. Maybe it was a rich-person thing. Or an old-person thing. From the details in the file, it looked like the police had not, as yet, been able to open it due to the password protection.

I typed in a few random words. I tried _James, Francis, Frank, McKenzie, money, billionaire, hill_ and, just for good measure, _duck._ Yeah, it was a long stretch, but you never know. I went back to the file and found a sheet listing properties, houses and hotels Frank had owned. I went through trying all of them but had no luck. I sighed and dialled James's number.

On the second ring, Karen answered. "Hello, McKenzie residence. Karen speaking."

"Hi Karen, it's Officer Higgins here," I said in a nasal voice. "I was just wondering if I'd be able to ask James a few questions."

There was a pause and I guessed she'd been covering the mouthpiece to ask James if he wanted to talk. "He's just coming," she said. "He'll be right with you."

"Hello?"

"Hi James. It's Charlie. Don't say my name. The only reason she let me speak to you was because she didn't recognise my voice. Now, I know this is kind of abrupt, but what was the password to your uncle's organiser?"

He didn't answer.

"Hello? Are you still there?" I asked.

"My uncle's organiser is in police possession."

"Of course it is. Just answer my question."

He hung up.

The bastard hung up __ on me! OK, so I should have realised a cop wouldn't like me stealing from the station, but really, we were talking about his uncle's death here.

I picked up the phone and hit redial. Damned if I was gonna let McKenzie hang up on me.

"Hello? James speaking."

"Why the hell did you hang up on me?"

"Because if I didn't I would have started yelling at you for stealing police evidence. What were you thinking?"

I rolled my eyes. "Just tell me the password."

"I don't know. Figure it out yourself. I can't believe you stole –"

"Shut up," I said, and hung up on him. There. A much better ending to the phone call. Now we were even.

As soon as I hung up, the telephone rang again.

"Hello?"

"It's Adam. Are you going to be driving past the office any time today?"

He really didn't waste time on small talk.

"Uh –" I thought. "I was thinking of going to the gym tonight if that works."

"What time?"

"Eight?"

"There'll be a lot of security officers working out at that time."

"So?"

He paused for a moment. "Never mind. I have your work mobile here to give you. It's a secure phone in case you need to talk to other people from B-Co about cases or anything confidential. See you at eight."

I couldn't wait. A trip to the gym and a meeting with Adam. So many things to look forward to.

We sorted through the police information all afternoon but we didn't find out anything exceptionally useful. Or even moderately useful. Slightly useful. We found nothing. And I couldn't figure out McKenzie's password.

At half past seven, I was dressed in shorts and a baggy T-shirt that came down past my (five cracks out of five) bum. I drove to the office and parked in my spot. When I got to the gym, it was packed. Weirdos. Didn't they have anything better to do on a Saturday night? Like, you know, stay at home drinking tea and reading a good book?

I hopped on an exercise bike and pedalled until I was dripping sweat and my legs had liquefied. I stepped off, fell over and was given a hand up by someone I didn't recognise.

"Wow. Is there any possibility you're allergic to exercise? You're looking a bit worse for wear." The man spoke with an Irish accent. His hair was red, his eyes were blue and he was only a little bit taller than me. "Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. M'name's Jason, but you can call me Pat."

I raised my eyebrows. "Right, the standard shortening of Jason."

He snorted. "It's got something to do with St. Patrick, I think. I didn't come up with it."

"Well, I'm Charlie and yes, I'm definitely allergic to exercise. I was born that way. I'm also coordination deficient."

That got a laugh out of him. "Then I guess you aren't security. There's no way you'd pass the fitness test."

"No, I'm the..." I was stumped. What I did didn't really have a title. "Um... I'm the secretary-receptionist-administrator-researcher-clerk-fill-in-helper person. Kind of."

He raised his eyebrows. "Right. One of those."

"Charlie," said a voice behind me.

I turned around to face Adam. "Hi." He handed me the phone and walked off. I shook my head as I watched him leave. "His social skills never cease to amaze me."

Apparently, I was the most unfit person the night crowd had ever seen at this gym. Several people told me as much. Pat offered to train me to wrestle and because I no longer have any pride, I accepted. That was when everyone began to crowd around and make bets. Not on who would win, of course – there was no competition. They were betting on how long before I'd pass out. I must have looked pretty bad.

And I'd thought that I was just going to have a quiet night at the gym. Ah, so naive. You'd think that after nineteen years of being me I would know better.

Ha.

Later that night as I pulled out of the Baxter & Co. garage, a car that had been parked on the street started up behind me. I didn't think it was too strange until I looked in my mirror and saw what kind of vehicle it was.

A green van.

Not black. Not silver. Not Baxter & Co.

There weren't many other reasons to be on this road at night time. This wasn't a residential area and Baxter & Co. was the only place with lights on. So why was this van here? OK, maybe someone had driven the family car rather than their work vehicle here tonight and parked on the street for convenience. That was plausible, right? No need to overthink it.

But when the van stayed behind me as I drove, I began to grow nervous. As I turned off down a narrow street, I swallowed. The van was following me. I turned again, heart beating fast, hoping I was imagining things. I had to be, right? Why would anyone –

The van turned in the same direction.

Shit. Someone was chasing me. But why? I couldn't think of any reason other than...

Oh no. It had to be The Rodent. Who else could it be?

I started to panic. Where was I going to go? I couldn't lead an assassin to my house! Where else? I could drive back to Baxter & Co... No. I wanted this guy caught and if I went back it would be too obvious that I'd spotted him. He'd split. I started jiggling my leg nervously and felt something heavy in my pocket. Of course!

I pulled out my mobile and scrolled through the numbers. Ordinarily I would not tempt Death like this, but since I figured the choice was between 'definitely get killed by a crazed assassin' or 'maybe have a car accident', just this once I bent the road rules. Oh, thank god – Tim was pre-programmed in! Aphrodite had my back tonight. I pressed 'call' and the car's blue tooth kicked in. I loved this Mustang. I dropped the phone back into my pocket.

"Hello? Carter speaking."

"Tim it's Charlie I'm being followed by The Rodent he's in a green van save me!"

There was a pause. "Sorry?"

I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. "It's Charlie. Someone in a green van is following me and I think it's The Rodent. What do I do?" It came out much better the second time.

"I'm at McKenzie's house. Do you know how to get here from where you are?" His voice was very steady. He was probably trained to stay calm in these kinds of situations. I, however, was not trained for this and my voice had risen about an octave.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Are you sure I'll be safe there? This is really scary."

"I'm sure you'll be safe. Don't hang up. Keep talking to me."

We chatted about nothing in particular until, after what seemed like an age, I reached McKenzie's. Tim and James were waiting outside for me. I locked my doors when I left the car and was escorted inside.

"Did you get a look at his face?" Tim asked.

"Or the number plate?" James added.

I shook my head. "No."

"Where did you first notice you were being followed?"

"Just as I was leaving the Baxter & Co. car park."

Tim frowned. "What were you doing there at this time on a Saturday? Don't you have a life?"

James and I answered in unison. "No."

I continued. "I was playing Gladiators with Pat."

"What?" James raised an eyebrow. "Was that in code?"

"No," I answered. "I was playing Gladiators with Pat because I need the exercise and as I was leaving the car park The Rodent followed me in a green van."

"I didn't see a green van when you pulled up," James said. "And who the hell's The Rodent?"

"I didn't see the van either," said Tim, and then explained who The Rodent was.

"A little while after I called you he got off my bumper and disappeared," I explained.

James looked unimpressed. "Not to discredit your story, Charlie, but it could have been someone driving home. I know it seems scary but there may not have been anyone following you. Maybe you're just being paranoid, and it was some random person –"

"No," I cut in. "It wasn't just some random. It was a green van parked outside Baxter & Co., not a black or silver car. They probably followed me there earlier and I just didn't notice. I went around in circles to see if they would keep tailing me and they did."

James frowned. "Why did they stop following you? If they went to all the trouble you say they did then it doesn't make sense."

"I don't know," I lied. But part of me, a part I didn't want to listen to, thought that maybe I did know.

The car had disappeared just after I called Tim. Tim, who was here talking to James – who was, despite all our efforts to clear his name, still one of the main suspects in our murder inquiry. James, who was trying to convince me I hadn't been followed. He could quite easily have sent a text to call off the person who was tailing me without Tim noticing. That would mean that the person who had been tailing me was The Rodent's female offsider...

And James was The Rodent.

Which meant that even if I did solve the case, I wouldn't be getting a reward.

What if the police were right? What if this guy had everyone – including me – fooled? What if my brother had found out about this five years ago and that was why he'd run away? Oh god. What if he hadn't run away? What if James had...

It was then that Karen entered the room. She scowled at me and spat, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Was Karen his female helper? At least that would mean that the two people in the world that I disliked the most were going to go to prison.

It was a perfect answer to the question of who was the killer. Case solved. And for roughly two seconds, I actually allowed myself to pretend I believed that.

Then I reeled it in.

No. I couldn't think that. James would never hurt his uncle. He would never hurt my brother. And he didn't look at all like a rodent. So, back to square one.

Again.

But I had a more pressing problem. Namely, Karen.

"Running away from a crazed murderer," I told Karen. "Just like I have to do every time you're around."

James caught her before her body made contact with mine in what must have been her attempt at a tackle. Obviously she didn't play much football with her brother while she was growing up, because it was the most pathetic effort at a body slam I'd ever seen.

When she'd regained her composure (ish), we continued our conversation.

"We don't usually allow trash in the living room," said Karen.

"They obviously made an exception for you."

And after again going through the body-slam routine, James decided that it was late and Karen really should have been at home by then.

"I thought you'd left already," he said.

Further evidence that she was a psycho – hanging around her place of work late on a Saturday night. (Shh, I'd been going to the gym. It didn't count.) After she'd gone, James led Tim and I into the kitchen to talk through the case. (Again.) And see if we could come up with anything new. (Again.) And maybe spend some time teasing me about my exercise clothes. (Never again.)

When I got home, I had a shower and went to bed. Despite being worn out from all my exercise, I found it hard to drift off. Thoughts of James and the killer swirled around in my head, keeping me awake well into the morning.

James couldn't have done it. I knew him better than that.

Didn't I?

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

I think it must have been because of my late night and hard work yesterday that I didn't wake up until eight that Sunday morning. I know, massive sleep in.

I felt awful as I descended the stairs, dressed in my usual uniform of Clothes That Make People Look Twice But Not In A Good Way, today taking the form of a flannelette checked shirt, my Seen Better Days tracksuit pants and Ugg(ly) boots (oh yes, I went there). If nothing else, I was comfortable.

I was at the dining table drinking green tea and staring at all the sheets of paper relating to the case when it occurred to me that in all my attempts to open Frank's organiser, I hadn't tried the most obvious password known to man. The most common password in the world. The one everyone was guilty of using at one time or another, despite constant warnings that if you do THE INTERNET WILL EXPLODE.

_Password._

It unlocked immediately. As I was not living in the early noughties, I wasn't entirely sure how to work it at first, but finally I managed to make my way to the calendar. I flicked through, looking for anything unusual. When I got to the day he died, I stopped and stared at the screen. I don't know how long I sat there, just staring.

_Monday evening – dinner with James._

The police reports didn't have a great timeline for McKenzie's death. As far as the police knew – and as far as I'd known up until a few moments earlier – no one had seen Frank McKenzie after he'd left his office at 7 p.m. James hadn't mentioned a dinner date.

This didn't look good. He'd claimed he hadn't even been at home that night – he said he'd been at Sarah's. But Sarah wasn't around to confirm that. She was due back some time today, but I hadn't heard anything from Tim so I was guessing no one had tracked her down yet. When we found her she'd be able to tell us what happened.

If The Rodent, whoever he was, didn't get to her first.

Lea walked into the kitchen at around nine. My irritation at not having solved the case must have been showing on my face because the second she saw me she screamed. Or I suppose it could have been my outfit.

"Oh, sorry," she said, realising it was me. "Um, would you like me to pick out something for you to wear today?"

Yep. She'd been screaming at the outfit. Or maybe it was the hair. I hadn't bothered to brush it this morning.

"They're my thinking clothes."

My mother entered at this point. She took one look at me and shook her head. "When are you going to learn to dress yourself properly? You think guys find this kind of clothing attractive?"

Right, Mum, because obviously that's all that matters in life.

"Well, everyone comments on how I look."

Mum shook her head and walked out, mumbling and looking pained.

"So," Lea said. "What is the plan for this morning?"

I knew I should tell her about the organiser. About all the not so subtle hints I was getting that maybe James was __ guilty. The thing was, if she knew that she'd know that maybe we wouldn't get paid. And then she might not help me.

You see, I wasn't convinced it was James. But even he had done it and I wasn't going to get anything for solving the case, I still wanted to catch him. Before he did something to Sarah.

And to find out what happened to my brother.

"That's the million dollar question," I said.

Lea and I sat in the kitchen and contemplated what to do next. Currently, we had no suspects (apart from James), no leads (apart from James) and, generally speaking, no idea. (Apart from James.) We had to be missing something.

I started sorting through the information yet again. The list of names I'd collected from newspaper articles was sitting on top of a pile of loose sheets. Sarah Hollis would be the best person to speak to, but I didn't have a clue how to contact her. There were also the two kids who had found the body, but yet again, I had no way of...

Yes I did!

"Come on!" I grabbed Lea's hand and ran back upstairs to retrieve my handbag while she struggled to keep up. (Finally, someone who couldn't keep up with _me_!)

We jumped into the Mustang and sat five Ks over the speed limit even as I pulled into the Baxter & Co. car park. I rushed inside, booted up my computer and after what seemed like an age I was able to begin my search.

Due to a lack of inspiration, I had decided to interview the kids who had found the body. I knew they probably weren't going to be able to tell me more than the forensics report, but it was all I could think of. Maybe there was something they hadn't told the police. Maybe they would give us the missing clue. I found Sarah Hollis's address and phone number as well, just for good measure – you know, in case Tim decided not to call me when he'd tracked her down.

I didn't take any notice of the kids' addresses as I was printing them off the Baxter & Co. computer, but as I was pulling out of the car park I glanced at the sheets and did a double-take. And nearly clipped a rather expensive-looking car of the BMW variety.

The kids lived next door to each other on Slade Street. I seem to remember mentioning that Baxter & Co. was situated in a bad part of town. It was on the outskirts of the ring of crime and evil that radiated out from Slade. And this was going to be the second time I was visiting the place in a week – first to see The Prince and now this.

I had a moment of hesitation, wondering if I should ask Tim to come along. He'd scare away anyone who considered attacking us. And my car wouldn't get stolen.

But I didn't stop. If I was going to visit this place in future, I wanted to be confident going there by myself. I needed to earn their respect on my own.

At least, that is the excuse I use for the stupidity of my actions.

I drove the few blocks to the boys' houses and stepped out of the car.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lea hissed at me. "You can't go out there!"

"Well, I have to if I want to talk to the kids."

She sighed and got out as well. "Do you think I should leave a note in the car in case I don't live through this?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "Don't be ridiculous. If we don't live through this, you don't think the car will still be here when people come looking for us, do you?"

"Thanks, Charlie. That's extremely comforting."

"Oh, come on. We caused a mass evacuation of an office building the other day and then stole a police file. We can handle spending ten minutes in Slade Street."

"Well, technically, you caused the evacuation by yourself – it had nothing to do with me."

"You see? If one of us can do that alone, together we won't have any trouble with this."

She was about to protest but I ignored her and walked over to the Patels' front door. Knock knock _._ I waited a moment but I couldn't hear footsteps so I tried again, louder this time.

The door was ripped open by a rather thin woman in a dressing gown and hair rollers, cigarette in one hand, cricket bat in the other. Obviously she was taking the necessary precautions for opening your front door in this neighbourhood.

"I heard you knock the first time, Bush Pig, now wadda ya want?"

"Derek in?" I asked casually, as though Bush Pig was my name. There were worse insults. I mean, pigs were pretty cute if you asked me.

"What's it to you?"

I was tempted to say we were from Family and Community Services just for the lols, but I suspected she was the kind of mother who would willingly hand over her son.

"I'm Chief Inspector Peters and this is Sergeant – uh – Puppy." Wow. Nailed it. "We want to question your son about the body he found."

"Where's ya badges?"

Time to think quick. "In Australia we don't have badges. That's something that only happens on American TV."

"I knew that," she said, making it very clear that she didn't, which was doubly confusing since I'd been lying in the first place. "But he ain't here. Ain't next door with Peter, neither. They're probably down egging the butcher's or smoking pot or someink."

"They're, what, six years old? And smoking pot?" Lea asked, dumbfounded. I was speechless.

"They're twelve, I think." _I think._ "Besides, I don't let him do meth or nuffink."

Comforting.

Lea and I left for the butcher's down the road. It was only six doors down but we took the car to minimise the chance of it being stolen. Despite it being a B-Co car, I was amazed that it was still there. Maybe the thieves took Sundays off.

There was a group of seven people egging the butcher's when we pulled up. If I had seen them half an hour ago, I would have thought that The Prince had taken his buddies for a day out. Now I knew it was a group of children aged somewhere between six and twelve, smoking pot and vandalising local businesses.

"Kids these days," said Lea. Personally I suspected it had more to do with the parents, but hey, what did I know?

We got out of the car and started towards the kids. I tripped over a signpost that had been pulled down. There was something that looked suspiciously like a bullet hole just in front of the 'I' so that it now read 'GoIVE WAY', like someone was saying it in a super bogan accent.

"Oi, Derek! Peter!" I called out. The kids all stopped what they were doing.

"What?" asked one.

"You talkin' to us?" asked the other.

"Yeah," Lea answered. "We want to speak to you."

One stuck his finger up at us. "Speak to this!" Then he high-fived his mate as though it was a good call. Sure, mate. Comedy gold.

"We'd like to know about the body you found," I said. Maybe they'd want to talk about that. If they smoked pot at age six (or twelve, whatever they were) they probably weren't all that traumatised by corpses. Maybe they'd think it was cool.

That got them listening. They walked towards us while the kids in the background resumed egg throwing. Either Derek or Peter (I didn't know which was which) looked us up and down and licked his lips. Urgh.

"Well, babe," he said to me. "Wadda ya wanna know?"

"What did you do when you found the body?"

"Looked at it for a while. Got bored."

"Then we called some lady over and she got real creeped out and made us stay until the police arrived."

"See any cars around?" It was a long shot, sure. But maybe...

"Nah," said one.

"Yeah, there was," said the other. "Don't know what kind it was. Old."

"Like old-fashioned?"

"Nah, like rusted. Dents, you know. Old."

Fuck. That vague description could fit Karen's car. Things were looking worse for James.

"Anythink else ya wanna know?"

"Nope."

Behind him the kids had run out of eggs.

"Gotta go, babe," one of the kids told me. "But maybe we should go out for a drink sometime."

I grimaced. "I don't think you're the right age for that."

"I'm thirty-four."

"See? Far too old for me."

The kids left. I turned to Lea. "What now?"

Her eyes were wide. "Now we get in the car and drive as fast and as far away from here as possible."

"What? Why?"

"Don't look, but there's a gang of guys behind you and they're heading our way. We should get out of here before they –"

"Whatchoo two babes doing out here by yourselves? Danny don't recognise you. You new? Who you work for?"

Another dude calling me babe? Did he not see what I was wearing? This was not a babe outfit. This outfit was, if anything, a contraceptive.

I turned around to face the group and was nearly blinded by all the light reflecting off the gold chains and lily-white skin. Danny, the guy who had spoken, apparently did not only speak about himself in third person but also felt the need to announce his name across the front of his shirt.

"I don't work for anyone," I answered. Not the way he meant, at least. Really? He thought I'd pick up johns in this outfit? I mean, I might have been flattered if it came from someone other than a strange man on the street shouting at me.

"Ooh, you got attitude. I like that."

"You're despicable," I said, channelling Grandma. In times of adversity, that's what I do.

"Mmm. Big words for a little girl. Maybe you could use that mouth to –"

"I don't want to hear the rest of that sentence," I snapped. "I don't want to do anything with you. Leave me alone or suffer the consequences."

He looked at me. I could tell he was about to say something else, but he lost interest when he noticed the Mustang.

"Damn," he said. "A car like that has got to be worth a lot of money." He looked at me. "Whose is it?

"Mine," I said. "It's a Baxter & Co. company car. And if you so much as think –"

"You're full of shit, girl. Baxter only employs men. The kind that have earned our respect."

"They've earned your respect? You mean they've beaten you up?"

That was when he pulled out his knife. "Shut your face, bitch, or I'll cut you up and sell your pieces."

Well, that escalated quickly.

I frowned at him. "Much of a market for that?" Oh yes, I actually said that. He had a knife pulled on me and I was picking holes in his threats. Although now that I thought about it, The Prince had mentioned something similar last time I was here.

He pushed me backwards into Lea and we both fell to the ground. "Get the car," Danny told his minions. "You're lucky, bitch. Real lucky." And he kicked me in the ribs. Ouch.

That was about when my many years of anger management counselling flew out the window.

I grabbed his ankle as he tried to walk away and jerked my arm back. He landed with a satisfying thud. I stood and laid the boot into him a few times as payback. I kicked his knife away to be doubly careful and turned just in time to land a punch in the face of another guy who had been trying to sneak up on me. I packed a fair bit of anger into that punch, and possibly broke his nose. Not that I could ask him – he was unconscious.

I helped Lea up off the ground and a few more guys came at me. There were too many. I could never fend them off with my bare hands. So I picked up the sign that had _goiven way_ and swung it at them like some sort of modern-day urban jouster. Of the four I hit, none were left standing.

I walked over to the car, still holding the sign. There were a few guys there with their knives out.

"Come any closer and I'll kill you," said one.

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't be so pathetic."

He came at me and I took his feet out with the sign.

The few remaining guys standing at the car looked at the dude I'd just knocked over. I checked behind me and saw a couple of guys I'd already hit coming at me.

"What? Do you want me to bash you again?" No one replied. "Get your greasy hands off my car," I hissed at the guys near the Mustang. They did. They walked around (a little too quickly to completely hide their fear) to join Danny and the others, of whom all but two had now recovered.

I casually pulled the keys out of my pocket, beeped the car unlocked and waited until Lea was inside and buckled up before I opened my door. I still had the post in one hand and fury in my heart. I looked at the post, looked at the gang, sat my keys on the car seat, took the post in both hands and hurled it at the men.

Then I stepped into the car and drove off very calmly, never looking back.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

We were silent for a while as we drove.

"I think I've calmed down now." No answer. "Lea?"

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fight."

"Um... I've been doing a bit at Baxter & Co. Mainly I just do whatever I think of in the spur of the moment. I just, you know, get a bit angry sometimes."

"I bet those guys are pissed that they got bashed up by a woman."

"It was their own fault. They should know not to touch a girl's car."

My mobile started to ring and the car picked it up.

"Charlie, it's Tim."

"Oh, hi. How are you?"

"Actually, not so good. I just got a phone call from The Prince." There was very thinly veiled anger in his voice.

"Oh, really? How was he?" I asked flippantly.

"He said that he thought he saw you a couple minutes ago on Slade Street but I told him you wouldn't be stupid enough to go there by yourself."

Eek.

"By myself? No siree. That would have been silly."

"What the hell were you thinking? You could have ended up dead!"

"Well, it's going to happen someday. You may as well live in the moment." I paused. "Anyway, I wasn't by myself."

"Yeah, he said you were with some chick with big tits. I'm assuming that would be Lea."

Lea made a disgusted sound. "Why do people go on about my tits? They're perfectly natural!"

Both Tim and I said nothing, but I knew that we were both thinking that they didn't look perfectly natural.

"You have beautiful tits," I said to Lea, and we had a little giggle.

"You think this is funny?" Tim said so loudly it could have been a yell. My laughter died in my throat. "You are lucky you didn't get killed. I should report you for this."

"To the police?"

"No, to Adam."

Somehow that was more terrifying.

"This had nothing to do with work! It had to do with McKenzie. I was talking to the kids who found the body."

"Find out anything?"

"No." OK, so I was lying. Yes, I was holding out on the two people who were helping me. Yes, I was a terrible person. I just didn't want to cause unnecessary panic until I'd explored all avenues. "Not unless you count finding out that there are six year olds smoking marijuana as a discovery."

"Six year olds!" That wasn't Tim's voice. Someone else was in on the conversation.

"They're six and all they're doing is pot? That's not bad for Slade Street. Normally they're on meth by then."

"How do they get the money?" Now I knew the voice. It was James McKenzie.

"Stealing. Duh," Tim answered. "Getting back to the matter at hand, you learned nothing, and so were nearly killed for absolutely no point whatsoever. What the hell were you thinking?" he asked again.

"It wasn't pointless. At least now Danny won't try to mess with me. Or my car."

He sighed. "Why didn't you call me to come with you? It would have been a lot safer."

"Look, I did fine by myself. I don't need you to look after me. I can handle it. I'm not some helpless little damsel-in-distress waiting for you to come save me, all right? I'm stronger than I look."

"She hates men," I heard James tell Tim. "Don't try."

"I don't hate men, James, I just hate you." I paused. "And most other men."

"Honey, I've seen you try to do a push up and I know that you have no muscle, so quit lying, OK? You put yourself in a lot of danger and I want to cut a deal with you."

I thought for a moment. "What kind of deal?"

"If you go anywhere dangerous, take someone from Baxter & Co. with you, or –"

"Like Jenny? Or Lilly?"

"Stop being difficult."

"She can't. It doesn't happen. It's like a disease." Ten guesses who said that.

"I am not being difficult." No one responded. I sighed. "So what you're basically asking me to do, Tim, is take a man with me."

"No, I'm asking you to take some muscle."

"That is –"

"I know, I know. It's just that people would be much less likely to attack you if you took Panther with you."

I huffed. "What do I get as part of this deal?"

"Apart from not dying? I won't host a movie night with you as the main star."

" _What_?"

"Kidding, honey. Kidding."

I thought for a moment. If The Prince had been watching me, did that mean... "Did The Prince get a video of the incident?"

"Yeah. He filmed it on his phone in case we needed evidence to convict them for killing you or stealing your car."

I paused for a beat. "You've watched it, haven't you?"

"Yep," Tim and James answered in unison.

"He sent it to my phone after he called," said Tim. "Want a copy?"

"Does James have one?"

"Yes," James answered.

"How does it compare to the video of me smashing your car?"

"Well," he answered, "in terms of cinematography, not great, but the actress playing the lead role is just as good."

I took a few deep breaths. "Yes," I decided, "I want a copy." A few seconds later my phone buzzed.

"Meet me at my office," said Tim. He hung up.

I walked into Tim's office fifteen minutes later after dropping Lea at home. She'd had enough excitement for one day. James was sitting on a chair next to a pile of folders that had obviously been moved onto the floor to make room for him. Tim sat behind his desk, feet up. They both had their mobiles in hand, watching.

"Don't you even have the decency to stop watching when I come in?" I asked. "That's pathetic."

"Shh," said James. "It's nearly up to the best part."

I didn't know what the best part was, so I went to look over his shoulder. I watched myself hurl the post at the group and get in the car. I hadn't seen the result while I was there but I now understood why this was the highlight. It was like ten pin bowling and I'd gotten a strike.

"Nice shot," said James as we watched the gang fall down like toy soldiers. When it finished, James turned to me. "That doesn't mean I approve or think it was a smart move, though. You could be dead right now." He looked genuinely concerned. He probably was – he was that kind of person. You know, a nice guy. Not like _nice_ _guy_ as in 'I'm a nice guy' Nice Guys who follow you around at bars wearing fedoras and screaming about the friend zone. He just, you know, cared about people.

Oh, shit. It did sound like I'd gone sweet on him.

"I can look after myself," I said.

"No you can't," James responded.

Screw being sweet on him.

"Don't act like you never make mistakes. Besides, the only reason I was there is because of you. If you hadn't –"

"I know," he said, cutting me off. "That's why I'm telling you to be careful. If anything happened to you I'd feel responsible."

That threw me. "Oh."

"Also, that outfit is next level." I looked down at my Ugg/tracksuit/flanno combination. I would have said something snide back, but he cut me off. "I have to go. Let me know if you track her down, Tim."

James left and my eyes widened as what he'd said clicked.

"Sarah's missing?" I guessed. Tim just nodded. "Tim?"

"Yeah?"

I geared myself up. "I've found out some stuff, and it's probably nothing, but –"

"Tell me."

I did. I told him about the meeting in the organiser and the car that the kids had seen near the body and how my brother went missing and Will had overdosed and how none of that made any sense, except if James...

"Shit," said Tim. His computer pinged as an email came in. His face fell as he read it. "Shiiiitttt..."

"What is it?" I asked. He was staring at his screen in disbelief, much the same as I'd done earlier when staring at the organiser.

"Honey..." My stomach sank. This wasn't good. "The results on those emails are back. You know how we were trying to figure out where they were sent from?"

"Yes?" Oh no. Please, no.

"A lot of them – going back a few years – appear to have been sent from Frank McKenzie's house."

Shit.

"That could just be coincidence though, right? Like maybe Larry, you know, sorted it out or something."

"Charlie..."

He didn't need to say it. I knew. This wasn't coincidence. This wasn't a set-up.

"Why would he hire us if he did it? Why does Larry hate him so much if they're working together? It doesn't –"

"It's a cover, honey. Maybe he wasn't expecting us to be so thorough. Larry must be in on it too. They're covering their tracks. And Karen's exactly the kind of woman you'd expect to help out a serial killer."

At least that last part was accurate.

"But –"

Tim's phone rang, cutting me off. He grew even more concerned listening to whoever was on the other end. "Be right there," he said, hanging up. "Sarah's been found."

"Is she –"

"She's still alive. I guess James is panicked because he botched it. The bullet hit her shoulder – she must have moved as he was firing. She managed to get under cover but she passed out and it was a while before someone found her. She's lost a lot of blood. Apparently she's in a coma. I'm going to head down to the hospital now. Do you want to ride along?"

"No thanks," I said. If she was in a coma, she was no good to me. I had a better idea.

"Charlie," said Tim. "You need to stay away from James."

"Sure," I said.

"Promise me you're not just going to leave here and go after him. If he realises –"

"I promise."

We both left in separate cars. Keeping my promise to Tim, I wasn't going to go chasing James. Of course, I hadn't promised that I'd stop working on the case.

Finally, I'd had an actually good idea.

I went straight to the garage when I got home, rifling through box after box of weird shit my parents had kept over the years. After what felt like hours, I struck gold. Old school magazines.

Now, I know what you're thinking. 'That doesn't sound like gold. That sounds like hoarding. Throw them away immediately before you can no longer fit in your house and you have to get a therapist in to help you.' And I'm not disagreeing. In this case, though, they were exactly what I needed. I didn't bother dragging the boxes back inside. I sat there on the dusty, sumpy floor rifling through old magazines, looking for pictures.

Pictures of James.

And here they were.

That game his football team had won in Sydney when he was in Year 11. There he was, smiling at the camera, standing next to Joe Winton and a bunch of other guys I didn't remember. There was Lea, too, cheering the team on. (Our school had been one of the few schools in the country with a cheer squad. They were terrible at it, but very enthusiastic. Lea's trademark style.) I checked the date against the list of dates the dead bodies had been found. It matched.

I checked a Brisbane game. Match. Another Sydney game. Another match.

I was sick to my stomach.

Was that what had happened to my brother?

# Chapter Thirty

There was no answer at Will McKenzie's apartment so I drove down to the clinic where he worked. I needed answers and I wasn't going to stop until I got them. He kept weird hours and was often on call, so I'd never bothered trying to keep track of his roster. After parking in an area that wasn't really a parking spot (it was more of a lawn), I stormed into the building.

I spotted Will from a distance, talking to a middle-aged couple. He was probably telling them about the progress their beloved child was making. Normally I wouldn't have behaved like a total bitch, but this was an emergency.

"Is your brother the killer? Is that what happened?" I demanded.

Will looked at me. "Pardon?"

"Did you try to kill yourself? Is that why you overdosed?"

Will just kept looking at me. Finally, he spoke. "Charlie, meet Mr and Mrs Allen. Charlie is another patient of mine," he lied. They smiled and nodded understandingly. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" He took me by the arm and dragged me into a small counselling room nearby. "Charlie, what the fuck?"

"You tried to kill yourself. I get it. Please just tell me because I'm actually really frigging scared and I want to know what's going on."

"This really isn't the time for –"

"Like fuck it's not! Sarah Hollis is in a coma, I'm being followed by some creep in a van and every scrap of evidence we have points to your brother! Tell me the truth."

"Charlie, you know you're my best friend in the universe, but right now you sound really fucking crazy."

"You overdosed on purpose, didn't you?"

He looked like a deer in the headlights. "Charlie, I –"

"Don't you dare lie to me, William McKenzie."

He sighed and began, seeming kind of unsure of what words to use. "Charlie, I – I'm gay." Frankly, I was unsurprised, but it seemed like an odd time to come out.

"So?" I said. "What does that matter? I'm not trying to crack onto you! What do you think this is?"

"Oh my god, Charlie, grow up. This isn't about you. I kind of... I mean, I knew for a long time, but I only admitted it to myself about five years ago and I wasn't coping." He sighed. "I started taking drugs. Just weed really. Nothing heavy. I got a little paranoid and hid it in my brother's room. My parents found it, he said it wasn't his, they kicked him out – not really for having the weed so much but for lying about it."

"Joke's on them."

"I tried to tell them but they thought I was just trying to get him out of trouble. James wouldn't talk to me after that, and even though I know it was about the drugs, at the time I thought it was... Well, he was the only person I'd told, then he kind of disowned me. I told your brother, then he disappeared. I thought they were..."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You thought that all that shit happened because they found out that you're gay? Seriously?"

He smiled, but it was not a happy smile. "I know it's stupid. At the time, though, I was so sure. I was messed up, you know, high half the time, depressed the rest of it... I got my hands on some heavier shit and tried to kill myself. My parents didn't kick me out because they were scared that the next time I might actually manage it."

This was a lot more detail than I ever knew before.

"So none of this has anything to do with you maybe finding out that James was a hit man?"

He gave me exactly the kind of look you'd imagine someone would give you after you'd asked that question. "You thought I'd tried to kill myself because I found out that my sixteen year old brother was a _hit man_?"

Well, OK, now it maybe didn't seem so plausible. "But James has to be the killer! Nothing else makes sense. It was James and his housekeeper, and James has been killing people for Larry Jones for five years and that's why Topher ran away. All the school excursions line up! Karen was the one following me last night, which is why she turned up after I arrived. James must have called her to warn her she'd been spotted. That has to be what happened."

Will stared at me blankly for a moment and then shook his head in disbelief. "Charlie, that is completely mental. And yes, that is my professional opinion."

I sat down on the therapy couch and lay back, closing my eyes. "I know." If I stopped to think for a second, I knew it couldn't possibly be James. If nothing else, I knew he would never hurt my brother. He would never hurt his uncle. He hated Larry Jones. This was a set-up.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm kind of relieved to be honest. I think I was going a bit crazy thinking about..." Where my brother's body was. That's what I was thinking, but I couldn't say it without my voice cracking. Time to change the topic. "I guess it was wishful thinking that Karen was involved somehow. I hate her so much."

"Karen?"

"James's housekeeper. There was a car that vaguely matched a description of hers near the crime scene."

"How vaguely?"

"Old."

"Right. Not exactly incontrovertible evidence, then."

"Not exactly."

"What's she like?"

"Horrible. And she's got a massive crush on James."

He nodded slowly, as though he'd just figured something out. "So that's why you don't like her. Competition."

I rolled my eyes. "Shut up."

He smiled. "Nothing wrong with being in love, Charlie."

I ignored him, having just remembered something important. I sighed. Whether it was relief that James was innocent or disappointment that I'd been wrong, I don't know. "James doesn't look like a rat. He can't be the rodent I'm looking for."

To his credit, Will didn't look too confused at what I'd said. I guess he'd known me long enough that nothing I said could really faze him. "I don't even want to know what kind of weird fantasies go through your head."

"William, shut up."

"You are a strange and twisted woman, Charlie Davies. I don't know if I want you to become my sister in law."

I rolled my eyes. "I have to go. I have a murderer to catch." I stood and stormed to the door. Unfortunately, when I got there I couldn't get it open. Will let me out, not bothering to disguise his amusement.

"Later, Dangerous Davies."

Prick.

"By the way, if there's any chance of you running into my brother today, you might want to change out of your current outfit."

"That's a bit shallow of you, Will. Isn't it what's on the inside that counts?"

"Of course. It's just that if he sees you wearing that combination of clothing he might arrest you for cooking meth," he said. "Maybe you should go the whole way and black out a couple of your teeth."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't expect, nor want, your brother to fall for me. As you well know."

When he started to hum _Can't Fight The Moonlight_ , I slapped him across the face and left the clinic. Sitting in my car, I considered all the information I had about the case. As far as Will knew, James had nothing to do with killing anybody, and, on top of that, James didn't fit The Rodent's profile. So basically I had nothing. Back to square one. Again.

At this rate, I was going to lose the bet.

# Chapter Thirty-One

Back in the car, my phone began to ring. The Mustang answered for me. What a car.

"Honey?"

"Hey Tim, what's up? How's Sarah?"

"Still out of it," he said. "But I talked to the person who found her. Apparently they saw a green van in the area."

Oh god. Did that mean...

"Is there some sort of safe house I can go to?" Yeah, that sounded a little dramatic. But hey, this was a dramatic situation.

"We're tracking your car's GPS. Just make sure you keep an eye out and call it in if you spot the van."

"Who do I call?"

"Me. Please just don't do anything stupid."

"Sure," I said in what I doubted was a convincing tone.

"Please."

I was feeling much calmer after talking to Will. I mean sure, there was a very experienced assassin after me and I had no idea who they were and yeah, they could kill me at any time, but hey – I was still in with a chance of winning a house.

I cruised in silence for a while, not really driving anywhere in particular, when my phone rang again.

"Charlie? It's Jo."

"Hey, Jo." How did she get this number? I hadn't planned on telling her I had a mobile, um, ever.

"Were you ever planning on telling me you got a mobile?" Uh... "Not that it matters. Your mum gave me the number so now you can't avoid me." She cackled. "I can't believe you waited until your work gave you a mobile before owning one. Hello, twenty-first century. Actually, hello twentieth century. You are so behind the times."

OK, was there some way I could get my car's Bluetooth to block certain people's numbers? Because as much as I loved Jo, this was actually going to drive me crazy.

"I didn't realise people were so hot to talk to me," I said.

"Sure, whatever. I'm just ringing to remind you that my dinner party is tonight and you _promised_ , like one hundred percent promised, that you would be there. Here." Pretty sure that was a lie, but whatever. "Lea is already here – your mum dropped her off. They've both told me you're dressed like a country hobo, so go home and get changed. It starts in an hour but I don't mind if you turn up late looking hot because I have invited three potential suitors for you and you are going to love all three of them and you're not going to be able to choose and you're just going to have penis coming at you from all directions and you won't even know what to do with it."

I shuddered. "Jo, that is the single most disturbing image I have ever been exposed to and I just spent all weekend looking at autopsy photographs."

"Anyway, turning up fashionably late is OK so I don't even care that you've forgotten. Just make sure you get changed out of your Old McDonald clothes and into something that shows a bit of leg. A bit of _shaven_ leg," she said, and hung up.

I groaned and headed for home. I didn't think I could get out of this dinner party. Best to just submit. It was four o'clock when I got back and I hopped straight into the shower, trying to tame my crazy curls. Once I was washed and shaven (don't even go there, you pervert), I added some weird hair goo and let my mane dry curly. I opened my wardrobe and looked in. Hmm. I really did need to go shopping.

As you may have gathered by now, I was not usually one for fashion statements. Well, I guess I did make statements, but the things my clothes tended to say were along the lines of 'go away' and 'there's no such thing as the wrong size'. Trying to find something nice to wear was a challenge. Normally I wouldn't bother, but Jo had given me instructions and Jo could be downright terrifying when you defied her.

A dress, I decided. Not to impress the 'potential suitors'. (Oh lord, I didn't think I'd be able to even look at them after Jo's earlier comments. Thanks to those, my internal monologue was starting to sound like my Grandma voice.) I was only looking fancy for Jo.

I dug around in the back of my cupboard and found a pink dress. Yes, a _pink dress._ A gift, of course. I secretly loved it – it was an exact copy of my favourite pink polka-dot frock from when I was little. It had appeared, pristinely wrapped in baby-blue wrapping paper and white ribbon, on the dining table the morning of my last birthday. There was no 'from' on it. My parents denied all knowledge of it. They thought maybe it was from Vi. Vi suggested it was maybe from my friends. My friends suggested it was maybe from a secret admirer.

I was pretty sure I knew who it was from, which was why I'd never worn it.

Until tonight.

I was ready by five and headed out in my car to Jo's house. On the way, however, I got a little distracted thinking about the case. If the emails had been sent from Frank's house and James hadn't sent them, then who had? I wondered if Tim had updated him at all. Probably not. Tim didn't want James to find out how much we knew in case he was the killer and he got spooked. James probably didn't even know about Sarah.

Unless, you know, he shot her.

Next thing I knew, I was accidentally parked outside his house. Well, I was here now. Might as well duck in for a chat. He probably wasn't even a murderer.

He took a while to answer my knock. When the door finally opened he looked... well... not like the James McKenzie I knew. This reminded me of when we were little and I'd broken my arm for the first time – he'd thought I was dying and he spent three days in a deep depression, refusing to eat or sleep or leave the side of my bed. Except now he wasn't three and it wasn't heartbreaking in a cute way anymore. It was just heartbreaking.

"Oh my god James, you look like shit."

Not the most sensitive thing I'd ever said, I'll admit.

He gave me an unconvincing smile. "Come in."

He was wearing nothing but boxer shorts, which wasn't entirely unpleasant but was also just not like him. He was one of those rare individuals who walked around the house fully dressed. Something was really wrong.

There was an old-time jazzy mix playing somewhere in the background, and he had a glass of some sort of amber liquid in hand. It was all rather dramatic. I followed him into his kitchen at which point he stopped, turned and looked at me.

"I like your dress," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

"Birthday present," I said, as if he didn't know.

He smiled but again it didn't reach his eyes. "Tim called," he said. "He apologised, but said he can't get anywhere with the case so he's dropping it."

"He's lying," I said. "He got somewhere. It just wasn't where either of us wanted it to go." I watched James's face, but he clearly already knew.

"I'm expecting to be arrested any minute now."

"Well, you're dressed for it."

"Do you know what evidence they have against me?" he asked.

"I probably shouldn't tell you," I said.

"Why not? Do you think I'm guilty?"

He said it in a light-hearted way, but there was a flicker of something more serious in his eyes. Fear, sadness, you know – the kind of emotions you probably feel when people think you're a serial killer.

"Obviously, yes, I think you're a crazed killer. You've always displayed such psychotic tendencies. That's why I'm here. Because you're so terrifying."

He laughed quietly, but still didn't look much happier. "Is Sarah OK?"

"Last I heard, she's still in a coma."

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. " _What_?"

Ah, so Tim hadn't told him anything. I began explaining – about Sarah, about the same van that chased me being seen near where she was shot, about the car spotted at Frank's murder scene, about the emails sent from Frank's house, about the date in the organiser, about the pictures in the magazine.

"So Tim actually thinks..."

James leant back against the fridge, his knees giving way under him, and slid down, collapsing onto the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees and his head dropped forwards. I realised that his shoulders were shaking. Oh shit. This was worse than when I broke my arm. A lot worse.

I sat down beside him, putting my arm around his shoulder. He turned and hugged me and we sat there like that for a moment – him crying silently, me feeling awkward and wondering how to help. He regained his composure eventually and apologised.

"Sorry. I, um..." He cleared his throat. "You know."

"I'm really sorry your uncle's dead, James." It was one of those rare moments when I acted like a nice human with feelings.

"Thanks Charlie," he said. "We need to figure out who did it."

"I know." I swallowed. "OK, um. I have no idea what to do. All the evidence screams that you did it and had Karen help you."

"Except that I didn't."

"I know, Jamie." I froze. Jamie? That was what I'd called him when we were kids, back when we had affectionate nicknames for each other.

"Jamie? You haven't called me that since we were little."

"Yeah, well, it seemed a bit familiar after we broke off the engagement."

"Why did you break it off?"

I looked at him. His eyes were still red from crying. It was kind of endearing.

I shrugged. "You didn't want to hang out with a dorky kindergarten kid. I was just doing you a favour."

"Some favour. You broke my heart."

"You broke mine first."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"It's not a lie at all."

The jazz singer was warbling in the background. Everything felt a bit nostalgic. I didn't often drink, but this felt like a red wine moment. Or scotch on the rocks. Not that I'd ever had scotch.

"I hope they don't arrest you any time soon," I said. "I'm hungry."

"And you want me to cook you dinner?"

"Well, if you're offering."

Yes, I was ditching my friend's specially organised dinner party held in my honour to hang out with James McKenzie, who at any moment might be carted away for a string of violent murders. What a turn of events.

"Cupcakes OK with you?" he asked.

"Do you even have to ask?"

We mucked around baking mini mud cakes for – well, I don't know how long. He lent me an apron to protect my dress. (Yes, he owned an apron. I don't know, it must be an upper-class thing.) Neither of us could cook particularly well, but we were happy just eating the mixture from the bowl. Only about half ended up actually in the oven.

"Charlie?" said James, growing serious.

"Yes, Jamie?"

"Do you... do you still talk to Will?"

The question caught me off guard. "I saw him this morning."

"How was he?"

Oh right, so he refused to speak to his brother for five years but now he was asking me how he was doing? Boys.

I chose my words carefully. "He's... a lot better than when you last saw him."

James looked a little uncomfortable. "Did he, um, say anything?"

"He said a lot of things. That happens during conversations."

"Right, yeah." James was avoiding eye contact. "Of course, I just..."

"This whole fight thing you've got going on is a bit stupid. You still live in the same town. Just talk to him." _It's not like he's a missing person,_ I thought, but I kept that last bit to myself.

"It's no worse than the fight you and I have had going on for the last fourteen years."

I sighed. "I guess not. But your family misses you."

"Mum brought me a casserole the other day."

"Really." What a shock.

"It's probably time for me to grow up and stop whining about getting kicked out, isn't it?"

"Probably. It would be nice for all your nieces and nephews if you'd come to the family BBQs." Our families always had joined barbecues – one every few weeks. James never came, though. He'd only see his sisters and their kids when his parents and Will weren't around. "Plus I think Will could do with a friend."

"Will's friends with everyone."

I thought about telling him what Will had told me this morning, but I thought maybe it wasn't my place. All I said was, "He misses you."

The oven pinged at that time and the serious conversation was over. I burnt myself trying to get the trays out of the oven. As James was putting burn cream on my injury for me I could see he was trying not to laugh at my stupidity, so with my free hand I painted icing on his face.

That cosy little moment – James tending to my burn, me drawing a moustache on his face, both of us giggling like little children, jazz playing in the background – is when Karen Martin walked in.

Carrying a gun.

Fuck.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Karen Martin looked back and forth between me and James, from his hands on mine, to me painting his face, and then back to our hands again. She looked ready to murder, and not just because she had a gun in hand. Her eyes were crazy. Even crazier than before.

"What exactly is this?" she asked.

"Cupcakes," I said. "Want one? They're really nice. I think you'd –"

"Shut up!" she screamed.

I did.

"Karen," said James slowly, measuredly. "Why do you have a gun?"

She was fuming. "I saw her car parked outside so he lent me a gun just in case. She's been snooping around. She was getting too close to us. And too close to you, James. You're mine."

OK, psycho alert.

"Who lent you the gun, Karen?" asked James, slowly letting my hand go.

"Don't move!"

"Just putting my hands on the counter, Karen. I don't want to stand here holding Charlotte's hands, OK? I'll keep them where you can see them."

Karen took a deep breath, still looking suspicious, then finally nodded. We both put our hands down on the bench. I really hoped James had some sort of plan.

"Who lent you the gun, Karen?" he asked again.

"Who do you think?"

"The Rodent?" I guessed.

" _Don't call him that!_ "

"She didn't mean anything by it, Karen. She doesn't know his real name."

"Yes she does. She's just being rude!"

"No she doesn't, Karen. She doesn't know anything. She hasn't figured it out yet. I told you she wouldn't be able to, remember?" Oh, thanks James. Well, I got a lot closer than anyone else. I _totally_ pegged Karen for this shit. "What's wrong, Karen? What can I do?"

"Nothing," she hissed. "I thought you were a good person but you're not at all. I stuck up for you all this time. He said we should let you take the blame and I said we shouldn't and after all that, you get with this bitch."

"We're not together," I said.

"Shut up," said Karen and James together.

"We aren't together, Karen," said James. "We're not even friends. You know that."

"I've caught you in the middle of a date! She keeps coming over! He's been following her for days and you keep spending time together! I thought..." Her voice broke. "You've been laughing at me this whole time!"

"No, Karen," he said. "You've got me all wrong. You and I, we're friends, right?"

Bit odd, James claiming to be friends with a crazy homicidal woman in her mid-fifties (OK, maybe thirties), but whatever. I guess he knew what he was doing. Police training or something.

"I thought we were, but he said –"

"Karen, you know me. Better than anyone." Smooth talker. A second ago I'd thought maybe I fit that bill, but here we were. Crazy Karen was his new bestie. "If he's said that I've been misleading you, he's wrong."

"You've never even asked me out!" she cried. Oh, wow. Was this what my McKenzie-obsessed friends were going to be like in fifteen to thirty-five years? Yeesh. I should talk to Will about getting them some counselling.

"I didn't think – I didn't realise that's what you wanted," he said. "You never gave me any signs."

"You – you didn't know?"

Oh my god, was James actually going to be able to sweet talk this bitch out of killing us?

"I had no idea."

She looked like she was softening, but then she straightened back up. "Well what's she doing here, then?" She gestured at me.

He rolled his eyes. "She wouldn't leave. Look at how she's dressed – she came over here and tried to break in, demanding we go on a date. She's a bit weird in the head, Karen. Not reserved like you. She's not really my type."

And he had the gall to claim he was heartbroken over our cancelled wedding. I mean sure, I knew he was just trying to calm her down, but still. He knew I'd been on my way somewhere when I stopped in. As if I'd dressed like this for him.

It was working, though. Karen was lowering her gun.

That was, of course, until another figure stepped into the room.

"He's sweet-talking you, Karen. He doesn't love you. He loves her. We have to kill them both."

My jaw had dropped so far open I'm surprised it wasn't grazing the floor. There in the flesh was my worst enemy other than Karen, egging the deranged bitch on.

It was The Rodent.

The JM in the email.

A man who had access to McKenzie's house at any time thanks to his sister's cleaning contract, giving him somewhere safe to send his 'business' emails from.

Jeremy Martin.

Oh, god. How was I going to tell Lea about this?

Maybe I'd get lucky and die so I wouldn't have to.

Wait – Lea. She'd been at all those sporting events with James, cheering the teams on. And of course, her (weird, ten years her senior) boyfriend would have tagged along. And done some light murder on the side. A homicide-line, if you will. I knew now was not the time for puns. But if I was about to be shot, I was going to go out with a bang. OK, I'm done now. I promise.

"What the fuck," said James, echoing my thoughts exactly. Well, some of my thoughts. The other thoughts included: _Was the green van he'd been chasing me in the Gregory's delivery van? Did I spend five years working for a hit man? I should have been paid more for that. What now?_

"They're together, Karen," said Jeremy. "He loves her."

"He really doesn't," I said.

"Shut up," all three of them said at once.

In the distraction caused by Jeremy walking into the room, I'd managed to drop my hands off the bench and I was now subtly trying to go through my pockets.

Fuck.

Where the fuck was my mobile?

In the car, of course. James's phone was off in some other corner of the house hooked up to speakers and playing the jazz that was now to provide the ironic backing track to our deaths.

_At Last_ by Etta James came on.

Of course.

What a tune to die to.

"Jeremy, you don't have to do this," said James.

"I do, actually," he said. "I've already accepted a down payment."

I'd always wondered how he managed to drive such a nice car and own such a nice house running a dive like the grocery store. I'd assumed it was his disregard for workers' rights and use-by dates. Now it was all clear – it was hit money.

"Who's going to take the blame if I'm dead?" asked James.

"Well, you see, we've already planned for that." Oh goodie. "You're going to kill Charlie, and then filled with uncharacteristic remorse (and, can I just say, undeserved remorse – of everyone I've killed, Charlie, it's you I'll kill most gladly)... Anyway, filled with remorse at having bumped off your childhood sweetheart, James, you'll kill yourself. It's all very neat, really."

Incredibly neat. Everyone would believe it, I was sure. Even Tim.

Not Will, maybe. Or perhaps he would believe it. Oh my god, don't let Will think that this was his fault.

"How long have you been planning this?" I asked. I didn't really know what I was meant to do, but keeping Jeremy talking seemed like a good idea.

"Planning to stitch James up? Not very long. Not until I'd killed his uncle and all the pieces just seemed to fit so neatly together. So many happy coincidences. Larry will have to go to jail, of course. You'll be blamed for all the deaths, James. And I'll retire. So will Karen. And we'll live a good life."

"Why did you kill all those people?" James asked. I think he wanted to keep them talking, too. Buying ourselves time.

"Money, of course," said Jeremy. "Good money. Larry Jones was my best customer – bumping off people all over the place to fix up his dodgy deals. People started to get so scared of him that they'd just do what he asked – sell for next to nothing, pay him protection money, the lot. He paid me a good amount and I made him a lot more."

"But something went wrong."

Jeremy's jaw tensed. "Frank got wind of it. Started sniffing around, asking people questions. He was going to uncover Larry. He was going to uncover me. Larry paid me to whack him off and Karen came along to help."

"I didn't want to!" she said. "But James, Jeremy explained how much better your life would be without your uncle around. You'd have so much more money. I knew it would make you sad, but it worked out in everybody's best interests."

"Except Frank's," I said.

Jeremy glared at me. "Frank should have known better than to stick his nose into someone else's business."

"It was his business," I said. "Larry wanted to buy him out so that he could keep running it in the dodgiest way possible without anyone finding out."

"Well, basically, yes," said Jeremy. "We were going to try to help James – let his alibi live, you know – but then he started running around with you, Charlie. Breaking my sister's heart. After all these years he's been leading her on..."

"Bullshit," I said.

"Charlie," James said quietly, trying to warn me off.

"No, it's bullshit. He was going to kill James the whole time, Karen! He's making all this up. James and I aren't together. Jeremy has been planning this – he's always planned to set James up for it. Jeremy doesn't care about your feelings. He's just doing this for himself. For the money."

Karen started shaking her head at me, a bit too slowly to be convincing. "N–no," she said. "He wouldn't do that. He cares about me."

"Of course I do," said Jeremy, flashing me a smug look and trying to put his arm around Karen. Unfortunately for him, Karen caught the look and pulled away from him. "What –"

She raised the gun and pointed it at his head. "You've been lying to me?" she whispered.

"No, Karen," he said. "No!"

"But it can't all be coincidence... You've been trying to set him up. You knew that I loved him and you still set him up to take the rap for it!"

I looked at James. He glanced back at me. I knew we were both hoping for the same outcome from this little family feud. Never had I thought I'd be on Karen's side in an argument.

They were yelling back and forth, Karen getting more irate and flailing the gun around a little too much for comfort, Jeremy trying to back away from her while convincing her that he hadn't been planning to kill James the whole time.

I guess Karen's flails got a little too wild because that was when the gun went off and shot one of the cupcakes to my left. I screamed and James pulled me down behind the counter. (I landed relatively injury free, apart from a bleeding nose caused by hitting the edge of the counter. Luckily, most of it was going on the apron, though. Just a little splash on the dress.) Just before we'd ducked down I saw Jeremy run at Karen to try and wrestle the gun from her. Suddenly there were more bangs and lots of voices shouting. I was confused and terrified and had no idea what was going on. The room was swimming and my nose hurt and I wasn't getting enough air.

After a lot of deep breathing I could make out McKenzie's voice telling me that it was OK. Looking around, I realised that the house had been stormed. The room was flooded with cops. Jeremy and Karen were both, unfortunately, unharmed, but they were being taken away in cuffs, screaming at each other.

James led me outside for some fresh air. I wasn't good at coping with all this hit man shit. After a few deep breaths, I was feeling a little better. Or maybe that was because McKenzie was stroking my back to comfort me. I looked over and realised he was still wearing only his boxers.

"Shouldn't they give you a blanket or something?"

He smiled and pulled me in for a hug. I heard someone coming up behind me and turned around. Tim. He hugged me as well.

"Honey, you are so fucking dead," he said.

"I'm not even!" I said. "I'm alive!" I wasn't trying to be funny. I was just genuinely in awe of that fact.

He laughed. "Are you OK?"

"Yes!" I said, then thought for a moment. "Well, actually, I burnt my finger on the cupcakes. And hit my nose."

He just shook his head.

"How did you know to call the police in?" James asked Tim.

"Lea called the office when Charlie didn't show up to their weird 'find her a husband' party. Charlie wasn't answering her phone so Lea was worried that the guy in the van might have gotten her. When we checked her car's GPS, we found she was here. To be honest, we thought you might have done something to her, James." Tim looked embarrassed to say it.

"Seriously?" said James.

"Sorry, bud, but we did, so Panther and I rode over to check it out. We noticed that the green van was parked on the street so we ran the plates and found out it was Jeremy Martin's. From there we just sort of put the pieces together and I called Joe. He organised the cops. We were all waiting outside when we heard a shot and stormed the place." He turned to me. "What the hell were you thinking, coming here?"

"It's lucky I did," I said, "or James would probably be dead and no one would know it was Jeremy. Plus we wouldn't get paid."

"I guess," said Tim. "What were you even doing here?"

I looked at James. He looked back. What could I say? "Baking cupcakes?"

Tim stared at me for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm never going to understand you."

Tim left to go and call Adam and talk to some cops, so James and I were alone.

"Are we allowed to eat the cupcakes now?" I asked.

"I think they might object to us consuming the crime scene," he said.

I nodded. Probably. Looking around, I couldn't believe how many cops there were milling about the place. It was slightly terrifying. I guess you need some manpower to take down a hit man. "There are so many cops here," I commented.

"Yeah," said James.

"What if Karen and Jeremy hadn't turned up?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, what if they'd stormed the place and we were just inside, I don't know, banging or something?"

Suddenly I realised what I'd said and tried to hide my embarrassment. A grin was spreading over McKenzie's face. "Imagine that," he said.

"No," I said. "And you stop imagining it too."

"I can't. That's going to be in my head forevermore."

"Well, it shouldn't be."

"That dress isn't helping."

"Then I'm never wearing it again."

He looked me dead in the eye. "In my head, you never wear anything else."

# Chapter Thirty-Three

The capture of notorious hit man Jeremy Martin and his crazy sister Karen was all over the television for weeks. They weren't talking, and there wasn't that much concrete evidence against them, so for a while the case was looking a bit sketchy. After all, it was just our word against theirs that they'd confessed, and after they lawyered up it looked like they might just end up with the possession of an illegal firearm charge. (I know, right? Well done, justice system.) Michael Andrews still seemed to think James was responsible for the murders and that I was, for some reason, covering for him.

Andrews was definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Luckily, however, a bunch of date-stamped photos somehow ended up in police possession, all of which showed Jeremy stalking various people who later ended up dead. The photos Adam had taken while he was investigating Jeremy for Lea. Well played, Adam Baxter. Well played.

Dodgy businessman Larry Jones was arrested in relation to a series of less than legal activities, and McKenzie came out of it all as the hero – he lost a close family member, was dragged across the coals by the media, was set up by the real culprits and in the final act was nearly killed before triumphing over the villains and bringing them to justice.

Well, more or less.

Lea and I didn't see much of the news coverage, though, because we were too busy moving into our new house. Luckily, the damage to the kitchen was minimal – the cupcake had taken the brunt of the force. It was probably for the best that we hadn't tried to eat it. Any cake that can withstand a bullet is maybe not the kind of thing you want to snack on.

You might be wondering why exactly we ended up getting the house, seeing as we hadn't really solved the case. I kind of just happened to be there when the murderer walked in and confessed. Well, I think James felt a little bad that I'd nearly been killed because of him, and maybe kind of guilty that when he'd tackled me out of the way of the bullet I'd nearly broken my nose, so we compromised. (I know! We were acting like real adults!) He'd given us the money, and now we were renting the house at a greatly reduced price.

Lea took it surprisingly well, the whole 'ex husband is a hit man' thing. It did mean that her divorce was going to be a little messier, but at least he was in prison so the chances of him killing her to get out of losing his estate were minimal.

Once Jo Riley learned that I hadn't just ditched the party and was, in fact, detained by a homicidal maniac (or two), she decided to organise another mate-finding soiree, this time held at my own house so there was no way I could escape. So that was where I was now. I'd worn the pink dress again, figuring that no one here had seen me in it before so I could probably get away with it. I hadn't actually had time to wash it, but who was going to know? Sure, there was a little blood on it from my nosebleed, but it just looked like another polka dot from a distance.

As the party got underway in the backyard, I stood at the kitchen counter, drink in hand, thinking back to the other night. Not to the 'nearly getting murdered' bit so much, but to the 'baking terrible cupcakes and acting like friends' bit. Friends _,_ what a weird idea. It hadn't been weird at the time. James had been so nice – not cocky like normal. Maybe I liked him better depressed. Eek. I'd be a terrible girlfriend. Wait, what? I didn't mean that. Never mind. Moving on.

My phone was plugged into a dock with its speakers pointing away from the kitchen, projecting the noise out towards my visitors. I didn't actually know who'd put the music on it. It was nice, though. Old-fashioned stuff. Jazz...

"Hey sweetie," said a voice behind me. "Not enjoying the party?"

I smiled to myself.

"Not as much as the last one," I answered, turning to face him. Standing before me, dressed impeccably in blue jeans, a black shirt and Vans, was none other than James McKenzie. "I didn't know that you were invited."

"I like your outfit," he said.

I knew I should have worn track pants.

"What's up?" I asked, changing the subject. He smiled, knowing that I was avoiding responding to his comment, but he answered me anyway.

"Not much. Lea invited me. Personally I think it's a little weird inviting your landlord to your house party, but whatever. If this is as crazy as it's going to get, I probably don't have much to worry about."

I glanced out the glass doors to the backyard. There were a lot of bored-looking people making small talk. Grimace.

"Yes, unsurprisingly I'm yet to find my future husband, despite having met three potential gentlemen callers tonight."

"Oh?"

"Yes, one is an accountant, like Oswald, but unlike Oswald he doesn't appear to have any personality whatsoever. Or, in fact, any knowledge of socially acceptable behaviour. He spat on the ground near my feet while we were talking and then acted like nothing had happened."

"Ew," said James. "OK, and number two?"

"Ah, well, he told me all about how expensive his car was, but how he got a really good deal on it. And also his television. And some other appliances."

"Ooh, fascinating," said James. "Does he know all the specs?"

"Definitely," I said. "He can recite them all off by heart, although I'm not entirely sure he knows what any of them actually mean."

"Strong contender, then. Number three?"

"Not so sure about number three. When I said hi, he started to choke and Os had to give him the Heimlich, after which he went home."

"So maybe not?"

"Maybe not."

"And number four?"

"What do you mean number – oh." I stopped, seeing that he was grinning, and realised what he meant. The music changed, and string instruments began playing. We stood there in silence as Etta James started singing.

"Our song," James commented.

"Yes, our special 'That Time We Nearly Got Murdered' song. That's one to tell the grandkids."

He laughed softly. "Grandkids, hey?" As hard as I tried not to, I smiled back. "So, are you having too much fun at this party, or could I perhaps tempt you away?"

I looked back out the glass doors to the sombre gathering taking place outside.

"You know what? As much fun as I'm having here..."

"Yes?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"It's a surprise," he said, taking my hand. "But I promise no one will interrupt us this time."

The Story Continues In

Unfinished Sentence

* * *

Or Get The Next Two Books At A Discount

The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 1-3

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_Keep reading for an excerpt of Deadhead, the first book in my paranormal mystery series. >>_

# Also by Clare Kauter

### The Charlie Davies Mysteries

Losing Your Head

Unfinished Sentence

Graceless

Higher Learning

Santa's Little Helper

Undetected

Caught in the Act

Raising Hell

New Year, Screw You

Strip Joint

Breaking News

Not a Clue

* * *

The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 1-3

The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 4-6

The Charlie Davies Mysteries Books 7-9

### Charlie Davies Shorts

Short Fuse (Prequel Novella)

Cut Short

Strangle All the Way

Short Straw

Fall Short

### Baxter & Co. Mysteries

Live and Let Bondi

Gone Ghoul

Hark! The Herald Angels Sting

Nightmare on Oxford Street

### Lake Fortune Cozy Mysteries

Fortunes & Fakes

Fortunes & Flowers

Fortunes & Farmers

Fortunes & Front Pages

Fortunes & Frights

Fortunes & Fruitcake

### Damned Girl

Deadhead

Sled Head

Hell's Belles

Loch Nessa

Vampire Campfire

Gods and Frauds

King Thing

* * *

Damned Girl Books 1-4

### Hellfire College Romances

When the Moon

Killer Kiss

Shadow & Shade

Ride or Wrong

Curse My Luck

No Charm Done

Hold Me Deer

Dragon Me Down

The Death of Me

For an up-to-the-minute list, head to

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# About the Author

As a kid, Clare Kauter tried to break up fights among her classmates by reading books to them. It went about as well as you'd think, but she didn't let that discourage her.

* * *

Clare began writing her first novel, _Losing Your Head_ , at age thirteen. It was published eight years later and the Charlie Davies Mystery series was born.

* * *

Now a full-time author, Clare writes across a number of genres, including contemporary and cozy mystery, paranormal mystery and paranormal romance, although whatever the genre her books are always guaranteed to make you laugh out loud. And maybe swoon a little.

* * *

She's currently somewhere near a computer with a mug of tea or coffee in hand (OK, maybe wine – but it's in a mug, so how would you know?), writing her next novel at top speed so you never have to wait too long for something new to read.

Find Clare Online

www.clarekauter.com

clare@clarekauter.com

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# What now?

Now that you've finished this book, you're probably wondering what comes next on your reading list. I'm guessing that since you've made it this far, you're a fan of light-hearted mysteries.

* * *

If so, I have a suggestion for you...

* * *

How do you feel about a touch of magic alongside your mysteries? How about a bucket-load of magic? If that sounds like your kind of thing, keep reading. I've included the first chapter of my book 'Deadhead', which you can pick up in its entirety for free from clarekauter.com/freestuff.

* * *

If you're unsure, why not give it a try? After all, it's free. What's the worst that could happen?

# Deadhead

### Chapter One

The lady in my kitchen was stuck up and stupid but I needed her money so I swallowed hard and put on my best Customer Service Fake Smile™.

"Was there anything in particular you'd like me to ask him?"

She was crying into the toilet paper I'd given her when she'd asked me for a tissue. Not that I didn't have any tissues to give her; there was just something satisfying about watching annoying clients cry into toilet paper. You do what you can to keep yourself amused in this business.

"I just want to know if he's... _happy_!" __ She began to sob with loud, shuddering breaths. I tried my best to look sympathetic, although I suspect my facial expression may have been one of disgust rather than compassion. I didn't understand crying loudly in front of people. It wasn't something I did very often. Usually only when I was in a public place and desperately wanted to get my own way. (It's amazing what people will do to get you to shut up.) But these tricks don't work on me.

"Of course," I said. "I'll make sure to ask. Just before we get started though, I'm afraid we have to discuss the subject of fees. It is much harder summoning the spirit of a deceased animal, as I'm sure you can appreciate – what with the language barrier and all – and hence for animal clairvoyance I charge double my standard rate."

"No price is too high for my Noodle."

Excellent.

Now, before you get on your moral high horse and yell at me about taking money from a grief-stricken woman, just hear me out: this was a lady who had disposable income to spend on communing with the spirit of her dead pet. She clearly knew nothing about the spirit realm whatsoever and hadn't bothered to do any research. She'd just assumed that I could talk to her dog. Now, let's think about this...

She wanted me to ask. Her dead dog. Questions.

I love animals, but even to me this was a bit far. Firstly, she wanted me to summon the spirit of her dog (and let's be fair, dogs don't come when they're called at the best of times, much less when they're dead). Spirits don't just hang around once they die. They pick the conservative party upstairs or wild times for eternity downstairs unless they've got some unfinished business to attend to. Most animals, especially pampered pet pooches, do not have 'unfinished business'. The only ghost animal I'd seen in the last week was a cockroach coming back for a crumb he hadn't finished. When he realised he couldn't eat it, he moved on. Animals don't tend to get hung up on the past. They go with the flow. And if, by some miracle, I did manage to summon a dog, I couldn't be sure it was _her_ dog, could I? Even if I was sure it was hers, how on earth was I meant to talk to it?

Nevertheless, there was a lot of money at stake here, so I shut my eyes and gave it a go. I took a deep breath and with all my energy, projected my voice into the astral realm.

"Here puppy! Come on, who's a good boy? Come to Nessa, that's a good boy. Noodles! Noooooodles!"

Suddenly I heard a bark at my left ankle. I opened my eyes and looked down. To my astonishment, there was a dog there. A ghost hound. I'd actually summoned a dead animal. I looked away from the dog when I heard huffing and chair scraping from across the table.

"I didn't come here to be made fun of! I hope you don't expect –"

"Is Noodles a poodle with a pink diamante-studded collar?"

She stopped in her tracks. "You – you actually –"

"Yes," I said. I was used to this reaction. People always thought I was having a go at them when I spoke to ghosts the way I spoke to normal people. (Or dogs.) They expected me to put on a sing-songy voice and talk in riddles, with perhaps the occasional head-twitch or possession. Reality was much tamer. Spirits were basically just the same as they used to be, but dead. If you tried to talk to a ghost like you see people do on TV, the ghost would think you were crazy.

Noodles had also noticed the lady moving and started growling loudly, teeth bared. Eventually he inched towards her.

"What's he saying?" she asked.

"Um... Difficult to know right now," I said.

Noodles advanced right up to her, no longer growling but doing the dog equivalent of shooting her dirty looks. He lifted his leg and began to wee on her shoe, still glaring at her face.

"How about now?"

Noodles ran back over to me, tail wagging. I leant down to pat him when suddenly he disappeared with a puff. His business in this world had concluded.

"He's much happier now he's seen you," I said, trying not to stare at the ghostly urine dripping from the lady's foot.

A breeze rustled the leaves of the fruit trees as the pinkish light of dusk settled over the cemetery across from my house. Some people found it odd that I lived across from a cemetery. I found it calming. If there was one place ghosts didn't like to hang out, it was here. You'd only get the occasional newbie passing through, and they tended not to bother me. They had bigger concerns. Like being dead. Besides, it was good for business. When you deal in death, living near a cemetery gives you some street cred.

It had always seemed like a bit of a sick joke to me that Watergrove Cemetery was dotted over with a variety of fruit trees. How cruel could you be? The first thing the dead guys would see as they floated up out of the grave would be these very alive trees bearing very edible fruits which they could never again touch. Most of the deadies who ended up at my house whined for several minutes about something to that effect, before moving on to whine about something else. Usually to do with being dead. They had very one-track minds, these ghosts. As though death had taken something away from them. I mean, sure, they couldn't touch anything, but they could be invisible and fly and walk through stuff. Surely it wasn't that bad.

I wandered out to the herb garden in front of my house and picked some coriander. I was having tacos for dinner, but the coriander also had the added benefit of keeping away any stray ghosts who thought about haunting me. Like most people, ghosts can't stand the smell of coriander. It's like garlic and vampires. Taco Tuesday was a good night to keep away all the supernaturals.

Well, almost all of them.

Halfway through mashing up the avocado for my Holy Moly Guacamole (to go with my Salsa-tional Tomato Salsa and Cream-azing Cashew Cream), I heard a weird noise behind me. A squishy noise, like play-dough footsteps. (I don't quite know what that means either. Just roll with it; it's poetic.)

I didn't bother turning around. I knew who it was already. It would be some representative from the Green Wattle Coven, coming to hassle me again to join them. They'd become convinced that I had magical powers ever since three of them turned up when I'd first moved in, promising to rid my house of rodents. Apparently around the cemetery there were big problems with pest animals. When they found out I'd already taken care of the mice and the cockroaches, they were in absolute awe.

"But how?" they'd asked. "Dost thou know the ways of Wicca?" (Yes, they actually spoke like this.)

"No, I just googled it. Peppermint oil repels rats and cockroaches hate garlic. Like tiny vampires. But without the fangs." I frowned. "Cockroaches don't have fangs, do they? Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

At this moment, they all turned to each other and whispered, wide-eyed, "She knows of the Sacred Herbs!"

"No, you don't understand. I didn't perform any rituals, I just used the herbs to keep them away and then blocked up the holes where they were getting in. I didn't use any magic."

"Thou hast brought no harm to the living creatures! Thou art at peace with the Mother Earth!" the oldest, crone-iest one said.

"Well, no, I'm a vegan so –"

"Veegan? I do not know that sect."

"Oh, it's not a branch of magic or anything, it just means –"

"She has no coven," one whispered.

"She is unclaimed," said another.

"Join us!" said the third. Then they all began singing "Join us" in unison. They wouldn't leave and I ended up chasing them out by brandishing a frypan. Various representatives had been turning up a couple of times a week ever since. It got to a point where they'd started breaking into my house and I'd find them in the bathtub or hiding in cupboards waiting for me. One of them let slip that wormwood would keep them out, and after much searching I managed to find a bush in a corner of the cemetery and hung a wreath of it on my front door. I wondered how they'd finally managed to get past it. The squelchy footsteps stopped and it suddenly occurred to me that witches don't really sound squelchy. Insane, yes. Squelchy, not so much.

So what was that noise behind me?

I turned around, confused.

And screamed.

Well, it was kind of a scream. You know when you're not expecting something, so you start to scream, only to realise that it's not actually that scary, and you stop committing to the scream so it sort of becomes a honk?

Yeah. That.

So anyway, I honked.

Sitting in the middle of my (quite dirty, now I was looking at it – when did I last sweep it? Wait, when did I ever sweep it? Did I even own a broom?) kitchen floor, was a squishy little play-dough-footed axolotl.

He squinted up at me. I crouched down to get a better look at him and realised he was wearing glasses. That was weird. What kind of animal has glasses? And wasn't the coriander bothering him? He was even treading on a piece of it I must have dropped.

"Are you lost, little guy?"

"Unfortunately not."

This time I screamed properly. I did that whole scramble-back-from-the-unexpectedly-scary-thing that you see in horror movies and prank videos where the person tries to run backwards while they're still on their bum. I slammed into the kitchen bench and banged my head. Even after that, the axolotl was still there, so I kept banging it like an old person with a piece of technology that wasn't working properly.

"You're mental," said the axolotl.

"You think I don't know that?" I screeched. "You're talking to me!"

"You talked to me first."

"But – but – wormwood – and the coriander!"

He gave me what seemed to be a look of deep concern. "That's not how you do sentences."

"Neither's that!"

"I was trying to speak to you in your own language," he said. Fair call.

I took a few deep breaths and tried again. "The coriander didn't scare you off?"

He shrugged – I think it was a shrug – and said, "I'm Mexican."

"Right." I was pretty sure it was a bad axolotl joke, though, because his accent sounded more like that of an Oxbridge graduate.

"So, you are Nessa, I presume?"

"Yes. Who on earth are you? And why are you here? And how can you talk? And where did you get your tiny glasses? And why do you know my name?"

"I'm your new familiar."

"I'm not a witch!"

"Hey, I didn't exactly ask for this either."

"What?" I frowned. "Do you mean someone sent you?"

"Well, kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I lost a bet."

"You lost a bet?"

"Yep."

"And I was the punishment?"

"Yep."

"And what did the winner get?"

"Nothing."

"How is that winning, then?"

"They didn't get stuck with you. I'm Henry, by the way. Since you didn't think to ask."

"Henry?" I couldn't take all this in. There was an axolotl talking to me and introducing himself – lecturing me on manners and grammar in amongst it – and he was here because he lost a bet?

"Yes, Henry," he said. "Now, I hope you're fixing me a taco."

I made Henry and myself a tempeh taco each and we sat out on the verandah overlooking the cemetery as we ate. Henry began to explain (between mouthfuls – if nothing else his table etiquette was second-to-none) what exactly he'd been sent to my house to do.

"I'm here to audit you."

"What?" I demanded. "What for?" I mean, sure, I wasn't exactly paying tax on my cash-in-hand psychic business, but was the Australian Taxation Office really in the habit of sending a talking fish-lizard to scare business owners into following the law? Come to think of it, that would probably be quite effective. They'd either shape right up or end up in a psychiatric ward.

"Unauthorised use of magic."

Oh, man. He had to be kidding.

"You have to be kidding! I've never used magic in my life!" Not strictly true, of course, but...

"I just saw you talk to a dead dog."

My jaw dropped. "You were hiding in my house the whole time? That's kind of creepy, dude," I said. He just shrugged in response. I crossed my arms. "Besides, that's not magic! I just talk to dead things."

"Are you hearing yourself?"

Yeah, OK, he had a point.

"So why are you here? To fine me? Arrest me? I can see why they chose you, what with your imposing physique and all." He narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine back.

"I could take you in a fight."

"I'd like to see you try."

Henry sighed. "Fine." He leapt down off the chair onto the wooden porch, landing with a soft squelch, and clicked the fishy fingers of his right hand. Suddenly there was a huge bang and we were encompassed in a cloud of sparkly smoke, the international symbol for 'some magic is happening here'. The smoke began to clear and I realised I might have underestimated Henry's ability to drag me away. Before me now stood a huge silverback. As in, a massive gorilla.

"Ah," I said. "So what were you saying about this audit?"

He sat back down, causing a lot more strain on my second-hand wicker chair than he had a moment ago. I noticed that his tiny glasses had grown to accommodate his now much larger head. It was like magic. "Basically, it's my job to see how you conduct yourself and whether you're qualified for a licence. I'll be staying with you until I'm able to complete my observations."

"Right. And how long is that likely to take?"

"Well, really, it depends on the quest."

Oh, great. Of course there had to be a ridiculous step in the licensing process. "The what?"

"I haven't been given the instructions for your quest yet, but generally it's a way for me to see how you conduct yourself in a high pressure situation, and how well you're able to control your magical abilities."

" _What_ magical abilities? I talk to ghosts! What possible use is that for a quest? It's not like I can do actual witchcraft or shamanry or alchemy or see the future or something _useful_."

Henry looked at me over the top of his glasses. "That's not what I've heard."

What? How could he possibly know about... He couldn't! No one knew. (Well, OK, not exactly no one, but I doubted the devil was going to talk to this guy.) But then how did he know about me at all?

"Who's been telling you these entirely false stories about me?"

He shifted in his chair and looked like he might fall straight through it. "We had a tip off from that coven that meets nearby."

Of course. Who else? If they couldn't get me to join them, they were going to... What, exactly? Have me arrested? Get me sent on a quest? What was their agenda here?

"Right. So what happens now? Am I in trouble?"

"No, no," he assured me. "We're just waiting for someone to turn up with our orders for the quest. They'll usually try to pick something that plays to your strengths. Someone will be here soon to give us our directions, then we just go from there." He relaxed back in his seat. I wondered what this would look like to a passerby – a girl and a gorilla eating tacos by the cemetery. Not that there were too many passersby around here. Except, you know, for gho–

"YOU NEED TO FIND MY KILLER!"

I screamed. Again. This really wasn't my night. A ghost (a poltergeist, to be specific – I could tell from his slightly green aura) had just appeared less than a metre in front of me. Just – _pop_. Out of nowhere.

Henry yawned and stretched, completely unfazed. "I guess this is it," he said. "That was surprisingly fast. It usually takes them weeks to send out a quest."

The ghost looked at Henry and frowned as if trying to figure something out. Probably why the hell there was a talking gorilla sitting across from the cemetery eating tacos.

"Well, this is a special case," said the ghost. "They said you're to get started right away."

"They always say that," said Henry. He turned to me. "They've done a pretty good job here. I mean, this is going to involve a whole lot of talking to ghosts. You should have your licence in no time. What's your name, ghosty?"

"Ed," Ed said. "I, uh, I'm dead."

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