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‘We have a problem,’ The American said. He did not want to alarm his client, but he had to give him the news. It was early on Monday morning, and they had met in Jack Cavanagh’s office for an emergency debriefing, doors closed.

Jack Cavanagh wore his usual uniform of khaki pants and pressed shirt. He ran an unsteady hand across his face in response. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘I have confirmation that the video footage of Damien does exist and, though it is a little grainy, he is potentially identifiable.’

Jack closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to see it.’

The American nodded. His costly NSA contact had traced all of the electronic communications of Meaghan Wallace in the lead-up to her death. The video SMS had been sent from Meaghan’s mobile phone to her friend Amy Camilleri at the time of the party, before the phone had supposedly been ‘destroyed’ and then lost by Simon Aston. Miss Camilleri was in possession of the video, and she was now a target. Who knew
how many people she might have shown it to? He would now need to monitor all of her communications, and he would have to think up a way to remove the threat she posed without causing too much suspicion.

‘The initial threats have been taken care of.’

Jack looked solemn. ‘Good,’ he said.

‘But this is new. I will see to it that it’s dealt with.’

‘Use discretion,’ Jack said. ‘As you always do,’ he added.

‘I will,’ The American replied.

With that confirmation of intent from his client, The American would now contact Mr Hand and issue him with his new set of instructions.

‘I need access to your private jet.’

Jack Cavanagh nodded. ‘I can have it ready for you in under an hour.’

Mr Hand would need to do this next job interstate.

HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY
?

Mak was scrounging around in the pantry of Drayson’s apartment at eight-thirty on Monday morning when her mobile phone beeped. She lifted it into view.

At the sight of the number, her heart hurried a touch: it was Bogey. Mak closed her eyes and shook her head. She’d been hoping she’d be able to forget the feelings she’d had the night before. At least she had not acted on them. With him, anyway.

Makedde leaned against the kitchen counter and replied in a flash, her fingers working the keypad nimbly.

MY BACK IS MUCH BETTER THANKS
.
HEADING OFF TODAY
.
THANKS AGAIN
.

She went back to searching the kitchen for some form of food, but her phone beeped again a minute later.

BREAKFAST
?

Hmmm. Funny he should mention that.

For the past five minutes Mak had been looking fruitlessly through the kitchen cupboards
for anything remotely edible. She’d found a tiny bit of cereal at the bottom of a crinkled box, but no milk to eat it with. Nor were there any eggs or fruit or yoghurt—or even bread. Nothing that might help tide her hunger over. Her only option seemed to be Vegemite and vodka.
Mmmm.

There was no sign of stirring from Drayson and Loulou’s room, or Maroon’s. Mak wasn’t even sure if Maroon was home.

Um…

SURE
she texted back, her chest feeling tight. She wanted to see him, but she could also see that her motivation might not be altogether pure.
It’s fine
, she told herself.
You need more friends.
It was normal. He knew that she was in a relationship—after all, she’d said that the first night. And just because they’d watched a woman strip naked in front of them—just because he’d had his hands on her the night before, giving her a massage that had spurred her on to her own sensual release—didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as if she’d made
him
give her that kind of release. He hadn’t even been there. That was a private moment. He was just one of Loulou’s new friends. No big deal. No one was cheating here, or anything even close.

BE THERE IN THIRTY MINS

Mak read his message and her heart began pounding immediately. She jumped in the
shower, freshened up and got dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt. After an appraisal in the mirror, she changed her mind and slipped into her oldest ripped jeans, T-shirt and black boots. Casual.

Damn.

Mak leaned against the doorway at the entrance to Loulou’s building, holding her coat close around her neck. It seemed unseasonably cold. She didn’t want to wake Drayson and Loulou, so she had walked downstairs to make her calls and wait for Bogey.

A sour feeling about Andy had settled in her stomach.

She felt unbalanced by her psychological infidelity. She was living with him, and she had thought about another man when she made herself orgasm. No big deal, perhaps, but she was also about to share breakfast with that very same man. Even if it was innocent and normal, she had certainly started to feel guilty.

‘Flynn,’ he answered.

‘Hi. How are you?’

‘Good.’

‘I wanted to catch you before I started my day.’ She squinted in the wind. ‘I tried calling you last night.’ She felt the burden of her guilt over Bogey, even though her little betrayal had
only been in her overactive imagination—unless that hour and a half of pleasure at Bogey’s hands could be considered sexual, which some would argue it could. She certainly wouldn’t be telling Andy about the massage. And that was enough of an indication of how she’d really felt.

‘Did you? I got your text message.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’ Mak shook her head.
Idiot.
‘How was your flight?’

‘Fine.’

He never was very good on the phone.

‘Great,’ she answered. ‘I hope everything goes really well,’ she told him. ‘Hey, I had this exciting breakthrough with the investigation yesterday. A lot of people seem to think he is innocent.’

‘The druggie?’

‘Yeah.’ When Andy said it like that, it sounded silly for anyone to consider they had the wrong person for the murder.

‘He’s a junkie, Mak,’ Andy declared. ‘Junkies do horrible things to people they love. It happens all the time, and their loved ones are always in denial about it. No one wants to think their sweet little son is a killer.’

‘His mother is dead, actually.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he replied. ‘Look, Mak…I’ve been thinking. I need to talk to you about something.’

His voice sounded strange.

‘What?’

‘You know, I feel badly that you will be all by yourself there for three months. I mean, I could be even longer.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I just want you to know that it’s okay if you don’t want to wait for me.’

What?

The words took a while to sink in. Mak held the collar of her coat to her neck.
What is he saying?
She wished she could see his face, see the look in his eye. The phone was so impersonal.

She felt her heart sink. ‘You want to take a break again?’ she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. He’d done this before when she was in Canada.

‘No. Unless that is what you want?’ he said, further frustrating her.

Mak wanted him to fight for her, beg her to stay, beg her to wait for him—not this…

‘Do you think it would be best if I went back to Canada?’ she asked, tears forming. But she kept her voice as strong as she could. She couldn’t believe he was doing this over the phone. How could he do this by
phone?

‘No, no,’ he hastily replied. ‘It’s up to you, of course.’

Mak clenched her jaw, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Okay, well, I’ll think about that, then,’ she said.

‘Oh, no—that came out all wrong. I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. I only meant…’

You only meant that you don’t care if I wait for you.

‘That’s fine. I think I understand,’ she told him.

‘I want to be with you.’

Do you?

‘It’s just that I’ll understand if—’

‘If what?’ she said. ‘Oh Christ…’

Bogey’s beautifully restored Mustang emerged, cruising down the street in her direction. It was the worst timing.

‘I’m sorry, Andy, but I have to go. Can I call you later today?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I’m fine. I gotta go.’

Mak hung up and wiped her eyes.

Bloody hell.
Did Andy want to break up—was that it? Or did he want her to stay? She couldn’t figure him out.

‘Hey…’

Humphrey Mortimer pulled up beside her in his cool car, with his cool hair, and his stereo playing some cool band Mak could not identify. The sight of him made Mak smile despite herself. The car was big and blue with gleaming cream leather interiors, and somehow it made Bogey’s jet-black hair and glasses look right at home. He had the top down, obviously acclimatised to the Melbourne weather, and the car looked even more impressive than it had when she’d first seen it at night. Come to think of it, he did too.

Bogey leaned across and opened the door for her, ever gallant, and Mak crawled into the large leather bucket seat on the passenger side. He was wearing black jeans and boots again, and a faded white Sex Pistols T-shirt with the sleeves rolled further up his biceps. He sure didn’t seem to be feeling any chill.

‘I was just getting desperate for food when your message came through,’ she told him.

His alluring cupid’s bow curved into a playful smirk. ‘I figured as much. Vegemite and vodka, right? That’s all he ever has in his fridge.’ Obviously Bogey knew his friend very well. ‘What time is your flight?’ he asked.

‘Oh, not till this afternoon.’

She heard the distinctive beep of her phone in her handbag. A text message. She ignored it; she didn’t want to hear from Andy right now. She had just managed to compose herself, and some confusing message from him was not what she needed to see.

‘I can give you a lift to the airport later, if you’d like,’ Bogey offered.

‘Well, don’t go out of your way,’ she said, smiling like an idiot to hide her sadness. ‘I have a rental car I need to drop back. Maybe they will let me leave it at the airport?’

‘Just let me know if I can be of help,’ he kindly offered again.

‘Don’t you have that job you need to finish?’ she reminded him. ‘The staining?’

‘I finished the staining last night. I have some more work to do on it this afternoon once it dries, but I can make time. It’s no trouble.’

Mak watched the road. The wind pushed her hair back, and she began to feel a touch better. This was just what she needed: good company and a full stomach. She’d feel so much better with a bit of food and some light conversation. ‘I’d like to see your shop,’ she said.

‘Okay.’ He turned a corner. ‘Say, are you okay? You sound like you are coming down with a bit of a cold.’

Her eyes were probably a bit puffy and her sinuses clogged up. She had not quite let all the tears out. She’d held back, thank goodness. It would have been ridiculous for Bogey to pull up and see her crying on the side of the road.

That would have been pathetic.

‘Too many late nights, I guess,’ she said.

Mak was struck by how comfortable she felt with Bogey. She sensed that even if she had been crying, he would be okay with it. He wouldn’t judge her.

‘I know a great breakfast place a few blocks away.’

Mak nodded. ‘Sounds good.’ Actually, it sounded better than good. Her stomach was rumbling at the mere mention of breakfast. It was never wise to keep a Vanderwall from a meal.

‘You’re not on a diet or anything, are you?’ he quipped.

Mak darkened a little. ‘Just because I’m a model doesn’t mean I’m anorexic or that I sit around all day contemplating my body fat, or the rise and fall of the supermodel…’ she ranted, a little too used to being belittled by people she’d just met.

‘I thought you were a psychologist…and a PI?’ Bogey said.

Oh my God, I am an idiot.

Mak felt sheepish. She was still a touch emotional. ‘I am. I guess I’m used to copping flak about my model past. Donkey was giving me a hard time about it.’

‘Don’t mind him. You are beautiful, anyone can see that. But you are also very smart. It would be a waste for you not to use it.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, flattered, but more pleased that he had no hang-ups about her model past than she was by the compliment itself. The number of times someone had walked up to her and said, ‘So yer a model, huh?
And
you went to uni? What was it—Phys Ed?’

‘I only asked because this place I’m taking us to has great pancakes.’

‘Pancakes? Yum,’ Mak said. ‘With real maple syrup?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Canadian Maple syrup.’

She was pleased.

Bogey continued driving, his focus pulled to a car veering off to the left in front of them and signalling the wrong way. Those were the kind of
people who literally drove Mak nuts when she was on her motorbike. But rather than road raging, as Andy might have, Bogey continued on course, his big car floating along the unfamiliar streets of Melbourne like a dream.

Mak relaxed into her seat and allowed herself to enjoy his company.

She had little reason not to.

The buzzer on the intercom went as Amy Camilleri was walking past it to the kitchen.

Huh?

Amy wasn’t in the habit of answering Larry’s door. She didn’t want anyone knowing where she was, and if someone had a package for Larry they would just have to wait until he got home from work. But the intercom had buzzed, and now the small screen lit up, and she could clearly see that someone outside the gate was holding a basket with a big bow on it. The basket was right in front of the camera lens, obscuring everything else, and it didn’t take Amy long to see that it was more than just some gift basket. There was a puppy sitting in it—a real, live puppy was in the basket with a big red bow around its neck. A card on the wicker handle of the basket said ‘AMY’, with a heart drawn around her name.

Oh my God!
She melted instantly.

‘Oh, Larry!’ she cried.

Barely taking the time to breathe, Amy ran out the front door and down the drive. She pressed
the button for the front gate to unlock, and ran out to grab the basket from the deliveryman’s hand. She put the basket on the pavement and lifted the puppy up to her shoulder. It was a tiny poodle pup, no more than eight weeks old, with curly black fur and huge wet eyes. It felt warm on her chest as she held it. It licked her neck with its moist little tongue. It was adorable.

What a surprise! Larry was so sweet to send her a gift while he was away at work all day, leaving her alone.

‘Oh my God…you are
sooo
cute, aren’t you?’ she told the puppy in a baby voice, while it wriggled in her arms and made little noises.

The delivery van was only a few feet away;
WITHLUV FLOWERS AND GIFTS
was displayed on its side. ‘He is a cute puppy,’ a man said in a deep voice. He was wearing a cap and a collared uniform shirt, leaning by the door of the van with a clipboard. He had a strange face, his skin pulled back. She looked away quickly.

‘Uh, yeah. Thanks,’ she said awkwardly. The puppy licked her wrist. ‘Oh, he is such a little cutie!’

In a flash the deliveryman was next to her with his clipboard. ‘This needs to be signed for. Do you have a purse with some ID?’

She had come out empty-handed. ‘Hang on, I’ll just get it.’

Amy remembered that her handbag was on a table at the base of the stairs. She ran back to get
it, and quickly returned to the front gate, not letting go of her new little companion for one moment.

‘Oh, Larry is just too sweet,’ she said, more to the dog than to the deliveryman, as she reached into her purse for her driver’s licence. ‘I can’t believe he—’

Her words were cut off by a sharp, needle-like pain in her buttock.

‘Whaaaaa…’ she babbled as her body rapidly grew weak.

Amy Camilleri’s knees gave way, and when they did, Luther Hand caught her. He carried her to the van, looking over his shoulder to be sure there were no witnesses.