by Vicki Tyley
“Yes, but—”
“Please, Mum, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Sam has—”
“Gregory, dear, I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Sam’s a boy’s name.”
“Okay, Mum.” He started again, using the name Sam herself loathed. “Samantha’s a big girl now. I’m sure she’s all right, but just to put your mind at rest I’ll go and check on her. She’s probably so wrapped up in her new man she’s forgotten she was supposed to visit you this weekend.” He laughed again.
“What new man?” The pitch of her voice rose.
Greg could almost see her gripping the phone in both hands as she waited for her eldest child to answer. Silently berating himself for opening his big mouth, he wrestled with what he could say without digging himself into a bigger hole.
“Gregory?”
“Sorry, Mum, there’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go, but I promise I’ll get Sam… Samantha to phone you as soon as I can. Now don’t get all worked up. There’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see. Bye, Mum.”
He hung up, sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. There was no one at the door but at short notice, it was the only thing he could think of to get out of what would’ve been the inevitable interrogation. His sister needed her butt kicked for letting down their mother like that. Sam, of all people, knew how over-protective their mother was, more so since Sam divorced her no-hoper of a husband and moved to Melbourne.
Greg picked up the phone again, and pressed the two buttons that would dial his sister’s home phone a suburb away. As he waited for the call to connect, he wandered through the house into the kitchen. The phone started ringing. Cradling it between his chin and shoulder, he filled the kettle. The phone rang out, which was good. It probably meant Sam was en route to their mother’s place. Maybe she’d been unlucky enough to end up with a flat tire or broken down. It was bound to be something as simple as that.
The kettle boiled as he tried Sam’s mobile number. It too went unanswered, but at least this time Greg was able to leave a message. He looked at his watch. He’d give her half an hour and if she hadn’t called him back by then, he would have to think of what else he could do to try to track her down. Younger sisters, who’d have them?
Twenty minutes later, he’d emptied the coffee pot and finished off the best part of a packet of shortbread biscuits without realizing it. His mother’s anxiety had started to rub off on him. He didn’t wait the half hour out. Instead, he reached for the phone and dialed Sam’s mobile first and then her home again, ending up with exactly the same results as before. No answer at either.
Had it been a Freudian slip when he’d inadvertently mentioned the new man in Sam’s life to his mother? Greg knew nothing about the guy except he was, in Sam’s words, “tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous.” He didn’t even know the guy’s name. What he did know was that Sam had met him through one of those agencies that specialized in dinner dating. Dinners for the desperate and dateless. He found the whole concept repugnant, but his sister had assured him that all was civilized and above board. He’d taken those assurances at face value, happy she was making an effort to get on with her life.
BITTER NOTHINGS
Melbourne-based graphic designer Dervla Johns’ life is turned upside down when her brothers, Emmet and Gabe, turn up on her doorstep with the horrific news that their stepmother, Lucinda, and their half-sister and half-brother have been murdered—shot dead in their beds. Her father, Warren, has vanished, and the police have him in their sights as prime suspect. Dervla refuses to believe it. That's until he turns up dead in his car on an isolated bush track, the weapon by his side. Mix in a dysfunctional family and a friend with an abusive husband and the lines start to blur…
PROLOGUE
She stirred, her hand seeking her husband’s reassuring touch. Cold sheets. Panic fluttered in her chest and then died. She remembered now. What had happened to them that they could no longer talk? Her splayed fingers caressed the empty space next to her, as if searching for some imprint of the man she’d married, the father of her two children. What or who had come between them?
From downstairs, she heard a thud, followed by what sounded like a muffled grunt. She gritted her teeth. He daren’t wake the kids. It had taken all her wiles and half the night to convince little Oliver there were no three-eyed, boy-eating monsters living under his bed. Kayla hadn’t been much better, getting up at least once every hour to ask for a glass of water and a cuddle. Damn Warren. Didn’t he know by now children picked up on every vibe?
Another thud. Closer this time. She held her breath, listening. Footsteps. She rolled over, feigning sleep when she sensed his presence in the doorway. Her breathing didn’t falter.
A slight movement of air brushed across her face. She inhaled. Her breath caught, the sharp smell registering in the same instant the cold metal kissed her temple…
