by Andrea Drew
Gypsy Cradle
Trust can be Lethal
Andrea Drew
Gypsy Cradle Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Drew
All rights reserved. Published in Australia. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Note : Although the story is set in Melbourne Australia, US spelling has been used
For information, contact: www.andreadrewauthor.com
First Edition: April 2015
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Andrea Drew
Gypsy Life – An Excerpt
Prologue
Monday 21st January, 9.36am
Christie leaned forward in her office chair, which creaked as she bent toward the monitor. The morning coffee tasted good, and she let it cool on her desk. Shuffling her chair closer to the screen, she grasped the mouse and clicked on the first email. Monday mornings were usually frantic and today was no exception.
Her stomach twisted, and she sat up as a wave of nausea hit. She lifted a hand to her temple, rubbing at the ache in her head.
What is wrong with me? I felt fine earlier.
As another wave of nausea hit, she knew something was wrong, very wrong.
Oh god, I can’t vomit here, not at work.
She breathed slowly in an attempt to calm herself, and tentatively moved up from her seat, before sitting back down.
Bad idea. I don’t think I’ll make it to the bathroom. Oh god what do I do?
The lights seemed piercing, and she blinked. Prickles raced across her arms, which were cold and clammy. The thick warm suffocating air meant she struggled to catch her breath.
Her heart was hammering. It banged so loudly and fiercely that surely someone could hear it. John at the next cubicle was on the phone in an intense client discussion about a design project. Christie didn’t understand any of it. She rarely suffered headaches or nausea.
“Jawwwwn,” she groaned, trying to get help, but the word came out slow and slurred. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
The room began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, until she was on a dizzying roundabout that culminated in her fall from the chair. She landed on the soft pile carpet with a thud.
John’s head bobbed up over the top of his cubicle. His eyes widened. “Christie?” Christie had collapsed next to her desk, and he was up and out of his chair in an instant. “Oh my god, Christie!”
John squatted by her and, within a few seconds, Elle and Jason, two other designers, crowded around.
“Oh my god,” breathed Elle.
“Call an ambulance!” screeched John, sending Elle and Jason scurrying, as he checked Christie’s airway.
She was breathing, thank goodness, but unconscious. Another staff member appeared in the doorway and froze, coffee cups perched in midair.
“Don’t crowd her,” said John, putting one hand out. “If you want to help, make sure the bloody ambos know what to expect.”
John stayed with her until the ambulance arrived. Once he’d briefed the paramedics, he turned to see shocked employees milling around, murmuring their concern. He followed the paramedics out to the ambulance as they loaded Christie in. He stood with arms crossed as it left.
He hoped she’d be okay. It didn’t look good.
Friday 18th January, 9.30am
The day that I learned Christie’s life was in danger started like any other. In fact, if anything, it was more pleasant than usual. Connor had the night off from his duties as senior detective at Carlton police station and I was looking forward to wine, dinner, song and possibly a roll in the hay if the stars aligned themselves correctly.
After a quick shower and breakfast, I headed to my study, coffee in hand, its delicious rich smell drifting upward. While my study was small, it was perfect for my needs. A beautifully varnished desk with a green antique writing lamp perched on the corner and the window before me allowed a view of my tiny but trim garden.
Today was one of those days when all was right with the world. After checking my emails and replying to two enquiries, I carefully retrieved a manila folder from the middle of a precarious pile. I’d just got into the writing zone, getting my mental teeth into a proposal for an electrical company, when I felt the buzz of my mobile phone. For a moment, I hung indecisive, wondering whether to abandon my train of thought to answer it. Then I saw that the caller was Leah, my younger sister.
“Leah,” I answered curious, but in a tone much friendlier than it had been a year prior. We’d reached a new level of understanding and tolerance since Connor’s nephew almost killed me, having learned how losing each other forever could feel.
“Gypsy, how goes it?”
I heard the slight wobble in her voice. “What’s going on, Leah? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, really I am.”
I called bullshit. Leah wouldn’t ring me just to chew the fat with me; we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Something was up, and given a couple of prods, I was confident she’d spill the beans.
“Pull the other one, love, it plays jingle bells. What’s going on?” A bird bobbed on the front lawn as I waited for her reply. At first, all I got was a snuffly breath and some watery sniffing.
“Leah, don’t leave me in mystery like this, what the hell is wrong?”
“It’s that stupid bitch, Rita. She’s resurfaced.”
Great.
Around the time Connor’s twisted nephew Aaron had kidnapped a police employee and left me for dead in an alleyway, Leah was going through a major upheaval in her marriage. She’d found Paul’s phone one Saturday afternoon while he was having a nap, and was devastated to discover a pathetic sexting affair with a woman from work.
Of course, I hadn’t realized at first that the other woman was Rita, a usually reasonable member of the book club. Not quite my cup of tea, but well liked by Chloe and Matt. Rita, a friend of Chloe’s, seemed personable and funny, and I’d warmed to her over time. However, after listening to Rita’s brags about her sizzling fling with a married guy from work and learning the name of Paul’s other woman, I’d been shocked. I put two and two together, which led to a parting of the ways between us. Leah of course alternated between fury, blame and inconsolable grief. Mainly fury.
Turning away from the window, I reached for my mouse and minimized the screen that was beeping quietly. Yet another email, probably spam. “What do you mean resurfaced? How? Did you find more messages on his phone?”
“She turned up here yesterday,” said Leah, her voice cracking.
“Are you serious? What for?” Rita and I hadn’t exactly been on th
e best of terms since her little electronic love tryst had been uncovered nearly a year ago. What was Rita thinking? The few times she had mentioned it to me we’d clashed, purely because she thought having an affair by mobile phone with a married man was hilarious, a bit of a giggle. Chloe and Matt, the two other members of the book club, had tried to talk me around but I’d never gone back. I’d maintained my friendship with Chloe, but the topic of Rita was off limits and had never been brought up again.
I had only been able to resume civilized relations with the woman in the last few months. I clenched one hand into a fist, wanting to let Rita have it.
“She came to see me yesterday. She must have been bloody stalking me. How else would she know I was home?”
Heat rose in my face.
“But why was she there? What did she say?” I said, incredulous.
“She said she was curious and wanted to meet me in person. The conversation lasted all of two seconds. I told her to never contact us again and slammed the door in her face.”
Plus a few choice verbs, knowing how Leah unleashed her temper during fits of anger.
I wondered what sort of fresh hell the news had injected into their marriage. Paul had been dutifully contrite and remorseful, but it had taken four months of marriage counseling before their relationship was able to regain its equilibrium.
“I’ll go and see her,” I said, hearing the hard edge in my voice.
“No don’t, please don’t. I’ve already had it out with Paul and he says he knew nothing about it. For once, I believe him. He doesn’t have the same phone number anymore. I don’t think she’ll show her face again.”
“Want me to come over?”
“No, not now. We’re having a casual barbecue here on Sunday. Come over then, it’d be nice to see you. Renee misses you.”
I grinned and imagined a small smile creeping across Leah’s face. She knew that using Renee for advantage would work with me, every time. “Okay, well, stay in touch. I’ll see you Sunday. I’ll bring something with me. Take care, hey?”
“Yeah, okay.” The phone beeped as Leah hung up.
I pushed myself up from the office chair and dropped the phone to my desk with a clunk. As I paced the small room, I fought the urge to grab my keys and race over to see Rita. What was she thinking? I should give myself time to calm down, but damn it, someone needed to shake some sense into the woman.
Chapter One
Friday 18th January, 6.07pm
Christie had told him about her grumpy but supportive boyfriend. Stories of Ryan cooking for her, caring for her, holding her as sobs racked her bony frame after the death of her grandfather. Ryan might have been abrupt at times, but supportive, no two ways about it. The little things he’d done to show he loved her had spoken volumes to both Christie and Brenton. Cooking small meals to tempt her into eating again, arms draped across her shoulders, tucking her into bed, washing her hair, bringing home books she loved in the hopes of distracting her.
Brenton stared at the computer screen, deep in thought. Ryan was the perfect guy. Good looking, trim, strong and determined, yet caring. Brenton raised his fingers to his collarbone, tracing its edges. He’d imagined him, dark, hot, stunning in every way. Brenton could almost taste the sweat on Ryan’s chest, salty and acidic, imagining how it would feel to grasp a handful of the dark brown mane and slide a tongue down his chest.
Brenton wasn’t stupid. He knew Ryan preferred women, that he’d been with Christie for almost a year and was as loyal and steadfast as a rock. It didn’t stop him fantasizing about their life together, though. Walking hand in hand along the beach, hearing waves splash onto the sand, cooking together in his newly renovated white kitchen, the smells of garlic and basil surrounding them as they kissed and stared into each other’s eyes.
Ryan was so damn perfect.
It had happened slowly, falling across him like a second skin until before he knew it; he was in love with a guy he’d never met. Maybe he should have stopped Christie from pouring out her heart and soul, grief consuming her as she described her grandfather’s death and the way Ryan had been there for her.
Christie’s grandfather Ray, her mother’s father, had died four months ago, and Brenton knew the grief had practically burned her alive. She’d taken a week off and arrived back in the office with eyes red-rimmed and shoulders rounded, shaking off attempts at comfort and conversation. Over the ensuing months, she would come to feel comfortable enough to unburden herself, her thoughts and pain falling from her like misty rain. And always there was Ryan.
Why hadn’t Brenton found a man like that? What was wrong with him? Did he have a neon sign on his head, a siren that called out to losers with baggage?
Months ago, when Christie had first talked about him, Brenton had listened and pictured Ryan: the dazzling edge of his jaw slightly bristly, his dark brown hair silky and slippery, and brilliant green eyes gleaming. When Christie had showed him a recent photograph from her phone, he’d been rigid with shock.
Ryan looked exactly as he’d imagined him.
“Cute, isn’t he?” Christie had said with a smile as she dropped the phone back into her handbag.
“He is.” Brenton had averted his eyes to focus on the small gray plastic bin under his desk. He’d stupidly printed out the profile of BlackTiger77 from the matchmaking site he’d checked out at lunchtime. Brenton had thought maybe he’d take the profile home to consider Mr. Black Tiger at greater length, only to belatedly realize the folly of his actions.
Christie’s curls, a mix of blonde and brown streaks, swayed as she reached Brenton’s desk. “See you Monday honey. I’d better go, apparently Ryan’s home at a reasonable hour tonight.” She smiled and, with a lift of her hand, turned for the door.
He wondered what he’d be doing tonight. Life was getting way too routine and he didn’t feel like yet another evening at home watching a movie and eating pizza. He might head out to a bar on the weekend. It had been a while. Probably Roberto’s.
Friday 18th January, 6.11pm
Connor was up and out of his chair and had just reached for his jacket when Ryan appeared from the door connecting the front public desk area to the rear office. The back office, reserved for sergeants and detectives, had thin brown carpet and desks of worn, dirty gray Formica. Cubicles of four were grouped together in the center. The exhaust fan rattled loudly.
“Connor, a quick word before you go?”
Connor threw his jacket back on the chair and turned to face Ryan. “Yeah, what’s up? Happy to talk here?” Ryan was his almost son-in-law and Connor was careful to keep the boundaries between private and personal life as delineated as possible.
Ryan crossed his arms and bit at his lower lip. “It’s about Gypsy.”
“Yeah?” Connor searched Ryan’s face for an indication of what was to come, but was stymied as Ryan put his head down and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I know I’ve been skeptical and… well, what I’m trying to say is if it helps Christie, I’m willing to give it a go. She needs something and….er…”
Connor felt a surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be willing to get to know and love Gypsy as he did. He knew Christie needed help but, stubborn as a mule, she wouldn’t accept it, and definitely not from Gypsy. “How about dinner tomorrow night? No pressure, we’ll take it as it comes.” Smiling, he picked the jacket back up and headed for the rear exit, Ryan falling into step beside him.
Ryan stopped before the back door, the trenches on his forehead deepening. “Listen, mate, if I’ve caused offence, I’m sorry. It’s the way I was brought up; we didn’t go in for this kind of thing.”
Connor put his right arm on Ryan’s shoulder and gazed at him. Ryan examined the floor again before meeting his eyes.
“It’s okay, I understand. Like I said no pressure. We’ll see you tomorrow and see how we go.”
“Thanks mate.”
Connor headed back to the car park deep in thought. He’d automati
cally assumed that Christie would take to Gypsy the way he had, but they were like oil and water. Christie had been through a lot in her young life, and after losing a mother, father and brother, she couldn’t see past her resentment. She’d been through hell in a relatively short space of time.
Hopefully they could all turn a corner Saturday night.
He whistled tunelessly as he unlocked the car and started it up.
Friday 18th January, 10.38pm
The evening out with Connor meant a great deal to me, as smack bang in the middle of an ongoing and intense investigation, he had arranged to take Friday night off. Connor was private as far as cops went. He mentioned cases but only in passing, and only when they reached the point, where they took over his life. The high profile murder case I’d been following in the news was one such case.
After a delicious meal at Sophia’s—our favorite restaurant, with it being the venue of our first date and everything— the leisurely stroll all contributed to a relaxing evening which could only mean one thing. Sleep. My chronic insomnia meant I grasped at any opportunity for some shuteye.
Yawning when we arrived home, with the wine’s soporific effect having taken hold, I headed straight for the bedroom. I didn’t stop to undress, just dropped my handbag on the glass-topped table in the hallway as I passed it. Connor followed.
As I reached the end of the hallway, he lightly touched my hand and I turned to face him. His eyes had softened. Knowing Connor as I did, I recognized that look. He pulled me close, fingers burning through my blouse, reeling me in with his slow smile, his sweet breath tantalizing.
I examined the flecks of light green that his eyes showed when I stood close to them. He moistened his lips as he leaned closer to kiss me.
No matter how many times we had made love, my desire for him hadn’t left—if anything, the more I learned about his idiosyncrasies, the more I loved him.
