Page 116 of The Guilty Girl

A flush-faced Brontë Harrison stood there, barefoot, a long, floaty black dress thing wrapping around her legs and baby bump in the breeze. He tried to mask his surprise, but judging by the look of disdain blazing his way, he wasn’t succeeding. He lowered his head, unable to keep eye contact.

‘I was looking for Richie. Is he in?’

‘No, he’s gone into town. He should have been back by now. I can tell him you called, but I’ll need to know your name.’

He thought by the look she threw him that she might know who he was.

‘Tell him Noel Glennon needs a quick word. Won’t keep him long.’

‘Do you want to come in and wait?’

Richie would rage at him for darkening his doorstep, but they needed to talk. And soon.

‘Sure.’ He walked in past her, noticing her bare feet again. ‘Should I take off …?’ He pointed to his black Nikes, hoping she’d say no, because he hadn’t put on socks and his feet were sweaty. He was unable to control his hot cheeks.

‘You’re grand, no need. Would you like a coffee, Noel?’ She closed the door and squeezed past him.

‘That’d be great.’ He had an uneasy feeling she’d brushed against him purposely.

‘Kitchen is this way.’

Calm down, make small talk, appear normal. ‘When is the baby due?’

‘Another few weeks, but he’s getting impatient. I spent most of yesterday in the hospital.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘The doctor says all is good, and who am I to argue with the experts? Decaf or regular?’

‘Whole hog, please. I need it.’

‘What’s up?’

She kept her back to him, busying herself with the fancy coffee machine. Richie had fallen on his feet with this woman, Noel thought.

‘Just the shock of Lucy McAllister’s death.’ He didn’t know why he’d said that, but he had to tell someone. ‘She went to the school where I teach.’

‘I heard the guards are treating it as murder,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Makes it all the more terrible. When do you think Richie will be back?’ He thought it would look rude to check the time on his phone. Then he remembered he could check it on his Fitbit. His nerves were more frayed than he’d thought.

‘He should be home any minute.’ She raised her voice above the noise of the coffee percolating. ‘What do you teach?’ She placed a plain white mug on the table by his hand, her fingers lightly brushing his.

‘PE, and I train junior athletics.’

‘You must be so fit. Sounds like too much work for me.’ She worked another mug of coffee from the machine. ‘How do you know Richie?’

‘Erm, met him a couple of years ago, actually.’

‘That’s odd. He’s never mentioned you, and I don’t think Richie ever ran more than ten metres in his life.’

A nervous giggle escaped and he mentally reminded himself to act his age. ‘My meeting Richie had nothing to do with the school or sports.’

He felt like a little boy in her beautiful, confident presence. But there was something about her that bothered him. Should he be able to identify that look at the corners of her eyes? Was it fury? He shook himself to get real.

‘The thing is, I also work as a bouncer – you know, in town, at some of the nightclubs where he DJs. Met him one night.’

Brontë turned around so quickly the coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug. ‘Milk?’