Page 10

CHAPTER NINE

End of January

Nick

My friendship with Madigan was an increasing problem. The man made my skin itch, like it was stretched too tight over my bones. Talking with him was easy on one hand and way too fucking complicated on the other. My own fault entirely after dropping the barely coping ball on New Year’s Eve and finding myself searching his number on my phone.

Not that I regretted the decision. I’d been a mess, no two ways about it. Christmas had sucked and I hadn’t even begun to recover before New Year was at the door. My heart had been an emotional washing machine, the constant back-and-forth slosh of anger, misery, numbness, and back to anger again had left me exhausted and capable of little more than getting through the day.

The call with Madigan had saved my fucking life, and I’d somehow survived my first holiday season without Davis. We all had. It was a start. I was on the path and moving forward, most days at least.

I’d had the sense to go against my default position of work, work, work and, whatever you do, don’t feel. With Davis’s and Madigan’s voices playing in my head—don’t ask—I kept my workload light with just enough routine tax stuff to distract without making me busy. And even though I’d protested when the financial crimes unit boss suggested moving my case load to another investigator for a while, they’d been right. I was in no headspace for exacting forensic calculations that needed to stand up in court. Hell, I could barely get my own bills paid in time, let alone follow a complicated money laundering trail. My bank account took a hit, but my mental health was all the better for the downtime—an outcome that admittedly surprised me.

I could hear Davis laughing in my ear. He’d once bawled me out in the middle of an argument, saying, You seem to think you can bully life’s crises into submission. Like they’d even listen to you. Like the universe could be arsed dealing with your infernal bullshit. A crisis is meant to stymie you, Nick. It’s meant to make you think outside the box. To grow as a person. What it’s not meant to do is confirm your opinion that you’re always right. And then he’d kissed me.

Point to you, sweetheart.

And through it all—the tears and the rants and the long, long silences, Madigan had been there. Not in person. I was too raw to deal with the contradictions his particular presence lit in my soul. But there were texts, the occasional call, and a surprising weekly delivery of pre-made meals from an organic supplier I’d never heard of, just to remind me someone was watching.

I’d called and ripped him a new one for the sheer impertinence of implying I couldn’t cook for myself, and he’d laughed at me.

“Get over yourself,” he’d said. “You’re losing weight and I can smell the cooking oil and takeout from here.”

“You have no idea what I look like,” I’d snapped back while simultaneously making my way to the bathroom to take a look for myself. “You haven’t seen me since I hit you with a length of wood, and I’m strangely feeling that same urge again.”

Another laugh. “I don’t need to see you. I can hear you’ve lost weight. Your words are thin. Puny little adjectives falling all over each other because they don’t have the strength to stand up on their own. And your nouns are... brittle. When you yell at me, it’s like a tiny puff of air that floats away. Where’s the acid? Where’s the bullshit? Where’s... Nick?”

I’d snorted and turned sideways to study my flat belly in the bathroom mirror. “It floats away cos that’s what I wish you’d do.” I’d pinched a handful of saggy skin and winced. Okay, so I could do with adding a few pounds, not that I was going to tell him that.

“No, you don’t,” he’d said smugly. “I’m just saying what everyone else wishes they could.”

“Fuck off.”

“And my job is done.” He’d hung up and I’d worn a smile for the rest of the day.

And I ate his damn food.

Worst of all, it was really fucking good.

I never mentioned it again.

The rest of our conversations had been about nothing in particular, just a sane voice to amuse and distract me. Someone who didn’t spend all their time worrying about saying the wrong thing. I’d take Madigan’s bluntness every day over the sympathetic platitudes of all the rest.

But the New Year’s call had also turned into so much more than I was willing to admit. A four-hour conversation spent learning about each other’s family, teasing and joking and talking about our romantic pasts. He’d shown me how to make a fabulous chilli hot chocolate which we’d consumed on our separate decks as we continued to talk by video until the weak grey light of dawn spilled over his lawn and my street.

He’d given me a video tour of his house—a beautiful property styled on a modern barn conversion with towering ceilings, exposed beams, and a lot of reclaimed wood. And bookcases everywhere, some even kitted out with sliding ladders. Copper pans softened the bright white kitchen, and comfortable couches and colourful rugs filled the living space. It was a house built for a man who spent a lot of time in it.

But the one thing Madigan hadn’t shown me was his studio, suggesting we do that another time. A part of me hoped that would be in person. Another part wanted to run. Because there was a sense of mystery and intimacy in the way he talked about his workspace, like it was a piece of him. It had me wondering just how many people got to see inside and what it meant that he wanted to show me .

The call had also helped me clear the emotional cesspit I’d been drowning in and set me back on the road to healing. The troubling thoughts of that night hadn’t returned. Like a choice had been made. I was going to survive this and that was that. Madigan had helped me see that.

But the image of him standing in his kitchen in a pair of checked briefs and nothing else was an entirely different problem altogether. That particular image had been seared into my brain and was proving challenging to shift, popping up when I least expected it and generally fucking with my head.

Davis would be amused, of course. Never prone to jealousy, he’d be the first to tell me to get over myself. That he was dead. That he’d been gone not just for a couple of months, but for all intents and purposes, since the accident itself.

But it wasn’t that easy. I hadn’t looked at another man in that way in... forever. It simply hadn’t interested me. Even when I’d lost Davis to his trauma, or maybe even because of that, I didn’t even think of going there. It was wrong on so many levels.

And then Madigan Church walked into my life, and for the first time in forever, I’d felt that spark again. Felt it and ignored it.

As it needed to be.

Because Davis was still alive, still breathing.

But now?

Now, I didn’t know. I didn’t understand the attraction.

Madigan Church confused me. It was just another complicated set of feelings to deal with on top of everything else.

I didn’t know what it meant.

I didn’t know what he meant.

And I wasn’t ready to find out.

So I’d let a month pass without speaking to him again, at least not directly. I sent his calls to voicemail and texted just enough to keep him from appearing at my door. It was rude and even dismissive, especially after what he’d done for me at New Year, I knew that. Just like I knew Madigan would be confused and maybe even a little hurt at the treatment.

That part didn’t sit well, but the distance was keeping me sane as I tried to understand what was going on.

I didn’t need another complication in my life.

I didn’t need Madigan Church.

I . . . didn’t.

Maybe he’d be pissed enough to back away.

And I’d let him.

It would be for the best.

Even if I couldn’t seem to do it myself.

Because every time I thought about telling him that I needed more space, an aching chill ran up my spine and I couldn’t do it.

I had to hope that he would.

As for the rest of my life? The break-in remained unsolved. The police had no luck finding any unexplained fingerprints and the theft was put down to teenagers after Christmas presents. I’d apparently been lucky.

Go me.

Madigan’s name flashed on my phone screen like I’d conjured him with my thoughts. I stared at it for a moment, then let it go to voicemail and ignored the message ping when it came. I’d text him later.

I pushed the phone aside, took a long swallow of coffee, and eyed the large envelope in front of me on the dining room table. I knew what it contained. I’d opened it the day the lawyer had handed it to me, then shoved it into my desk drawer until I felt capable of dealing with all Davis’s instructions regarding his writing and publishing business.

I traced a finger over my name, which had been scrawled in Davis’s heartbreakingly familiar hand, along with the words Author Shit written underneath. It made me smile. I knew exactly why he hadn’t given it to me directly. Even with the best intentions and my penchant for tidiness, I was crap at remembering where I’d put things and Davis had to come to my rescue more than once.

One thing we’d done right was making sure we both had full power of attorney over the other if either of us was incapacitated. It had made everything that much easier, and I’d been able to instruct Davis’s literary agent and personal assistant to keep things turning over until things resolved in whatever way they did. With only one book in the pipeline when he was hospitalised, already edited and ready to go, they needed little input from me. His publisher released it as planned and it had done well. But with Davis’s death, there were now a ton of conversations to be had, contracts to cancel, and decisions to be made.

I continued to stare at the envelope, knowing that time had come. For some reason, this felt more final than anything else so far. Other than me, his writing was his life, and it was hard to think about a world where that would never happen again. And although I knew Davis’s finances and taxes since I did his annual returns, the publishing side of his business was a complete nightmare to even think about. But the guilt had begun to needle, and I owed it to Davis to man up and get on with sorting out his precious work.

I opened a window to encourage a little sea breeze into the stuffy room and stared through the glass. Welcome to the sub-tropical paradise that was Auckland in summer. A place where palms thrived and people and animals wilted. Outside, a sweltering thirty-three degrees Celsius baked the gardens, unusually hot for Auckland, and humid as shit. Inside was even worse but I hated air conditioning with an irrational passion that had been the cause of many an argument between Davis and me over the years, none of which he’d won.

Something I found myself regretting time and again. Would it have hurt to let him be cool when he wanted? I really was an arsehole.

Across the road, a man in his seventies tugged at the lead of a reluctant cockerpoo who was sheltering in the shade of a mature magnolia. The man stopped and wiped his brow, said something to the poor animal, then scooped it into his arms and headed back the way he’d come, presumably home. Point scored to the dog who clearly had more common sense than his owner going out at noon on one of the hottest days Auckland had seen in a long while.

Shelby jumped on the table and went up on her back legs to smooch my shoulder, a startling mark of affection that had started around Christmas when she’d clearly decided Davis wasn’t coming back and it was me or nothing. How did they know?

I leaned my head against hers and she gave a rumbling purr. “What’s up, girl?” I scooped her into my arms and she tolerated a short cuddle before wriggling to be set free. I placed her on the table, something I would never have tolerated when Davis was alive.

“Too hot for you as well, huh?” I ran a hand down her back, and she yawned and stretched lengthways on the polished wood, batting my fingers away with her barely sheathed paw.

“Fine.” I raised both hands. “No need to get pissy with me.”

I opened a second window and then a third until an elusive warm breeze blew sluggishly past my face. Shelby repositioned her sleek body to catch some of the draft and settled down to sleep. I watched her for a moment, then retook my seat and reached for the envelope.

An hour later I’d re-read and sorted the envelope’s contents into six plastic folders. The first held anything to do with royalty sources, taxes, and finances. The second covered contracts, documents for his company of which I was a shareholder, copyright information, and other legal administrative stuff. The third was to do with promotion, cover artists, advertising, graphics, and social media. The fourth was a hellishly long list of information regarding websites, accounts, author and publishing tools, and the fifth consisted of anything that didn’t fit into the other four.

That done, I fell back in my chair and sighed, my worst fears confirmed. It was going to be a much bigger job than I’d imagined, and I’d imagined quite a bit. None of the tasks in isolation presented a problem, but the sum of the parts was going to take a lot more time than I’d originally planned.

“Wanna job?” I asked Shelby, who was watching me with one eye open. The eyelid closed and I sighed. “You and me both, kiddo.”

On the plus side, the majority of Davis’s books and everything related to them, could continue to be handled by his publishing company who held the contracts. On the downside, he had two self-published books that would need some personal monitoring, and there was the complex job of ensuring company and copyright legalities were secured correctly under my name. I saw many, many lists in my future, but that was fine. Lists I could do. Order and clarity. Forensic accountant in the house, folks.

What didn’t make me happy was the small sheaf of papers in the sixth and final plastic folio sitting off to my right. Davis’s instructions had mentioned a folder of copyright documents kept on a shelf in the wardrobe of his study, but when I went to retrieve it, I found a receipt and warranty tucked/hidden underneath along with a credit card statement from a bank we didn’t use. The statement and receipt itemised the purchase of a laptop bought about two months before the accident, along with a few other purchases, one of which was a cheap phone that I’d never seen.

I pulled the pile closer and tried to think of any fucking reason Davis wouldn’t have told me about these. He’d been obsessive about his laptop—most authors were. If he needed to update it for some reason, he’d angst for months over the decision, the whole excruciating process driving me crazy. So, the idea that he’d bought a second laptop without me even knowing boggled belief and bubbled unhappily in my belly, along with the question of where the fuck the thing was. I hadn’t stumbled on it in almost two years.

Davis had left his original laptop on his desk that day. Since then, I’d been using it to keep up with his emails and stuff. There’d been no laptop found in or around his wrecked car, which meant the second one had to be somewhere in the townhouse, except I’d pretty much cleaned it top to bottom, apart from his side of our walk-in wardrobe, where his clothes hung exactly as he’d left them, a chaotic mix of colour and design.

Just glancing at them used to make me want to stab my eyes out with a blunt fork. His wardrobe reflected his mind—creative, startling, unpredictable, hard to evaluate, mismatched, and impossible to find anything you were looking for without conducting a grid search. It was in stark contrast to my side where obsession ruled with clothes strictly organised by type and colour, easy to find and ridiculously soothing to my brain. After the accident, I’d found the chaos reassuring. Like a whisper of hope. The one time I had tried to sort through them, I’d ended up in a pile on the floor. It had not been a good day.

But that was then.

I pushed back my chair and headed to the bedroom. I had a laptop to find.

Thirty minutes later I was sitting on the wardrobe floor surrounded by piles of clothes, but still no laptop. Shelby watched me from the doorway with a look on her face that said everything you needed to know about what she thought of stupid humans.

I tried to think of anywhere else it could be while at the same time trying not to think of why Davis might have kept it hidden. I even knocked on the wardrobe walls looking for any hidey holes, emptied his drawers, and upended the large box he kept for all his old shoes just in case he needed them again. The man was an enigma.

At the end of it all, the search had turned up nothing. Which only begged the question of where in the hell the damn thing was? I headed back to Davis’s study for another look, using a stepladder to make sure I’d checked right to the back of the wardrobe shelves.

Nothing.

I stood in the door and scanned the room again, lingering over his desk, realisation dawning that there was something else I hadn’t seen since the accident, something I’d missed in the shock of the moment and the drawn-out aftermath. Something I’d barely even thought about until then. Davis’s research folder for his next book.

There were only two places that folder lived when Davis was planning as he’d been for two months before the accident. On his desk or on his person. He bought a new one for every book, and his last had sported the disturbing cover of Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream . Fitting for a thriller writer, I’d supposed at the time.

Davis was very secretive about the plot lines of his new books, rarely sharing anything, worried he might start second-guessing himself. To that end, he kept his research folder closely guarded. But his latest wasn’t on his desk or anywhere in the house, and I was pretty sure it hadn’t been in the car with him that day either. If it had been, the police would’ve returned it along with the rest of his stuff, in pieces or otherwise. Then again, I was so overwhelmed at the time. Had I just not seen it?

I stared out his study window and tried to recall exactly what was in that box. Davis’s car keys—I remembered that much along with unrecognisable items of clothing, which I’d immediately thrown away. There were takeout bags, including a half-eaten order of french fries. I remembered that in particular because it had been a surreal moment thinking of Davis eating something as mundane as french fries as he drove to his demise, and why in the hell the police had thought I’d want those back. Davis’s satchel had been there too, along with his wallet, his phone in a million bits, and his Mickey Mouse keyring. But no laptop and no research folder.

I was still staring out the window when it hit me.

The Mickey Mouse keyring.

Shit.

I spun on my heels, almost tripping over Shelby in the process. She squawked and hightailed it back to the dining room while I legged it down the hall to my study. Davis and I had never shared an office... ever. The very thought appalled me, especially considering the unspeakable mess on his desk most days. He’d always preferred paper notes to digital, but filing cabinets were invented for a reason, whiteboards needed cleaning more than once a year, and I was firmly convinced the reason his plots were so convoluted was because he couldn’t find half the outline until it was too late and then had to weave it in after the fact. One year, I’d discovered one of his plot twists lost down the side of our sofa, and when I’d shown it to him, he’d whooped with delight and run for his office. I didn’t see him for days after.

Davis’s office sat at the front of the townhouse with a cheerful view to Rangitoto Island whilst mine was secluded in the smallest bedroom at the rear—the darker room much easier on my eyes with those endless spreadsheets.

The police box was exactly where I’d left it, minus the shredded bloody clothes I’d trashed, the takeout containers, and his car keys, which I’d hung back on the hook by the garage door. The fact his car had been annihilated had seemed irrelevant at the time. Back then, we’d all thought Davis would be coming home and I wanted him to be the one to do the throwing out.

He hadn’t come home, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the keys.

They were a reminder of him every time I left the house.

And a reminder to drive safe.

His reminder to me.

I could live with that.

Everything else was still in the box, including the Mickey Mouse keyring—a present from Davis’s mother when he’d started writing his first book. I carried the box into the dining room, emptied its contents on the table, and kicked the dining chair aside.

There’d been little left of Davis’s car to determine what exactly caused the crash. The absence of any obvious mechanical problem left speed and careless driving at the top of the list. When the police checked Davis’s phone, they found it had been turned off for most of the day until just before his last phone call to me, so there was no way to trace his movements and why he’d been out that way in the first place.

I shook my head free of all the questions starting to crowd my thinking and began searching through the box. It quickly became clear there was no folder or laptop, only a Ziplock containing the remnants of what looked like Davis’s usual phone, and a lot of irrelevant bits and pieces from the pockets of his car such as mints and pens and empty drink bottles, an umbrella, a pair of track shoes, and a half-dozen books—the predictable selection of reading material. Wherever Davis went, books followed. It was an unspoken law of the universe.

Since I’d downloaded his stuff onto a new phone, I put the Ziplock aside, which left me with the Mickey Mouse keyring. I gave the attached key a narrow-eyed stare before picking it up. “What the hell were you playing at, Davis?”

I reached for my phone and my brother-in-law answered on the third ring. “Nick?” He sounded surprised, almost shocked. “What’s wrong?”

I blinked. “Um... nothing? I just have a question for you, Samuel, if you’ve got a minute?”

A worrying silence barrelled down the line. “A question.” He sounded pissed. “ You have a question for me . Not a word since Christmas, and now you have a question for me? What the fuck, Nick? If it wasn’t for Mum keeping me in the loop that you were doing okay, I’d be losing my shit completely. A call would’ve been nice. Hell, even a reply to one of the million texts I’ve sent. You’re not the only one grieving, you know. He was my goddamn brother—” His voice broke and my heart a little with it.

Because I’d been too wrapped up in myself. I hadn’t thought... I wasn’t thinking... “Samuel, I?—”

“Jesus, Nick,” he said over me, choked and upset. “I thought I was losing you as well. You’re an ornery fucker, but you’ve kind of grown on me over the years. What is up with you? We’re family, you arsehole.”

“Ornery fucker and arsehole in one sentence, huh?” I tried for a laugh but it fell flat into the looming silence. “Okay, I guess I deserved that.”

“Fucking oath,” he muttered. “What the hell have you been doing since I saw you at Christmas?”

I pulled the dining chair closer and sat. “Not much. New Year was fucking awful, to be honest, so I kind of went to ground. I should’ve called. I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you should’ve called,” Samuel snapped. “You should’ve done a lot of things. Don’t ghost me again. Don’t shut me out. We both loved Davis in different ways, and you’re the closest thing to him I have left.”

Fuck. I slid the phone onto the table and dropped my head into my hands. I’d screwed up big time. So fucking typical.

“Nick?”

“I’m here.” I lifted my head and stared at the screen. “And I’m really sorry. You and Davis might not have looked much alike, but your voice, your sense of humour, even that stupid laugh, I could hardly stand it sometimes.”

Samuel was quiet for a moment, then he rasped, “Don’t try and sweet talk me. You could’ve said something. I would’ve understood. You’re family , Nick.” He emphasised the word with such raw emotion it threatened to send me reeling. “I get that’s a hard concept for you to trust, but Mum and I aren’t done with you just because Davis is dead.”

I flinched at the bluntness.

“You’re still family regardless, maybe even more now because he’s gone. You’ve become my brother as much as Davis, and you don’t get to slink away and lick your wounds believing that we’re all gonna wipe our hands of you just like your parents. Like we’re looking for any excuse to let you go.” He paused, letting the sting of that truth sink in because in my darkest hours, that’s exactly what I’d thought. “We’re not your parents, Nick, so don’t you dare lump us in with them. We deserve better and so do you.”

His words picked at a scab on a wound that had never healed, not completely. I scrubbed at my eyes and tried to formulate a response, any response, but nothing came. Samuel meant what he’d said, I knew that, but switching those childhood messages in my brain wasn’t easy. Davis had managed because... well, because he was Davis and I’d loved him. If I hadn’t trusted his love for me in return, I’d have fucked us up completely.

“I’ll try,” I conceded. “But I might need reminding.”

I sensed him smile. “I can do that.”

I took a shaky breath and squeezed out, “I think of you as my brother too, Samuel. I mean it.” And I did. As terrifying as the idea was to my heart, I did.

“Good.” He sounded pleased. “So, what’s this question you have for me?”

I sighed, happy to move on. “I was wondering if you or Lizzie had been down to Clark’s Beach since Davis’s accident?”

“Clark’s Beach?” Samuel sounded surprised. “No. I haven’t been there for ages, long before the accident. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m hardly the caravanning type. That was Davis’s thing. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool city boy, you know that.”

I did know. In Samuel’s world, roughing it meant a three-star hotel, and anything less than a flushing toilet and room service made him break out in hives. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. What about Lizzie?”

He went quiet for a few seconds, thinking. “As far as I know, Mum hasn’t been there either. She’d pretty much handed the place over to Davis as his writing retreat all those years ago, but I’ll ask her, if you like. That section had always been earmarked for you and Davis to build on if you wanted. You knew that, right?”

I blinked. “It was?” The shock was clearly evident in my voice.

Samuel huffed. “Of course you bloody were. Goddamned golden child and his grumpy mate,” he teased but without any heat. “Mum gave up on my sorry arse the second Caroline came to her senses and left me in a pool of self-recrimination.”

I countered, “Caroline was crazy about you.”

“Maybe.” Samuel hesitated. “But it didn’t help me hold on to her, did it?”

I gave a soft snort. “I think you’ll find that what really didn’t help was you spending every free moment you had studying and doing extra shifts to grab all those promotions you wanted.”

He sighed. “Brutal but true. Anyway, lesson learned. Why the sudden interest in the caravan?”

Why indeed. I needed to be careful around this. There were a lot of reasons Davis might’ve kept things from me, not only the obvious. “Davis had the van’s keyring with him that day.”

“The Mickey Mouse one?”

“Yes. It was in the box of stuff the police handed back to me. I was too exhausted at the time to pay any attention, but it usually lived in his desk drawer unless he was planning to go down there.”

“Huh.” Samuel paused. “You think he went to the caravan that day before he went to... well, wherever the hell he went?” Samuel sounded as irritated about not knowing the answer to that as I did.

I said, “It makes sense since the accident site is only about twenty minutes from Clark’s Bay. He hadn’t been there in a while, not since he’d pushed the deadline on the final edits for Blowback . But if that was his plan, then why didn’t he say anything that morning before he left? I know we weren’t exactly on cordial terms but still.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind.”

Maybe if I hadn’t blown up at him? Maybe if I’d just let it go? Maybe Davis would’ve been more careful? He might’ve told me where he was going. He might even still be here.

“Stop it.” Samuel read my mind. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I ignored him. “I can’t find his research folder either.”

I pictured Samuel’s raised brows. “ The Scream one that was practically chained to his wrist?”

I snorted. “That’s the one. It’s another of those things I hadn’t thought about until I was going through his office today.”

Samuel fell quiet. “What’s really going on, Nick? This isn’t only about a research folder and a set of keys, is it?”

I scrubbed my hands down my face, then watched Shelby’s ribcage move quietly up and down in sleep, her whiskers twitching as a fly tried to negotiate a landing spot on her head.

“Nick?”

A sigh broke my lips. “No, it’s not just those. Davis left a list of instructions about what to do with all his publishing stuff. He mentioned a copyright folder that I hadn’t come across, so I went looking for it and found a receipt and warranty for a new laptop in the process. He’d bought it a couple months before the accident along with a second phone.”

Two beats of silence and I knew the phone had thrown him a little. “And?” he finally prompted.

“I knew nothing about either of them, Samuel.” I sounded a lot more pissy than I’d intended. “His old laptop was still on his desk and he never said a word about a new one. You know how much he hated changing any tech stuff. He took forever to decide and I had to practically buy the damn things for him.”

Samuel chuckled. “I remember. And you’re sure he never mentioned it to you?”

“Of course I’m sure,” I huffed indignantly. “But that’s not all. They were bought with a credit card from a bank we’ve never dealt with.”

That shut him up and I waited a long silent minute for his cop brain to fire into gear.

“Okay, I’ll admit it sounds a little off,” he finally conceded. “Maybe the laptop was in the car with him when he crashed?”

“It wasn’t,” I said, adamant. “I’ve been through the box of stuff the police gave back to me, including the inventory that came with it. There’s no mention of any laptop or parts of one anywhere, and the phone pieces just look like Davis’s usual one.””

“And you’re sure they didn’t keep it?” He was stretching and we both knew it.

“Why would they?” I scanned the items on the table once again.

“Point,” Samuel agreed. “How about I check with them anyway? I’ll ask the officer in charge of Davis’s traffic case.”

The relief I felt was surprising. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

Samuel continued, “And you’re thinking the laptop and folder might be in the caravan?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought I’d drive down and take a look. The idea that he’d just gone and bought a new laptop and phone without me knowing doesn’t sit right.”

Samuel’s sigh said it all about what might be on the line. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I huffed dispiritedly. “No, Samuel, of course I’m not bloody sure. There aren’t a lot of reasons why he’d do something like that, and none of them bode well.”

“Okay, fine,” Samuel soothed. “But if there’s anything on it that Davis didn’t want you to find, don’t you think he would’ve used a password?”

“Shit,” I grumbled. “I hadn’t thought that far. I’ll check our lockbox app.”

“And what?” Samuel huffed. “Search for the one that says secret laptop password?”

I snorted. “Knowing Davis, that’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. But I can search by the date a password was added or edited, so I’ll look around the date of the receipt. It’s at least worth a look. Besides, we’re assuming there’s something untoward in all this. It might be nothing more than a second laptop that he bought because he wanted to. In which case, there’d be no reason to hide the password would there?”

“And the credit card?” Samuel raised a point I’d conveniently chosen to ignore and had no answer to, so I said nothing. He sighed. “But you’re right. We’re jumping to conclusions.”

I wanted to agree. I wanted him to persuade me that I was panicking for no reason. Instead, I said, “You’re feeling it too, aren’t you? That this whole thing is weird.”

He hesitated long enough to let me know I was right. “I don’t know what to think,” he confessed. “A new laptop and phone are one thing, but a new credit card?” He sighed. “Davis wasn’t the secretive kind, so it has to mean something. You want me to come with you? I’m just shuffling paperwork. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“No,” I answered in a rush. If Davis had been up to something, I didn’t want any company when I found out. “I’d prefer to do this on my own. If nothing else, it’ll get me out of the house. You can tell Lizzie I’m going to clean Davis’s stuff out. He loved that caravan. He used to drive us down there for fish and chips on the beach. Just don’t mention the laptop and shit. Not until there’s something more to tell.”

“Okay. But call me when you get back. Don’t make me hunt you down. I want a full report. In the meantime, I’ll check back through the case notes and ask a few questions.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Samuel. It means a lot that you’d help.”

“Why wouldn’t I help? And I’ll tell you one thing for free. If that brother of mine was up to no good, I’ll be digging him up and scattering the pieces as shark bait in Waitematā Harbour.”

My laugh sounded slightly manic. “Jesus Christ, Samuel, you’re weird as fuck sometimes.”

He snorted. “And you’re only seeing this now? Don’t forget to call.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “And I’ll do better with the whole keeping-in-touch thing, as well.”

He grunted. “See that you do.”

I ended the call and eyeballed Shelby who’d woken and was watching me with a decidedly bored expression. “Make yourself useful and guard the house.”

By way of response, she got to her feet and sidled past my face, making sure to brush my nose with her tail in the process. Then she jumped down from the table and made her way into the kitchen where she sat in front of her empty bowl, eyeing me expectantly.

I sighed and followed her in. “I blame your other daddy for spoiling you too much.”

She blinked back at me, her tail flicking back and forth.

“Little Miss Prissy Pants.” I filled her bowl and returned to the dining room.

I studied the table for a moment, then swept everything back into the box and headed out.