The Trouble With Dying Page 14

  “This is bullshit,” he mutters, then flings open the door and strides out to join them.

  Nate’s only reaction is a quick glance at the door as he continues to chat with Tess.

  I merge out to the corridor but I’m too late, and I guess Geoff is too. Brady’s already pocketing his notebook.

  “Thanks, Ms Bar . . .” He trails off, frowns, takes out his notebook again.

  “Barton-Wilde. Cynthia,” she offers.

  “Yes. Sorry. Thanks. And my apologies for boring you with so much checking and double-checking, but it has to be done.”

  She gives him a flatlining smile, crushes her now-empty takeaway cup, then walks over to the rubbish bin and drops the cup from a height.

  “No problem,” she says, with just enough hesitation to make it clear it’s an imposition.

  And then it’s Geoff’s turn. But rather than talk in the corridor, the two men head straight for the lifts, beyond the range of my leash, and I’m forced to wait and wonder.

  Eventually they return, and yes, they’ve been out for coffee. How utterly civilised.

  They approach my room and I follow close behind. I’m rewarded with the end of Geoff’s comment.

  “. . . more I’d tell you. I don’t understand how or why this has happened but I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “I appreciate it,” says Brady. “Where were you at one-thirty on March the tenth, by the way?”

  “What?” Geoff stops mid-stride to stare at Brady. “You think I . . .?”

  Horror dawns on his face. “Hang on. You think this might’ve been foul play?”

  He’s a good actor, I’ll give him that.

  Brady’s mouth turns down at the corners. “I just need to get a full picture of everyone’s movements so I have an accurate timeline of events.”

  “I was at work. Ask my PA. I was closeted at my desk doing paperwork.” Geoff’s lips compress. “Any other questions?”

  “No.” Brady smiles. “Thanks.”

  They resume walking, this time in silence.

  It’s not until they’ve almost reached my room that Geoff speaks again.

  “Perhaps,” he says through tight lips, “you should check Nate Sutherland’s whereabouts, too. If you’re wanting a nice, full picture, that is.”

  # # #

  Brady is heading for the lifts when Nate catches him up in the corridor. I’m close behind.

  “Well,” says Nate, thrusting his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Well.”

  “Anything useful?”

  Brady’s pace slows. He shrugs. “How long have Geoff and Cynthia been screwing?”

  My heart kdonks. I fight a wave of nausea.

  Nate shoots him a sharp glance. “They admitted it?”

  “I didn’t ask. It’ll keep.”

  “A while, I think.”

  Brady’s lips tighten. “Adds credence to the suicide theory.”

  My heart lunges into a sprint. No. Please don’t go back to that idea. The nausea wins.

  Nate says nothing, but a muscle works in his jaw.

  Brady stops walking. Turns to face his friend. “I’m not saying I think it was suicide. I’m just saying their affair could be seen as motive for Faith to commit suicide.”

  “Except she didn’t.”

  “I hear you.”

  Brady looks off into the distance. Then snaps his gaze back to Nate. “For what it’s worth, I’ll be disputing their suicide conclusion. I spoke with Kathy earlier and her description of Faith mirrors what most of you have said.”

  “Most of us? Let me guess.”

  “Not here.” Brady slants a glance back up the corridor. “We can talk later. For now I’ll just say my gut tells me it’s less likely to be suicide.”

  Nate nods his agreement. “It doesn’t fit Faith’s personality.”

  “On the other hand, if Faith wanted to hide the way she was feeling she’d likely keep it from all of you. Wouldn’t be hard. Sometimes we’re so close we don’t see people as they really are.”

  He holds up a hand as Nate starts to protest. “I’m not saying it happened that way. I’m saying it’s a possibility. I’m being objective. One of us needs to be.”

  Nate stretches his neck, inhales deeply. Hmmpfs.

  “And . . . the apartment?” Nate’s fist taps time against his thigh.

  “I had a look this morning. And yes, I agree. Based on what I’ve heard, if she was about to top herself she’d work it all out down to the last detail, and she’d definitely put everything in order first. The apartment tells me she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. She got distracted.”

  Brady pauses. “Any reason Geoff wanted me to check your whereabouts on the tenth of March?”

  Nate lasers him with a look.

  Brady grins. “Humour me. You told me to leave no stone unturned.”

  “Geoff’s a prick, and so are you.” Nate’s answering grin is gone almost before it’s arrived. “I was doing surveillance for a client. On the other side of Auckland,” he adds. “Check my GPS if you like.”

  Auckland. That’s what this city is called, then. I have a fleeting image of sand and sea and yachts in a white-capped harbour.

  “Cheers,” says Brady. He glances up and down the corridor.

  “This ward’s fairly secure,” he continues, with what appears to be a random change of subject. “Nurses keep a close eye on visitors. Good monitoring system.”

  Nate nods, and although he says nothing his gaze is piercing.

  “The balcony,” continues Brady. “Do you recall the layout? Furniture, plants, that kind of thing?”

  They look at each other, and I’d swear they’re having a whole separate conversation with their eyes.

  Nate frowns. “Pics?”

  “A couple.”

  “Send ’em through.”

  Brady inclines his head. Starts walking away.

  “Oh.” He stops, turns back. “One last thing. Do you know a Mrs Luciano?”

  Nate stills. His eyes become hooded. “Why?”

  “She’s left a message. Or five. Wants to make a statement. Says she saw the whole thing.”

  “Christ. Of course she did.” Nate shakes his head despairingly. “Saw it, my ass.”

  Brady’s eyebrows head for his hairline.

  “The woman’s bonkers, John. She might have dreamed it, or imagined it, or had indigestion at lunchtime, but I’ll eat my hat if her version of ‘seeing’ is the same as yours.”

  Brady frowns. “You know this woman?”

  Nate looks up at the ceiling. Exhales. Turns his world-weary gaze back to his friend.

  “Sylvia de Luciano is my mother.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Nathan.” Mum beams up at him from her chair. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “What?” He reaches the bed in two long strides, his eyes searching Faith-in-the-bed. “She’s moved?”

  “No. Oh.” Her face drops. “Sorry. Under the circumstances I thought Geoff would have rung you.”

  Nate lifts an ironic eyebrow.

  “That man.” She tuts. “Well, I’ll tell you. That lovely detective . . . what’s his name?”

  “Brady?”

  She nods. “Yes. Detective Inspector Brady. He rang Geoff personally to tell him the news.” Her eyes twinkle. “The police have ruled it an accident.”

  The A-word slams into me. I feel winded, like a kid who’s just toppled from their treetop perch and hit the ground hard.

  An accident . . .

  Before today, this would have been the best news I could have hoped for. But a lot can happen in a day.

  Nate grins at Mum, clasps her shoulders in his hands, then turns to Faith-in-the-bed. “Hear that, Pixie? You’re not suicidal; you’re just clumsy.”

  I find my voice. “No! This wasn’t an accident. I was pushed.”

  “Reminds me of that time you fell down the library steps,” he says. “I broke your fall then you blamed me for it.”

/>   He lifts her hand and gently massages with his thumb. My palm tingles. I flex my hand, irritated. My body has no right to respond to his touch at a time like this.

  “Gratitude wasn’t your thing,” he adds.

  Mum’s smile is tinged with sadness as she looks at Faith-in-the-bed. “She hates looking foolish.”

  “Foolish?” I repeat, incredulous. “You think this is about me feeling foolish? Come on, guys. My husband tried to kill me.”

  “Well,” says Nate, his voice laced with humour, “I guess a three-storey fall rates quite high on the Foolish Scale. Hey, Pix.” He squeezes Faith-in-the-bed’s hand. “It’s okay. Nobody’s laughing. You can wake up now.”

  This isn’t good. This is seriously not good. They think it’s embarrassment keeping me in this stupid coma? Do my mother and long-time friend really believe I just need to get over myself?

  What if it’s true? What if I’m that shallow?

  A ball of emotion lodges in my throat. What if I wake up and discover I don’t even like me?

  What if I don’t?

  Nate leans against the bed. “Did Geoff say why they concluded accident?”

  Mum nods. “They went back to the apartment and found signs they’d initially overlooked. Things that indicated Faith was going about a normal day, not preparing for—” she hesitates, glancing at the bed “—you know.”

  “Thinking along the same lines as us, then?”

  “Yes. Thank goodness.” Mum smiles then, and I’m struck by the brilliance of her eyes. It’s as if the police ruling has cleansed her, right down to the whites of her eyes.

  “Geoff mentioned housework,” she says. “Something about the vacuum cleaner . . . Lying in the lounge, I think. And it sounds like Faith had been in the middle of some baking. Ingredients on the bench, muffins in the oven. Burnt,” she adds.

  Nate shakes his head. “Christ. The whole apartment could’ve gone up in smoke. How long was it left on for?”

  “I don’t know.” Mum pauses, frowns. “That’s odd. I wonder who turned it off.”

  Nate wanders to the window. Arms folded, stares out.

  “Maybe Faith did.” Mum nods. “Yes, that’ll be it. Only she forgot to take out the muffins. She must have been very preoccupied.”

  Nate, apparently equally preoccupied, doesn’t respond.

  Eventually he notices the silence and turns.

  “Well.” He clears his throat. “Accident. That’s progress. I must thank John.”

  I hmmpf. He may think it’s progress, but I’ve got a murderer to deal with and, really, I need Nate dealing with said murderer too. This is Day Five. Of seven. Time for a bit of intervention.

  I hover in front of him.

  “Na-ate,” I croon. “Hello, Na-ate. Are you listening?”

  He opens his mouth to speak—probably to Mum—then gasps. Right as I pass my hand through his chest.

  Ha! See? He does feel me.

  “Nate! It’s me.”

  I do it again, and is it just my imagination or am I feeling the thud of his heart against my finger? No. That’s not possible. I only feel via Faith-in-the-bed—don’t I?

  “Listen, Nate, this is important. It wasn’t an accident. It was attempted m—”

  “I win!” Tess bursts into the room.

  I leap back, slamming my mouth shut and my hand behind my back.

  She takes in my apparently guilty expression and looks at me suspiciously. “What?”

  I attempt wide-eyed innocence.

  “What what?” asks Nate, grabbing Tess and hauling her in for a hug.

  “Nothing,” I say, but it’s not nothing. It’s actually a very big Something.

  My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. I need to warn Nate about Geoff. Now, if possible. Because if Geoff can toss me over a balcony, he can easily kill a defenceless woman on life support—or anyone else he damn-well pleases. He’s a monster. Who knows what he’s capable of?

  And suddenly the monster is there, in the doorway, as if I’ve conjured him right out of my mind. Bitterness rises in my throat.

  “Murderer!” I want to scream.

  But I don’t. I paste a smile on my face and say nothing, because I don’t want to scare Tess, and I absolutely don’t want her to know her father is a cold-blooded killer.

  “Great race, Pumpkin.” Geoff gives her a high-five, then turns to Nate. “Morning.”

  The men swap clipped hellos, and I take a moment to deep-breathe myself calm. I’m safe—for now.

  But here’s the thing: I’m a mum. My daughter needs me, and not just for now. She needs me by her side for years to come, guiding her through the hard stuff, celebrating her successes, easing her way through life.

  For a moment I watch Tess shrieking and giggling with Nate. It brings joy to my heart—and fear.

  This is Day Five. I have to get through to Nate, and soon. I only have two days left, and in that time I need to not only convince Nate I’m real, but also convince him to protect me from my husband until I find a way to wake up.

  # # #

  Geoff’s gone to work. Mum has popped out for milk and bread. Which leaves just the three of us: Nate, Tess, and me.

  It’s the perfect opportunity. Tess and I will work on Nate. No witnesses, no interruptions. And this time I have a plan.

  Later, of course, I’ll need to find a non-Tess means of communication; I can’t let her know what sort of man her father really is. But first things first.

  “Uncle Nate?”

  “Mm-hmm?” He looks up from his crossword.

  Tess skips over to him, bubbling with excitement. “Mummy says she knows the answer to nine-down.”

  Breathless, I wait for his reaction.

  He smiles. “You like crosswords, do you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. When Daddy says cross words I get sad.”

  “I mean these kinds of crosswords.” He taps the page.

  She looks down at the page, then twirls away from him. “I don’t know. What are they?”

  He blinks, frowns. “O-kay . . . but you know the answer to nine-down.”

  Still twirling, she says, “No. Mummy does.”

  “Ah. Mummy again.” Nate exhales. Twiddles his pen. Looks at Faith-in-the-bed. “Go on, then, Tessabelle. Tell me nine-down.”

  She stops beside him, staggers, giggles. “It’s ‘rose’.”

  An answering smile tugs at his lips. “Really?”

  He looks down and reads. “‘The flower ascended.’ ”

  His mouth forms an ‘O’. He stares at Tess.

  “Good girl,” I murmur.

  She beams at me.

  He blinks. Looks back down.

  “Rose.” He clears his throat, then fills in the blanks. “Right.”

  Under his breath he mutters, “Trust Faith to give birth to a bloody genius.” Then, louder, “You’re a clever cookie, Tessabelle.”

  “No, Mummy told me the answer.”

  He blows out his cheeks, rubs the back of his neck. Sits back and regards her steadily. “Honey, you don’t have to pretend around me, remember?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Fine. Have a look at this one, then. Twelve-across.” He stabs the page with his finger. “Let’s see if Mummy knows the answer this time.”

  Tess bites her lip but does as he asks, looking more and more bewildered as she tries to make sense of the Sunday Star Times cryptic crossword.

  He waits, watchful.

  “Tess, honey,” I say, “can you read that?”

  She shakes her head, takes a backward step, looks at me with tragic eyes. “Some of the words are too hard,” she whispers.

  “You managed before,” he says, and I want to slap him for being so obnoxious. How does he expect a seven-year-old to read that, let alone decipher it?

  “Nate Sutherland, you deserve to be shot at dawn.”

  Tess gasps and stares at me, horrified.

  “Sorry, love. He’s just making me so mad.”

  “M
ummy’s mad at you,” she tells Nate.

  “Hopping mad,” I add. “So mad I . . .” My voice falters.

  Ohhh. Of course. This is how I can prove to him, once and for all, that I’m here and conscious and wanting to talk.

  “Tell you what, Tess,” I say. “Take a couple of steps back. No, three.”

  When she’s too far away to see the crossword I give a satisfied nod. “Okay, tell Uncle Nate you’re going to prove I’m here.”

  As she relays this to him I zip down to his side, breathless with anticipation.

  “Oh, really?” he says. “This’ll be good.”

  He sits back in his chair, arms folded, and waits for whatever she’s about to say. “Prove away, Squirt.”

  I read twelve-across: “‘Healed wound will give permission for red.’ ”

  “Tess, first I want you to tell Uncle Nate you don’t know how to read those big words.”

  She does as I’ve asked.

  “And you can’t see the crossword from where you’re standing.” I wait until she’s told him, then continue. “Great. Now tell him I’m going to work out twelve-across.”

  She repeats my words and gets a slow nod from Nate. He folds his arms, a disbeliever’s smile on his face. She jiggles from foot to foot.

  They wait.

  I try to get my head around the clue.

  “Hmm.” These cryptics are so weird. They sound as if they’re full of meaning but, really, they don’t make any sense at all. How can a healed wound give permission?

  “‘Healed wound’,” I murmur. What’s another word for healed? Recovered. Something tells me this is the way I need to be thinking. Maybe I’ve done cryptic crosswords before.

  Nate flicks finger against newsprint. Ping. Ping-ping. Ping.

  Tess tips her head upside-down and waves at Nate through her legs. “Hi.”

  Nate looks her way. His lips twitch. “Hi.”

  I have to work this out. Where does the wound bit fit in?

  “‘Healed wound’.” Stitched. Scar.

  “A-ha!” Triumph surges through me. I laugh. “Got it!”

  “She’s got it,” reports Tess, still upside-down.