You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

said as she was leaving. ‘Thanks for listening, and the coffee. I’ll dust off my running shoes.’

Speaking of footwear, Tyler is still wearing his school brogues.

‘Are you planning to change those?’ Jess asks sarcastically. ‘Come on, mate. Enough delaying tactics. Get your runners on and over to the mat quick smart.’

Billy turns up towards the end of youth class. Jess hasn’t seen him since Sunday. He’s wearing a dark-grey suit, a white shirt and a weary smile. His gym bag is slung over his shoulder.

‘How was the business trip?’ she asks. It’s getting harder and harder to keep him at arm’s length. The forced intimacy from all the extra training sessions, not forgetting that strange stand-off with the detective, when he got all lawyer-like and protective.

Billy sighs. ‘Not as successful as I hoped. Couldn’t get the parties to come to an agreement.’

For some reason, she finds his lack of success pleasing. ‘Well, you better get changed. You’ve got a lot of work to do if you don’t want to get smashed next week.’

The fight will be at the local community hall. Vince has lined up fights for Lachlan and Jordy, too, and he’s encouraging all members to attend, including the youth class and their parents. A boxer’s first official fight is like a religious celebration: a coming-of-age or a welcome-to-the-fold. Sometimes their first fight is also their last – if they decide they aren’t cut out for it – or it’s the start of an ache that doesn’t go away until they next hear the clang of the bell. Jess’s first fight at nineteen was against a twenty-two-year-old from Queensland. Jess went into the fight as the underdog and came out, predictably, without her arm being raised in victory. She fought well, though, and the result was close. Vince was thrilled with her performance. All she could think about was her next fight.

Billy emerges from the change cubicle wearing his black sweatsuit and groin guard. ‘Heard anything more from that detective?’

‘Nope.’ She chucks him a skipping rope, which lands at his feet. ‘Come on, mate. You need to make up for the last few days. Sitting on your arse in the office when you should have been training.’

Billy starts skipping, and soon is too out of breath to ask any more questions. Jess has been on tenterhooks all week, half expecting Bridget Kennedy to stage another ambush, in addition to waiting for Dylan O’Shea to get back to her. He sent a text about ten minutes after their arranged meeting time at the park:

Are u coming?

Jess didn’t answer until after Natasha and Lucy left for home:

Sorry, something came up last minute. Can we reschedule?

No reply since. Dylan’s obviously pissed off and Jess hasn’t pressed him; she has come to the realisation that she should run any further arrangements past Alex.

‘That’s enough skipping, Billy. Get on your gloves. Time to start hitting.’

Alex is going to take a lot of convincing. He won’t want her to meet Dylan. At a minimum, he’ll insist on coming with her. There are two reasons why this won’t work: Alex’s glowering presence will get in the way of an honest discussion; and Jess is frightened of what he’ll do if he loses his cool.

Alex can be deceptively laidback to those who don’t know him well. Beneath the casual exterior exists a rarely ignited temper, a dangerous strength.

39

BRIDGET

‘Hello. I’m here to see Emily Wickham. It’s Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy.’

‘Is Emily expecting you?’ the receptionist enquires pleasantly, a different young woman to last time.

‘No, she’s not,’ Bridget replies in an equally pleasant tone. She deliberately didn’t make an appointment or call ahead. Today she wants William Newson’s assistant to be a little more on the back foot. Less rehearsed. Less word perfect. More real.

Bridget takes a seat on one of the plush armchairs, and once again appreciates the large artwork on the far wall. It’s a different piece to last time: Aboriginal style with thousands of tiny white, black and ochre dots. Painstaking detail paired with a simple colour palette. How long has this particular piece been on display? Is everything in this reception, including the young women behind the desk, on constant rotation?

Emily appears within a couple of minutes: blonde, slender, her dainty feet encased in teetering shoes. Her cheeks are slightly flushed.

‘Detective Kennedy. I’m so sorry, I’m just about to go into a meeting … Is it something quick?’

Bridget stands up and smooths down her trousers. ‘Just a file I’d like to see. And a chat, whenever you’re free.’

‘Which file?’ Emily seems frazzled, as though retrieving a file is beyond her capacity right now. Why so busy all of a sudden? Last time they spoke, she was uncertain about her future with the practice.

‘Thomas Malouf. The complainant was a woman called Hayley Webster.’

‘I remember it.’ Emily tucks a strand of straight blonde hair behind her ear. ‘About two years ago. The charges were dropped. I’ll see if I can quickly locate the file.’

Bridget sits back down. Her eyes veer back to the painting and her thoughts veer to her daughter, who has submitted her university preferences and is putting the finishing touches to her portfolio. Each piece has been laboured over … and cried over. Bridget can’t help worrying what will happen if Cara doesn’t get her first – or even second! – preference.

‘Let it play out, Bridge,’ Shane said this morning. ‘It is what it is.’

He’s right, and it’s not like Bridget to be a helicopter parent.

Emily has returned, victoriously clutching a thin manila file. ‘Here it is.’ The flush on her cheeks has deepened. ‘Lucky it wasn’t archived. Shall I find you an empty room?’

She’s being genuinely helpful, despite being under pressure for time. Bridget warms to her; she knows that rushed feeling all too well.

‘No, thanks. I’m absolutely fine here. Much quieter – and more comfortable – than what I’m used to at headquarters. I’ll see—’

‘Emily?’ A deep voice interrupts Bridget mid-flow. Joshua Newson. Neither she nor Emily noticed his approach.