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

wanted only the two of them. The truth is, Roslyn doesn’t have many close friends. Some fell by the wayside during the trial, appalled by the unpleasantness and unwanted publicity. Her husband’s death was another layer of contagion; people were sympathetic but they didn’t know how to act so it was easier to keep their distance. It’s the same for Megan. Her mother is her closest confidante as a result.

‘You seem a bit tired, love,’ Roslyn says now, her gaze becoming more scrutinising.

‘Is that your way of saying I’ve got bags under my eyes?’

‘You know it isn’t. But it must have been a difficult shift for you to sleep in so late.’

Roslyn was in bed by the time Megan got home last night. She’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, which fits well with 7 a.m. starts at the car rental company. Megan was relieved not to have to face her last night, and she has no intention of bringing up William Newson now: that would be one way of completely ruining her birthday. But it feels so odd and discombobulating to keep something this big from her mum. He’s dead … Someone actually shot him … I was one of the last people with him. She has to concentrate to keep the constant inner dialogue from spilling into spoken words.

‘I’m so full. I really shouldn’t have dessert.’ Not the most subtle change of subject but Roslyn falls for it and convinces Megan to order the pavlova.

Megan is slightly tipsy on leaving the restaurant. An Uber and fifteen minutes later they’re home.

She stifles a yawn. ‘I’m just going to have a lie-down.’

‘Don’t fall asleep or you’ll have trouble tonight,’ Roslyn warns.

Twenty-nine years old and still being told what to do by her mother. It’s wrong, but fixing it is complicated. Her whole life is complicated.

Megan’s bedroom is her haven, albeit cramped and drastically over-furnished. Double bed with bohemian-style pillows and cushions. A writing desk where she laboured over school homework, before her bachelor of paramedic practice. A long low-level bookshelf, which complicates access to the window. A built-in wardrobe and two crammed-in bedside lockers. Unfortunately, there’s no other viable layout for the furniture. Her father used to talk about knocking through the wall to Seb’s old bedroom, affording her more space, as well as installing a modern kitchen and much-needed second bathroom. The plans were a mere fantasy: there was never the money. His death arrested any further thought of renovations. His death arrested everything. Three years later, Megan and Roslyn still haven’t regained rhythm to their lives. Everything feels flat and kind of pointless.

Megan kicks off her shoes and moves some cushions on the bed: the wine has wiped her out. Two glasses are her limit. Lucas calls her a lightweight.

She types a text to Jess.

He’s dead. I know I should feel sympathy but I can’t.

How odd if someone else, a stranger, were to read the message. What would they make of such a callous statement? Does Jess tell people about what happened to them? Is she open about her history? Megan isn’t. She tried with some of her earlier boyfriends; it quickly killed dead any romance.

Seventeen: so young. Megan picks up a lot of teenagers in the ambulance, most of them comatose drunk or high on drugs. In between checking their vitals and giving them fluids, the same refrain repeats over and over in her head: You’re too young, you’re just a kid; go home to your parents where you’ll be safe.

She searches the news headlines while she waits for a reply from Jess. All the channels are headlining the story.

A well-known barrister was shot outside his home at approximately seven thirty last night. Mr William Newson was taking out his bins when residents heard two gunshots … The motivation for the shooting is not yet known and police are appealing for witnesses.

It’s only a matter of time before Roslyn hears about it, but hopefully not today.

Megan closes her eyes. Her limbs feel both heavy and weightless. Fragments of last night begin to replay in her head. The concrete unyielding against her knees as she bent over his body. Blood glistening on the grey-white skin of his torso. Light escaping from the rear doors of the ambulance, revealing the face from her nightmares. Doing over a hundred on the Pacific Highway, siren screeching. At one point she clipped the kerb and almost sent the vehicle over on its side. Never has she driven so recklessly, putting everything on the line to get William Newson to hospital. Trying to save his life. Which is completely inexplicable because he destroyed hers.

5

JESS

Alex is still in bed when Jess gets home from work, just after lunch. He came in from the pub at 3 a.m. – she heard the front door creak, checked the time on her phone and sighed. In fairness, he tried to be quiet, whispering swear words when he dropped something in the kitchen. He navigated his way to the bathroom, using the torch on his phone to avoid turning on the lights, but still managed to trip over something, which resulted in more swearing. Stealth is difficult when you’re six foot three, not naturally light-footed and three sheets to the wind.

It’s always good to open the front door and come home. Jess loves this place, the high ceilings, big windows and generous proportions giving her space to breathe. Her things, her décor, her rules. Alex knows this and doesn’t interfere. As far as she’s aware, Megan still lives at home. Jess doesn’t know how she can stand it. She’d live on the streets before going back under the same roof as her parents.

Food is always her first thought when she gets home, and her stomach makes a weird noise to remind her it needs filling. A quick scan of the fridge and pantry before assembling a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a jar of pesto and a packet of dried pasta. The pasta will replace her lost calories as