Page 63 of Last Shot

‘I think that’s a little bit sad.’

‘It’s a large cross to bear, yes. Sometimes I just want someone to buy me a drink for my personality.’ He sighed.

‘I mean it’s sad you not having any real friends.’

‘You’re the one who said I don’t have any friends.’

‘The Barbaranis don’t count.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you work for them.’

‘You can’t be friends with people you work with?’

‘You don’t workwiththem, you work for them.’

Something darkened in him, a bruise she’d poked a little too hard. Served him right for using his romantic relationship with Alexandra to gain access to Libby during non-visiting hours.

‘Where areyourfriends, Maxella?’ He was back to glaring now. ‘Did they pick you up from here yesterday morning?’

Thankfully Alexandra waved them through, saving Max from making up some convoluted lie or, worse, telling the truth. Something about the Barbaranis’ Fixer made her feel, strangely, like he might understand.

The cold, artificial air with the scent of metal and the plastic chairs brought back her only other memory of being in here. Jackie’s basically silent visit. Then, still sitting in the same chair, the fight with Libby after she’d asked what she thought was an innocent question. She remembered how it had all made her feel exactly like she had when her parents died – like she herself was a hollow visitors’ room that people and cold air just passed through, never staying long enough to make a permanent home.

‘Before we go in,’ Max said, turning to him, the reality of what they were doing slamming into her, ‘there’s something you should know ...’

‘I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Conrad, if you came all the way back here and made me miss the start ofFarmer Wants a Wifeto introduce me to your white-trash boyfriend.’

The voice that shocked Max right back to her first night here rose from behind Alexandra.

Grey raised his eyebrows in that frustrating way that made her want to drag them back down his forehead with her thumb. ‘I stand corrected. Youarethe expert when it comes to quality friendships.’ He smirked and pushed past her into the prison visitors’ room.

21

Grey

Libby Johnston matched her voice. Grey had a picture of her in his file with photos and basic info on the La Marcas and their acquaintances. In it, Libby’s face was round and smiling. He had taken the photo as she walked out of court, hand in hand with Skinner, high on his third acquittal (and probably from the drugs he’d been acquitted of distributing). Her hair had been styled into blonde springs of ringlet curls, her eyes framed in black liner and lips swollen with whatever it was lip fillers were made from.

The woman in the prison visiting area was the remaining dregs of tomato sauce in the full bottle that used to be Libby Johnston. Her face was gaunt, with deep holes in her cheeks like she was constantly biting them down. The blonde hair had evidently been fake, oily strings of light brown now tucked behind her ears – more prominent now because she’d lost weight. The fillers were gone and she now smiled at Grey through a thin mouth stitched with cold-sore scabs. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’

What happened towhite trash?

‘Ms Johnston, a pleasure.’ He held out his hand but she ignored it, her milky blue eyes fixed on Max.

‘What the fuck’s this about, Conrad?’ Things to add to Johnston’s file: she pronouncedtasdand licked her cracked lips at the end of every sentence. ‘You do the deed already? Who’s the Chad?’

The deed? As in, stop the murder?Something about Libby’s words twisted inside Grey. He tried to catch Max’s eye, but a curtain of hair had fallen across the side of her face, blocking him out. He experienced a moment of insanity where he considered reaching over and tucking it behind her ear so he could infiltrate the meaning of her expression.

‘He drove me here. Works for the Barbaranis.’

‘Ah.’ Libby turned back to him, laser-beam eyes cataloguing every inch of him. They stopped and held on his groin area. ‘That explains a lot.’

‘What exactly does it explain?’ Grey had to remind himself who this woman was. She’d worked with Skinner, she’d plotted against the Barbaranis. She might have known about the bomb all along.

As though she could sense his disintegrating thoughts, Max put a hand on his knee, so far below the table Libby couldn’t see. She squeezed like she was trying to pry kneecap from cartilage.

Libby licked her lips again, probably making the cold sores worse. ‘See, the Barbaranis like their help how they like their wine. Pretty but nothing much going on inside.’

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