Page 59 of Last Shot

‘So what are you giving Arnold?’ Nella demanded as Quinton tapped the edge of the syringe.

Max wondered if Quinton’s tolerance for this Spanish Inquisition was because this was the Barbarani family or because of one Barbarani in particular.

‘Atipamezole,’ he said. ‘Can’t tell you for sure what happened, but it looks like he’s eaten something he shouldn’t have – see his gums?’ He bared Arnold’s teeth for them.

Max didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking at.

‘They’re white,’ Nella said.

‘He’s been vomiting too.’ Quinton pointed at the patches of sludge where Nella had found Arnold.

‘Did someone do this to him?’ Tom asked.

Frankie looked stricken, like the thought that someone would deliberately hurt an animal was ten times worse than the fact that someone had just tried to blow her and her family into the sky.

‘Don’t know.’ Quinton scratched his jaw. ‘I can’t say exactly what it was he ingested. Been out of the small animal medicine game for a while, so I’m a bit rusty on all things feline, but I’ll talk to some colleagues and get their take on it if you like. I’ll take some of the vomit back with me and see if I can get it tested.’

‘Thank you,’ Grey said. ‘Here’s my number. Call me first.’

‘Competition, Frank,’ Luca whispered, but thankfully it didn’t seem like anyone heard – or cared – because Arnold Schwarzenegger’s eyes had started to open.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Quinton said as Nella wrapped her arms around the vet’s neck.

The tension released through the air like a helium balloon slowly leaking as Quinton was clapped on the back, futilely protesting an invitation to the gala that Nella made clear was more like a court summons.

But Max was still on edge. She might have lost her badge and her gun, but her bosses couldn’t take away her cop senses from her. Something wasn’t adding up.

20

Max

They’d been driving for fifty-eight minutes and Grey hadn’t said a word.

At first Max had been reluctant to acknowledge something had changed between them. She wasn’t sure if it was what happened when he crashed on top of her in the cellar, or his reluctant abdication of the throne of ‘I have no emotions, nothing has ever fazed me before and I will not apologise for anything’ when he explained why he’d been so quick to assume Max had been trying to attack Nella instead of helping her cat.

She wondered what it had cost him to reveal that part of himself.

He hadn’t spoken to her since she’d asked what he was doing, half submerged in the bonnet of the car after the final group in his extended security team had returned from their search of the property.

‘Cutting the brakes?’ she’d asked mildly.

‘You joke,’ he said, head still in the bonnet, ‘but someone did exactly that to Tom’s car a few years ago. Jett does these checks on all the cars now before every drive.’

‘So why isn’t Jett doing it now?’ Was this what they’d been distilled to? Small talk? It made her skin crawl.

‘He’s checking the bomb remnants to see if he could get anything else from them.’

And that was it.

Fifty-nine minutes later, Grey was glaring at the road as though it were whispering personalised insults at a decibel only he could hear. Max was left to try to forget about the fact she was in a car by drafting a list of suspects that weren’t Kaine Skinner.

It all kept coming back to the La Marcas. And to Libby. She’d said Kaine was going to be at the gala. She’d said there was going to be a murder. Women like Libby had their life stories written for them by men like Kaine Skinner. But Libby knew Kaine better than anyone, knew firsthand that he was capable of sending his own wife to rot in a cell for him. It was a huge risk for Libby, giving Max the inside information about how Kaine operated, his plans for the Barbarani gala, his connections with the La Marcas. So what was Max doing, questioning her judgement?

And what are you doing, keeping that note a secret?

Maybe it would have been better if they succumbed to the small talk – because then at least it would be Grey’s judgemental voice in her ear, not her own. She’d managed to convince herself that keeping her word to Vittoria and not telling Grey about the note wasn’t putting anyone’s life in danger. If she was still a cop, she would have had no problem keeping that information to herself. In fact, it would have been unprofessional for her to share it.

At least the vastness of the road and the yellow and green speckled plains they passed were soothing her various neuroses. She’d forgotten how big the world was. How there were spaces that had no end in sight. No fences. No walls. She envied the man beside her that he got to wake up every morning and be reminded of the enormity of the world. She hadn’t had that, even before prison. Her little flat in Fremantle that echoed with the sounds of the city – sirens, car horns, drunken yells – had just reminded her that she had work the next day.

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