Page 80 of Last Shot

‘Yeah.’ Meeting her gaze was a gamble; she’d either see through his lie straight away or he’d be able to hold it like water cupped in the palm of his hands, just long enough for her to drink before she looked away.

He almost baulked at the piercing stare of her green eyes as they bore into his wretched, tattered soul. But he held them until she looked away, his lie now safely hidden as a glimmer in the corners of her eyes.

27

Max

Max was used to sitting on the couches of dead people first thing in the morning, comforting their relatives, drinking tea and sometimes ducking from grief-induced plate Frisbees. She was used to doing it hungover, or when she was distracted by something in her personal life – a fight with Damien or Jackie, or the day after the anniversary of the car crash. She’d got good at separating her personal life from her work life – like peeling a slice of beetroot out of a sandwich. She could usually remove it completely, barely a trace of pink on the bread where it had been. But what she’d never had to contend with, sitting on a victim’s couch, speaking to their family, was thoughts about sex with the guy sitting next to her still ricocheting through her mind. Even after he’d told her exactly how he felt.

I just don’t see you in that way.

You’re not my type.

Sitting on Poppy Raven’s tiny yellow couch opposite her parents, with Grey’s enormous boulder of a knee a hairline away from her, she was unable to remove her beetroot life from the bread life. The beetroot was mushed up, soaking through the bread, staining everything pink.

She couldn’t focus. She was going to do something stupid like tell them the truth about who Grey was and why they were there. Hell, she might even mention the note left behind on Giovanni’s pillow and try to get the Ravens’ take on it.

She didn’t like the fact that they were lying to Poppy’s family, telling them they were private investigators, but she’d had to rationalise it to herself, unable to say more than a few words to Grey since last night. She’d been telling herself on the excruciating car ride here, up the modern entrance stones to their front door, that lying to them would help get to the bottom of what happened to Poppy. It was all in the interest of stopping another attack. She just hoped the Ravens would get the truth when they found it, that it wouldn’t be kept under lock and key in Grey’s box of Barbarani secrets.

It was killing her that she couldn’t talk to him about this. But she doubted she would ever be able to look him in the eyes again without feeling the turntable nausea of shame and passion.

She tried to focus on small details in the room: the sound of Mrs Raven boiling water for tea, and how Mr Raven held his hands together to stop them from shaking. Fissures of grief canyoned their faces; Max couldn’t help staring at them, trying to track her way back through the memory of her own path of grief. The Ravens’ house reminded her of the one she’d grown up in. Photographs of their wedding day, their children, hung proudly on cream walls. An enormous wall-mounted flat-screen and other modern appliances likely forced upon them by patronising adult children clashed with wooden cabinets stacked with VHSs and DVDs. Max’s mum had always organised her books in alphabetical order by author, like a real library, and Max now fought the urge to run her finger along the bumping spines. Had Poppy done that to Mrs Raven’s books?

Was it the same sort of pain, losing a child as it was losing a parent? It probably wasn’t. But Max was protective of the grief she carried for her parents. She’d always felt it was so wrong, so unfair, so utterly, inconceivably evil that they had been ripped from her that way. She’d thought that no one would ever understand her pain. Just like no one would ever understand what happened with Jackie and Evan. But Grey had. Ironically, the one person who could actually understand what she’d been through because of his own past, was the one person who didn’t want to know her.

She’d thought Libby had understood her too, but now, with everything that happened last night and with what Alexandra had said, Max wasn’t sure where they stood.

‘Thank you.’ The sound of her own voice surprised her as Mrs Raven put a mug of tea in her hand. Grey had offered to make it but Poppy’s mother had insisted. Mr Raven had muttered something about keeping occupied with physical tasks – as though if she was left without a simple purpose like pouring water into a kettle, she would implode.

‘We are deeply sorry for your loss,’ Grey said. Even though Max was humiliated beyond measure by him, she was surprised at Grey’s gentleness with the Ravens. He seemed utterly genuine in his composure when he spoke to them. If Max didn’t know how good he was at deceiving people, she might almost believe he was being sincere.

Mrs Raven’s face tightened, and her husband put a hand on her knee. ‘Thank you,’ he said, copying Max’s rhythm like he had lost his own sense of speech. ‘So you’re a PI? What is it you think you can do for us?’

As Grey set his tea down on the glass coffee table, Max tried not to draw comparisons between it and the one she’d found Jackie splayed across on that fateful night. She wondered if Grey remembered what she’d said. About the knife.

‘I think I can find out what happened the night she died,’ Grey said. The roughness of his voice felt like stubble grazing her neck and she shivered.Focus, Conrad. ‘I have references from previous cases I’ve worked on that you’re welcome to call if you want reassurance of my capabilities.’

Ha. Who were those contacts? Nella? Jett?

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mrs Raven said.

Mr Raven looked more sceptical. ‘Tell me what you’ve found.’

Grey leant forward. ‘The wine was poisoned. It looks like it was rat bait.’

‘Rat bait.’ Each ‘t’ was sharp and filled with saliva as colour drained from Mr Raven’s face. Meanwhile, Mrs Raven sipped her drink, politely nodding for Grey to continue.

Grief would never stop surprising Max. When the doctor had sat down on her bed to tell her both her parents hadn’t made it out of surgery, she’d asked if they had any chocolate ice cream because she didn’t like vanilla.

‘Did Poppy have any enemies?’ Grey asked.

‘She was a 22-year-old accounting student, not a Russian oligarch.’

Or an Italian wine maker.

‘Did she ever mention the Barbaranis?’ Max asked, not too proud to admit she felt a little smug as the large shoulders beside her tensed. Why shouldn’t she ask questions?

The Ravens looked at each other. ‘I suppose she talked about them. Gossiped. Never took much notice, if I’m being honest. Maybe we should have.’ Mr Raven’s eyes clouded over as Mrs Raven took a deeper sip of tea, her expression blank.

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