Jill woke in a pool of sweat. The bed sheets were wet, her mouth dry. Her heart pounded and her chest heaved as she took in deep, jagged breaths to calm herself. She turned on the bedside lamp and stared up at the ceiling. It was always the same theme — death — but with different scenarios. Sometimes she was struggling to keep Kevin Taggart at bay, her strength spent, his foul breath on her face, and the crush of his weight on her. Other times her father featured, his death raw, like it had happened days ago not years. Dorin Chisca, the man responsible for his death, waving a gun in her face, mocking her.
It wasn’t quite daybreak but Jill knew from experience, the chance of further sleep was impossible. She slipped out of bed, pulled the quilt around her shoulders and walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen. She turned on the light above the range hood and poured herself a glass of water. Too tired to think, too wound up to sleep, she stood in front of the window, stretched over and checked the lock. Everything was secure. She yawned, knew if she didn’t get at least seven uninterrupted hours of decent sleep sometime soon, she was going to start making mistakes, and mistakes were something she couldn’t afford in her line of work.
Outside, a branch scraped against the glass. She jumped back with a start. With all the memories in the apartment, why hadn’t she left, moved somewhere else? She frowned, bit down on a nail. Kevin Taggart. Stop thinking about him, you know he can’t hurt you anymore.
Jill swallowed her water in a gulp, put the glass down and turned her thoughts to Robbie. It wouldn’t be long before the case would be formally closed. Then all that remained would be to go to Robbie’s funeral.
Jill showered, towelled herself off and brushed her hair back into the usual ponytail. She’d decided to wear make-up today. She dabbed on some lipstick and applied tinted moisturiser. She searched everywhere for the black A-line skirt that had been missing for the past month. Eventually she found it at the bottom of her wardrobe. The skirt was the only one she owned. She usually felt more comfortable in jeans or slacks, but today she needed a look that said power and authority. She teamed the outfit with a black jacket and a dusty-pink, silk blouse.
Too bad the whole effect required heels; by the end of the day her feet would be hot and swollen. Jill finally found her black stilettos under the bed. The shoes had been bought on sale, and on impulse, but she knew the heels would give her the height she needed to look Carver in the eye.
She walked into the kitchen and popped two slices of wholegrain bread into the toaster. She would have preferred a later meeting time to avoid the peak-hour traffic. What was this meeting with Scott Carver about, anyway? She bit into a slice of toast and wondered if he wanted to talk to her about Adam Lee and the Interchange. She knew nothing about Asian gangs. That was Jenny Choi’s area.