Deep Water Mark Ayre (inspirational books for students txt) 📖

even more sugar into the top. By the time he was done, Abbie's veins were hurting.

"Ana and Jacob at the beach," said Abbie as Tony began his second awful drink. "You with a gun at Jacob's house. Don't tell me that's a coincidence."

"Okay," said Tony. "I won't."

They drank their coffees. Abbie let him have a minute, then placed her hands around her mug and leaned forward.

"Did you know Jacob was out tonight?"

"You haven't answered my question," he responded.

"You fell into a bush when he pushed through the gate," Abbie pressed. "But I wonder if you knew he was coming home. Had you planned to face him in the garden, only to realise you weren't as ready as you thought when he showed? Did you rush to the door to rectify your mistake?"

Now Tony leaned forward too, clasping his own mug. Their faces were inches apart.

"I believe," he said, "my question was—"

"What were you planning to do with this—" Abbie tapped her jacket where she had concealed the gun, "—once you got inside?"

“—what are you doing here?"

"Were you going to kill Jacob?"

They held position for ten seconds, eyes locked, playing chicken. Who would blink first?

Tony.

He fell back in his chair and let out a long breath. Shook his head. From behind the counter came the sizzle of frying bacon. Abbie was sure she should be hungry. But her stomach didn't grumble; she felt no desire for sustenance.

"Tony," she prompted.

"I knew he was out but assumed he'd be gone the whole night and well into today. His arrival surprised me." Tony shook his head. "I'd never kill a minor."

"Under no circumstances?"

"None. Would you?"

"Never rule anything out," said Abbie. "I was out shopping once, and this toddler smashed my shin with his toy pram. Came pretty close that day."

"More jokes?"

"You hope," said Abbie. "But if you weren't going to kill Jacob—"

"Now who doesn't trust who?"

"—who were you planning to kill?"

"I—"

The waitress appeared around the counter, a plate in each hand. Abbie moved the now empty coffee jug to one side as she crossed to them and pulled back her mug. Tony did the same; the plates landed in the cleared space.

"Thank you," said Abbie, smiling. Tony repeated the sentiment, but his face was contorted, miserable, his attempt to smile reminiscent of a Halloween mask. The waitress hurried away.

"So," said Abbie, taking the ketchup, "where were we?"

Tony was watching the waitress return to the kitchen. Removing the ketchup lid, Abbie twisted the glass bottle and shook it towards the plate. Nothing happened.

"For a minute," Tony said, "why don't you just—"

"Ah yes, murder. You were about to tell me for whom you intended the bullets in your gun—oops."

When shaking the ketchup hadn't worked, Abbie had resorted to bashing the bottle's bottom. Four failed attempts were enough to draw from Abbie a vicious whack.

A tremendous red spurt shot across her plate, covering beans, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, and toast—a line dashed across the table, stopping a centimetre from the wall. Several drops formed a breadcrumb trail from Abbie's plate to Tony's mug.

"I think that's probably enough," Abbie said. She offered the bottle to Tony. "Want some?"

With the tip of one finger, Tony twisted his mug to see the red stain on the white ceramic. His nose wrinkled.

"No. Thank you. I hate ketchup."

"Hate ketchup? You must be mad. But in that case…"

Leaning across the table, Abbie ran one finger up the side of Tony's mug before retracting it, popping the digit in her mouth, and sucking clean the sauce.

Tony could not have looked more disgusted if she had dropped her trousers and began to urinate on the table.

Abbie smiled. "You know, plenty of guys would find that sexy."

"You know some strange guys."

Tilting her head in a so-so gesture, Abbie said, "Granted, not many of them are like you. Ordinary, upstanding murderers of the community."

Tony flinched. Glanced over his shoulder to the empty counter. Abbie rolled her eyes.

"No one's listening. We can have an open and frank discussion without fear of imprisonment. Damn, this is crispy bacon. Don't you just love crispy bacon?"

Tony ate some but said nothing. When he shook his head, Abbie understood it was not her bacon comment he disagreed with.

"I don't know you," he said. "There's no evidence, other than your word, I was at that house today. Gun's got your prints on it too, so my thinking is I could walk away, and there'd be nothing you could do."

"What do you think I want to do?"

"I've no idea. That's what concerns me."

"I thought men liked mysterious women?"

"Mysterious in an alluring, seductive way, maybe."

"Wait," Abbie leaned forward. "Are you saying I've not been alluring and seductive? Damnit, all that practice for nothing."

Tony refused to smile. Abbie didn't mind teasing, even flirting with him, if it distracted from thoughts of Harry and Ana. Even Bobby. More important was to move closer to her goal.

"You said you arrived at five am," said Tony.

"Well remembered."

"People don't arrive for a long weekend break that early. People don’t come for weekend breaks at all in February. Too cold. So why did you come?"

Abbie considered. This was a question she was more than used to fielding, given her arrival times to the various towns she visited and how she almost always immediately got herself into trouble. She had a raft of excuses she had crafted over the years. Her favourite had to do with insomnia and nightmares.

Instinct discouraged the insomnia line. Having caught Tony in a compromising position and with his gun in her coat, could Abbie not afford to take a few risks?

Deciding she could, she said, "I have reason to believe someone in town is in mortal danger. That their life might have less than forty-eight hours to run. Less than forty-two hours, in fact."

"So they're dying some time tomorrow?" Tony said.

"Good maths. That's right. Probably after sunset, but I can't be sure. I've come to help."

This was all honest and yet sounded less realistic than the insomnia line. It would only get worse, too, when Tony started to probe.

"Jacob?" he