A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

you're Mark's?’ He put both hands on the helmet. A posturing threat or to steady his hands?

‘Do you know where’s she gone? Shopping? Visiting a friend?’

‘Why do you care?’

A touch of sarcasm. He slouched a fraction, too. Gaining confidence? Julianna wasn't sure.

‘Because Mark needs to see her.’

Amongst the abandoned clothes and beer cans were dumb bells. It explained his bulk. Plenty of brawn, but not beyond her abilities.

‘I haven't seen her all week. I've been out of town.’ A weak shrug. Now he was uncomfortable, agitated. Was he colluding with somebody?

The black helmet reflected the spotlight above it. She shifted her handbag off her shoulder. ‘You like bikes?’ There were magazines strewn across the coffee table and another helmet on the sofa.

‘I like bikers.’ The shadows under his eyes lengthened as he leaned forward. ‘What's it to you. You said you want to find Ellen.’

‘How did you two meet?’ She stepped over the threshold of the doorframe, giving her arms room to move, her legs kick space.

‘Nosey, aren't we?’ he said with a sneer. ‘She never mentioned your name.’

Because Mark had never told Ellen.

‘So you don't know where she is?’ Time was precious now. She wasn't in the driver's seat waiting to be told what to do. She had to act, make decisions. The knots in her stomach contorted painfully. If this was her chance to prove herself, she couldn't have picked a crazier situation. The man who looked like he could steam roller his way over her could be the man behind Ellen's disappearance. He could be one of those who used the deliverer alias to tempt girls into a trap. Had he befriended her, moved in above her flat and slowly, insidiously tricked her?

He lifted the helmet. Beneath it was a sheet of paper. ‘I know where she's gone. So I'm wondering why her brother doesn't. Because he should know. He should care very much where she's gone. Don't you think?’ Fiery anger lit up his eyes.

‘Shit,’ Julianna muttered. She was too late. Ellen had left. But at least she would get to beat the crap out of the man who set her up.

The door to the bathroom opened. Walking towards her and adjusting the zipper of his leather pants was another man, just as brawny as Nicky. ‘Nic?’ The newcomer lifted two bushy eyebrows. ‘Who's the chick?’

Now, she had to take on two men. The odds weren't great.

  24

Mark

Mark sprawled, spider legged, on the settee with a newly opened bottle of beer in his hand – his third that evening. Surrounding him were numerous handwritten notes on prison paper and the shredder he had borrowed from the office. If he’d had a fireplace he would have burnt them. Letter after letter, promising Mark so much and delivering so little. The anger expelled in each ribbon spewing out of the machine was satisfying. He shoved the slithers into a waste bin.

Bill had portrayed his mundane life in intricate detail. He had lashed out at the inedible food, the inadequate fitness facilities and described his fleeting attempts at improving them. There was the comings and goings of his cell mates, the constant threat of violence and the conspicuous drug taking. Mark had no sympathy for those things, because Bill had chosen that way of life before he had even gone to prison. The letters were a pointless diary of an inconsequential life.

Turning page after page of his father’s spiky handwriting, which gifted him with new hindsight, he realised that Bill had said nothing about his crime, in particular the appeal. The absence of pleas of innocence were obvious. He had been conned and the person to blame wasn't Ellen – she had never read her father’s letters. He wished he hadn’t said those things to her. He hadn’t even accompanied her to the airport to say goodbye. The more he replayed their furious conversation, the greater the remorse, and the more he drank.

The buzz of the doorbell barely cut into his dulled mind, but Jackson's voice bellowing out of the speaker did. ‘Mark, open the fucking door or else you’re fired.’

Mark shoved aside the pile of letters and staggered to the security panel. He released the downstairs entrance door and unlocked his own. A few seconds later, Jackson appeared, nostrils flared and unusually breathless. He slammed the door shut behind him and circled the space between the kitchen and lounge.

‘Where’s Ellen?’ Without a suit and tie, Jackson had lost his executive edge. His usually coiffured hair was flattened with rain, his eyes sculptured by tired lines and depth – Jackson had acquired a different energy. The urgency with which he bounded into the apartment continued as he paced, frowning at the bottles and the shredder. No apology was given for his abrupt arrival.

Mark, in his bewilderment, blustered. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Your sister. Where is she?’ An agitated Jackson was unsightly, an affront to his boss persona. Mark's anxiety escalated.

‘Gone to Ireland. Like she said she would. A flight this evening from Heathrow. And it's her choice. I told her to go if she wants to.’ He slumped down on the sofa and reclaimed his beer bottle. Jackson kicked the shredder to one side and loomed over the indignant Mark.

‘Listen, Mark. Sober up. Who has Ellen gone to meet?’

He wiped the top of the bottle with his sleeve and lifted it to his lips. Why the urgency and why did it matter to Jackson?

‘Who? I don't know. Some bloke she met online. She's been chatting to him for years.’ Lovers, perhaps, who knew? It happened that way and why would he put a stop to it when she had shown no interest in his friends or the opportunities he had presented to her.

Jackson's hand shot out and snatched the bottle out of Mark's hand. For