Until Death - Sandy Curtis

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      Now he juiced oranges while croissants warmed in the oven, and percolating coffee filled the kitchen with its rich aroma. He glanced up as Libby walked into the room. His T-shirt became a dress on her slight figure, and her short, damp hair had been combed like a cap around her head.

      'I hope you don't mind,' she said, 'but I used the hairbrush.'

      'You're welcome to use what you like. Now sit down while I get you some breakfast.'

      He noticed that although she did as he said, it was with the wariness of a distrustful animal. Pascual's kitten analogy seemed very fitting at that moment, and he laughed.

      She looked up at him in surprise. 'What's funny?'

      'You,' he said. 'you make me feel like an ogre in a fairytale. As though any minute you expect me to throw you in my cooking pot and serve you up for dinner.'

      The tension left Libby's strained features. 'I'm sorry. You've been very kind to me.'

      Conor placed a glass of juice in front of her, then reached into the refrigerator and brought out two bowls. He put one in front of her. She glanced down at the slices of golden fruit it contained.

      'Bowen mango,' she smiled delightedly. 'I haven't had that since I was a kid.' She looked up at Conor and her face fell as she realised what she'd said.

      Conor sat down across the table from her. 'Well, that's something you've remembered, Libby. Perhaps when you feel you can trust me, you can tell me what else you remember.'

      He watched her consternation, knew the moment fear grabbed her, and saw the effort she made to contain it. 'I'll help you if I can,' he continued, 'but it's up to you.'

      The words nearly burst out of Libby then, but she stopped them, picked up her fork, and began to eat. She couldn't trust him. She couldn't trust anyone.

      As Conor cleared away their bowls and dished croissants onto a plate, Libby watched him. He wore a T-shirt and clean shorts now, but her mind kept flashing pictures of him, hard-muscled chest naked and dripping with sweat, as he'd stood in the bathroom doorway.

      'How long have you lived in this house?' she asked casually.

      His appraising look told her he didn't view her question as mere curiosity, but his voice was indifferent as he replied, 'Seven years.'

      How could she ask him who he'd bought it from without making him suspicious? 'There's something familiar about it,' she said, looking around. The plumbing and sink had been modernised, but their white and gold blended well with the richness of the polished timber cupboards.

      'Perhaps you've been here before?' Conor said, and she knew he was offering her an opening to tell him what she was hiding. 'I bought it fully furnished, and the previous owners said they had too.'

      'I don't know.' The catch in her voice was genuine, and she wiped at a tear that formed and threatened to fall. A mug of steaming black coffee was placed in front of her, and she looked up into eyes that were both kind and questioning. But all he said was, 'Milk? Or cream?'

      'Cream, please,' she managed to choke out.

      Within a minute of sipping the hot drink, beads of sweat formed on her body. She rolled the T-shirt sleeves up to her shoulders and reached for a croissant. As the warm, buttery flavour filled her mouth, she realised how hungry she was. She licked the crumbs off her fingers, and Conor placed another croissant on her plate.

      A newspaper on the end of the table caught her eye. 'May I?' she gestured. Conor nodded. She picked it up and scanned the headlines. Car accident, politicians involved in a scandal, ratepayers disagreeing with council decisions. She turned the pages, searching for anything about her mother's death.

      Nothing.

      A wild hope surged through her. Perhaps her mother wasn't dead? Then her spirits fell as she realised the discovery of Vanessa's body would have been too late to get in the papers. She didn't even know what time anything had happened last night. When she'd regained consciousness this morning she'd been so dazed she had barely registered that her bag and watch were missing. If her ring had been easy to remove she may have lost that too, she thought.

      With a sigh, she closed the paper and folded it. As she moved it away, the date caught her attention. She looked at it in disbelief. Monday. It couldn't be Monday. That would mean she'd arrived in Brisbane on Sunday night. She could remember Friday, but where had Saturday and most of Sunday gone?

      'Libby? Libby, what's wrong? Do you feel sick?'

      The concern in Conor's voice helped her focus. 'Is that ... is that today's paper?' Please, God, this has to be a joke. What's happened to me?

      'Yes. What's in it that's upset you?'

      How could she explain when she didn't know herself? And how could she find out? She had no money, and if she went to the police what would the men leaning over her mother's body tell them? She looked across at Conor. She couldn't tell him everything. But perhaps he could help her.

      'My grandfather used to read the newspaper at the breakfast table. He used to say that Grandma always told him it was a bad habit, but after she died it was too lonely to sit there by himself just eating.'

      'Your grandfather?'

      'I came to Brisbane to look for him. I was only twelve when my father brought me here, and I can't remember if this was his house.'

      Conor heard the ring of truth in her voice, but knew she wasn't telling him everything. Fear and consternation showed in her eyes, and he decided to let her tell him more when she was ready. 'What's your grandfather's name?'

      'Herbert Daniels.'

      'Then you're Libby Daniels?'

      She nodded. 'Some things about this house look familiar, like the front entrance, and the furniture in the bedroom, but the bathroom's different, and so is this kitchen. But it could have been modernised in the last sixteen years.'

      'Sixteen years! But if you were twelve ... That makes you ...'

      'Twenty-eight,' she said resignedly, as though only too accustomed to surprised reactions.

      'I thought you were barely out of your teens,' he muttered.

      'People always think that when you're short. My dad used to call me his petite little princess ...' The words had barely left her lips when her tears began to flow. She couldn't seem to stop them. It was as though all the years of grief and anger were pouring out in a flood of tears.

      Conor handed her a box of tissues. A hiccupping smile touched Libby's face as she took it. Man-sized tissues. Tough and strong. Like Conor. The thought surprised her, made her look up at him, register the angular planes of his face, the sensuous lips, and the dark eyes frowning in concern.

      Libby suddenly realised that she knew nothing about him. He spoke Spanish as if he'd been born to it, and although his lean, dark looks added to this supposition, he spoke English with the neutral accent of someone who had lived in many countries but was a citizen of no particular one.

      She glanced away to a wall-mounted clock, saw it was almost ten-thirty, and asked, 'Don't you have to go to work?'

      He shook his head. 'I'm on holidays.'

      'What do you do?'

      'I tutor at a university in the city.'

      'What subjects?'

      'Political history of South-East Asia. Now tell me about your father.'

      She shifted uneasily, and the T-shirt pulled against her breasts. 'My father? It's my grandfather I'm looking for.'

      'Talking about your father made you cry.' Conor eased back and pulled up another chair. She was getting to him, this little kitten with her elfin face and big hazel eyes, and he knew he had to be more wary. 'Tell me about him.'

      'He died eight months ago. But I hadn't seen him since I was thirteen.' She stopped as a paw touched her leg. Glancing down, she looked into the yellow eyes of a large

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