Fiona Brand - O'Halloran's Lady

As she read through the last couple of emails, the tension that had gripped her faded. Lydell wasn’t exactly a shoulder to cry on, but reading his no-nonsense prose was, in an odd way, steadying.

There was nothing to indicate where Lydell88 lived. All she knew was that he was an Auckland cop with considerable experience, and that he didn’t mind answering her occasional questions. She had found him by emailing the Auckland District Office. One of the detectives had eventually responded by supplying her with Lydell88’s email address.

Generally he supplied precise police procedural information, but over the years he had begun making incisive, relevant comments about her plots and characterisation, indicating that at some point, he had begun to read her books.

His compliments were sparing, but she valued them all the more for that. When he liked something, he was unequivocal about the matter and she basked in the glow for days.

Lately, he had even begun to suggest plot lines she could develop in future books. The ideas were well thought out and stemmed from an intimate knowledge of her characters and an even better understanding of the criminal mind.

However, she was aware that wasn’t what gave her the warm glow of delight every time she opened one of his emails.

Over the years, talking with Lydell88 about the technicalities of developing the police procedural side to her stories had, in an odd way, become the closest thing she had gotten to a date that she could actually enjoy, which was strange considering that he was a cop.

She guessed it came down to mutual interests. They both enjoyed the books, she as the writer, he as a reader and researcher. Somehow, those two things had gelled along with a subtle, intangible quality she could only call chemistry, and they had become immersed, together, in that fictional world.

When her editor had holidayed with her last summer, Jenna had allowed her limited access to the file, keeping the more private exchanges to herself. It had seemed too personal to share the conversations they’d had about the romance of the postwar era, or that Lydell88 thought she should try her hand at writing in that period.

Rachel had been riveted, and they had spent the long summer evenings trying to profile Lydell88. And, more importantly, trying to decide what he looked like.

Jenna hadn’t received anything from Lydell88 lately. He generally only ever instigated discussions about her latest book, a line in the sand of which she was sharply aware. Early on, she had considered the fact that he could be either elderly or married, but had rejected both ideas. The tone and style of Lydell88’s emails suggested he was younger rather than older, and at no time during their discussions had he ever mentioned a partner, or children, so she assumed he was single.

Respecting his desire for privacy, and relieved that there was no pressure for their discussions to be anything more than they were, she limited her contacts by only initiating correspondence when she started a new book and needed to check facts.

She was waiting with anticipation to see what he thought of Deadly Valentine , although it was early days since it had only just been released into stores.

Closing down the program and the laptop, she hooked her glasses off the bridge of her nose and set them beside the keyboard. The pleasant glow she had received from rereading Lydell88’s last email faded as she noticed her bottom drawer, which contained her negative fan mail, wasn’t quite closed.

Nudging the drawer shut with her foot, she collected her empty mug and switched out the lights, but the damage was done. As hard as she tried to dismiss it, the unpleasant threat delivered by ekf235 had rocked her.

Feeling abruptly exhausted, Jenna stepped into her warmly lit hallway and closed her study door. Limping through to the kitchen, she rinsed the mug and placed it in the dishwasher then began her nightly routine of checking locks.

She had bought the roomy old Victorian house a couple of years ago with the royalties from her first six books, and as wonderful as it was, it had a lot of doors. Despite her attempt to remain upbeat, the silence seemed to ring as she walked through the house. For the first time, instead of taking pleasure in the elegant ranks of French doors and tall sash windows, she couldn’t help noticing the large amount of glass through which she could, conceivably, be watched.

Despite the luxurious kilim rugs she had strewn on the glossy, kauri wood floors, her footsteps echoed eerily. As she switched out lamps, shadows seemed to flood the large, rambling rooms, sending a preternatural chill down her spine and making her vividly aware that she was very much alone.

Security wasn’t an issue, she reminded herself. The property was alarmed and gated and her fence was high and in good repair. A brief glance at the blinking light of the alarm system she’d had installed shortly after she had moved in assured her that the house was secure.

Jenna carried a glass of water up the long, sweeping staircase lined with, admittedly, gloomy Whitmore family portraits. She avoided the dark stares of ranks of long-dead relatives. Lately the sepia-toned record of the past and her lack of current family portraits had become a depressing reminder of the emptiness of her personal life.

It was one o’clock before she finally climbed into the elegant French provincial-style bed she had bought in response to an article she’d read on curing insomnia.

Apparently, there were two keys to getting a good night’s sleep: forming a routine and setting the scene for a restful night.

She was hopeless at the first, so she’d decided she could at least make her bedroom look as serene and inviting as impossible. With dark teak wood and white-on-white bed linen and furnishings, her bedroom could have been lifted straight out of a movie set. Unfortunately, that fact didn’t seem to make any difference to her sleep pattern, which was erratic.

As she switched off the light she became aware of sirens somewhere in the distance and recalled the current story in the news. Apparently there was a serial arsonist on the loose, a creepy coincidence since six years ago a serial arsonist had been responsible for Natalie’s and her baby’s deaths.

She stared at a bright sliver of moonlight beaming through a gap in the heavy cream drapes and found herself fixated on the possible identity of her poisonous fan.

She had not been callous enough to use Natalie’s mysterious death in her story, but she had drawn on the fact that Natalie had had a secret online friend who had sent her Valentine’s-style gifts: single long-stemmed white roses and chocolates.

Although the idea that the person who had sent the threatening email could be Natalie’s long-ago secret admirer was definitely pushing theory into the realms of fantasy.

It had to be a coincidence that she had received the email on the anniversary of Natalie’s death.

The next afternoon, Jenna drove to the cemetery. The cars occupying almost every space and the large numbers of well-dressed people walking through the grounds signalled that a funeral was in progress.

Gathering the bunch of flowers she had placed on the backseat, she slipped dark glasses on the bridge of her nose and strolled through the grounds. The sun was warm, the air crisp, the sky a clear, dazzling blue. Large oaks cast cooling shade on row after row of well-tended plots.

As she neared the vicinity of Natalie’s grave, she noted the lone figure of a man. For a split second she thought it could be O’Halloran. Her heart slammed against her chest then she dismissed the idea. The man was tall, but not tall enough, and on the lean side rather than muscular. He was also wearing a ball cap, something that she had never seen O’Halloran wear.

A large group of mourners moving toward the parking lot obscured her view. The next time Jenna got a clear view of the gravesite, that part of the cemetery was deserted.

She strolled the rest of the distance to the grave, which was already decorated with a wreath of pink roses and a tiny blue teddy bear, which Aunt Mary would have placed there first thing that morning. Blinking back the automatic rush of tears at her aunt and uncle’s pain, which, after all the years, showed no sign of abating, she unwrapped the bunch of bright yellow and pink chrysanthemums she’d bought from the local florist, and placed them in a stone vase set to one side of the headstone.

Extracting a bottle of water from her purse, she topped up the vase. Straightening, she stepped back to admire her handiwork, and became aware that she was no longer alone. She spun a little too quickly, wincing as her knee, still stiff and sore, twinged. The plastic bottle bounced on the grass as a large hand briefly cupped her elbow.

A small shock ran through her as she processed dark, cool eyes beneath black brows, clean-cut cheekbones and a tough jaw made even edgier by a five o’clock shadow.

For a split second, even though she knew it was O’Halloran, she had trouble accepting that fact. Six years had passed since she had last seen him up close, and in that time he had changed. His hair was still the same, dark and close-cut, his skin olive and tanned, but his face was leaner than she remembered, his gaze more remote. A scar decorated the bridge of his nose, and his chest and shoulders were broader, as if he worked out regularly, which, given the rehab he’d had to do following his operation, was probably the case.

The rough jaw, oddly in keeping with his long-sleeved T-shirt and black pants, added a wolfish quality that signalled that whatever else O’Halloran had been doing, he hadn’t taken the time to shave. A small quiver shot down her spine when she realized that O’Halloran was studying her just as intently as she was studying him, and suddenly, the notion that the large, fierce male looming over her had anything remotely in common with the model who had posed for the cover of her latest book was ludicrous. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Instantly, Jenna regretted the bluntness of the comment, even though it was true. Since Natalie’s and Jared’s deaths, O’Halloran had almost completely distanced himself from the family, politely declining all invitations. According to her aunt and uncle he seemed to have no interest in visiting the grave. She had certainly never seen him here any other time she had visited, or seen any evidence that he left flowers.

O’Halloran retrieved the empty water bottle and handed it to her. “I visit. I just try to keep out of Mary’s way. The stuffed toys are hard to take.”

The blankness of O’Halloran’s gaze made her chest squeeze tight. For the first time, she saw it for what it was, grasped just how deeply O’Halloran had been affected by the loss of his family. It was etched in his face, in the muscle pulsing along the side of his jaw.

He had not attended the funeral because he had been flat on his back in hospital at the time.

While he was injured, she had worried about him to the point that she had tried ringing him and, once, had even gone looking for him. She hadn’t found him. Like a wounded animal, O’Halloran had gone to ground. Months later, he had surfaced but had continued to keep his distance.

Crouching down, she retrieved the cellophane wrap for the flowers and stuffed it in her purse along with the bottle. “I’m sorry, I should know better than to make assumptions.”

His gaze touched on hers as she straightened, before shifting to a group of mourners drifting past, sweeping the cemetery, with a mechanical precision, as if he was looking for someone. “You’ve had your own grief to deal with. The military is hard on families.”