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Authors: Sibel Hodge
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any useful information to go on, so I called Romeo.
I paced the five steps up and down the living room, gave an almighty sniff, and blinked back more tears as I listened to the phone ringing incessantly on the other end of the line. ‘Pick up, pick up!’
He didn’t.
Where the hell was he, and why wasn’t he returning my calls? I snapped the phone shut and threw it on the floor. An instant later, I picked it up and called Brad.
‘Don’t you dare say “speak”,’ I announced in a voice slightly louder than I had anticipated, which I followed up with a coughing sniffle.
‘Foxy, what’s up? Are you OK?’
‘No, I’m not OK, Brad. Someone’s broken into my apartment.’ I increased my pacing tempo to a neurotic level.
‘Have you checked to see whether or not they’re still there?’
‘They’ve gone.’ I gnawed on my thumbnail as my eyes flitted around the room like a mad woman’s, not lighting on any one thing for more than a split second.
‘Are you going to call the police?’ Brad asked, the concern in his voice going a long way to make me feel better.
‘No. I don’t think anything’s been stolen. It’s just a mess. It looks like they were searching for something.’
He paused for a moment before he asked the obvious. ‘What were they looking for?’
‘I don’t know.’ I racked my brain. ‘First my car, and now my apartment. It’s got to have something to do with the Fandango case.’
‘Look, I don’t want you staying there on your own in case they come back. Get over to my house. You can stay in my guest room.’ There was silence on both ends of the line as we both thought about his offer.
‘OK. But don’t get any funny ideas,’ I warned him.
He laughed. ‘Foxy, the day I don’t get any funny ideas, I’ll be dead.’
****
Brad’s barn conversion was one hundred percent male. The downstairs living space was a large, open great room, which featured a stunning beamed ceiling and tall windows. This was a minimalist interior with a capital M. There were no personal knick-knacks at all, and there was very little furniture, which would have turned the empty expanse into a cozy living space. It was spotless, but somehow I couldn’t imagine Brad dressed in a frilly apron with a can of furniture polish in one had and a duster in the other. The only furniture was a black leather sofa and matching armchair, and a humungous flat-screen TV on one wall. This area led into the kitchen, which was where we sat, side by side, at Brad’s black granite breakfast bar, eating Chinese take away and sipping red wine. Actually, my sipping had turned into gulping after the first glass, and it had already gone to my head, but I didn’t care. That’s what stress did to you, right?
‘You still haven’t got any stuff in this place. Why not?’ I glanced around the kitchen and into the living area as Marmalade wound around my feet, begging for scraps. ‘It’s cold, sterile almost.’
‘I’ve got stuff. I’ve got a stove, a sofa, a–’
‘I mean stuff stuff. Things that prove someone actually lives here, and it’s not just a show house. Why haven’t you got any photos or personal stuff, or any clutter? That’s so not normal.’ I swirled my wine around thoughtfully.
Brad shrugged and sat back, scratching Marmalade’s head as he watched me. ‘I don’t need it. “Stuff” just complicates things.’
‘I like stuff. Stuff is good. Why haven’t you got any pictures of that Australian guy?’
‘What Australian guy?’
‘The one who adopted you from the orphanage.’
‘He wasn’t Australian. He was Aborigine.’
‘OK, Aborigine. If he took you on walkabout when you were a kid and taught you all you know about survival techniques, he must have been a big part of your life, so why haven’t you got any pictures of him?’
‘People aren’t defined by their possessions.’
I gave him a wry smile. ‘Oh, yeah, what are they defined by then?
‘Their actions.’
I
I paced the five steps up and down the living room, gave an almighty sniff, and blinked back more tears as I listened to the phone ringing incessantly on the other end of the line. ‘Pick up, pick up!’
He didn’t.
Where the hell was he, and why wasn’t he returning my calls? I snapped the phone shut and threw it on the floor. An instant later, I picked it up and called Brad.
‘Don’t you dare say “speak”,’ I announced in a voice slightly louder than I had anticipated, which I followed up with a coughing sniffle.
‘Foxy, what’s up? Are you OK?’
‘No, I’m not OK, Brad. Someone’s broken into my apartment.’ I increased my pacing tempo to a neurotic level.
‘Have you checked to see whether or not they’re still there?’
‘They’ve gone.’ I gnawed on my thumbnail as my eyes flitted around the room like a mad woman’s, not lighting on any one thing for more than a split second.
‘Are you going to call the police?’ Brad asked, the concern in his voice going a long way to make me feel better.
‘No. I don’t think anything’s been stolen. It’s just a mess. It looks like they were searching for something.’
He paused for a moment before he asked the obvious. ‘What were they looking for?’
‘I don’t know.’ I racked my brain. ‘First my car, and now my apartment. It’s got to have something to do with the Fandango case.’
‘Look, I don’t want you staying there on your own in case they come back. Get over to my house. You can stay in my guest room.’ There was silence on both ends of the line as we both thought about his offer.
‘OK. But don’t get any funny ideas,’ I warned him.
He laughed. ‘Foxy, the day I don’t get any funny ideas, I’ll be dead.’
****
Brad’s barn conversion was one hundred percent male. The downstairs living space was a large, open great room, which featured a stunning beamed ceiling and tall windows. This was a minimalist interior with a capital M. There were no personal knick-knacks at all, and there was very little furniture, which would have turned the empty expanse into a cozy living space. It was spotless, but somehow I couldn’t imagine Brad dressed in a frilly apron with a can of furniture polish in one had and a duster in the other. The only furniture was a black leather sofa and matching armchair, and a humungous flat-screen TV on one wall. This area led into the kitchen, which was where we sat, side by side, at Brad’s black granite breakfast bar, eating Chinese take away and sipping red wine. Actually, my sipping had turned into gulping after the first glass, and it had already gone to my head, but I didn’t care. That’s what stress did to you, right?
‘You still haven’t got any stuff in this place. Why not?’ I glanced around the kitchen and into the living area as Marmalade wound around my feet, begging for scraps. ‘It’s cold, sterile almost.’
‘I’ve got stuff. I’ve got a stove, a sofa, a–’
‘I mean stuff stuff. Things that prove someone actually lives here, and it’s not just a show house. Why haven’t you got any photos or personal stuff, or any clutter? That’s so not normal.’ I swirled my wine around thoughtfully.
Brad shrugged and sat back, scratching Marmalade’s head as he watched me. ‘I don’t need it. “Stuff” just complicates things.’
‘I like stuff. Stuff is good. Why haven’t you got any pictures of that Australian guy?’
‘What Australian guy?’
‘The one who adopted you from the orphanage.’
‘He wasn’t Australian. He was Aborigine.’
‘OK, Aborigine. If he took you on walkabout when you were a kid and taught you all you know about survival techniques, he must have been a big part of your life, so why haven’t you got any pictures of him?’
‘People aren’t defined by their possessions.’
I gave him a wry smile. ‘Oh, yeah, what are they defined by then?
‘Their actions.’
I
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