Already Dead Read Free Page B

with the gun on the last word, hard enough to knock it out.
    â€˜Careful,’ she snapped. Reprimand on reflex and, as soon as it was out, she wished she could take it back.
    Eyes glared at her, then he grabbed the phone, held it up, turned it around. And around again, as though he really hadn’t seen one before.
    She wanted to snatch it away, keep it out of his reach. It might save her. It might be her only lifeline if she crashed. If she was trapped or injured, somewhere isolated and alone. If he …
    She sucked in a breath, glanced his way. ‘Is there someone you want to talk to?’
    He jabbed the mobile at her. ‘Not with this .’
    â€˜I could get them on the phone for you.’
    He didn’t answer, just turned it off like he’d done it a hundred times; wrenched open the glove box, stuffed it inside, slammed the door. Sat with his fists clenched, one of them hard and tight around the gun. She locked her own fingers around the steering wheel until they hurt, trying to keep down the panic, telling herself he hadn’t smashed the phone or tossed it out the window. She still had that.
    â€˜No-o-o!’ The word was a growl, stretched out, rolling on as he scoured his forehead with the butt of his gun. Back and forth as though he was rubbing a channel into the skin. ‘No. No. No. No –’
    â€˜I used to love this bridge,’ Jax said quickly, urgently, speaking over him. ‘When we went to the coast for the holidays, this was the first water we’d see.’ She lifted a hand from the wheel and pointed at the wide, blue expanse of the Hawkesbury River. ‘It’s nowhere near the beach, at least not where we used to go, but we’d all chant, “Water, water,” and it felt like we were nearly there.’
    She flicked her eyes sideways. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the gun cradled between both hands.
    â€˜And, ah, we’d always stop at the old Oak Factory at Peats Ridge. It’s not there anymore but everyone who ever came up here remembers it. It was a factory for milk and ice-cream and … and it had a milk bar where they made these unbelievable milkshakes. Thick and creamy like you just can’t get anymore.’
    He was sitting back in his seat now, head against the baluster, eyes open and staring at the windscreen.
    â€˜We did a tour of the factory one year. We had to wear these paper hats and bootees on our shoes, and they walked us past huge vats of milk. The smell was disgusting and my mum almost threw up before Dad could hustle her out.’
    God, she hadn’t thought of that in years. It shouldn’t hurt. Twelve months ago it wouldn’t have, but grief had sharpened the edges on everything. Her parents had been gone almost twenty years but in the last one she’d missed their presence more than she had in a long, long time. Still, age gave it some distance, and in her thirty-second pause his twitching and shifting had started up again.
    â€˜We used to go to Port Stephens at Christmas,’ she went on. ‘Rent a caravan at one of the beaches and surf and fish and ride bikes and just laze about. If my Aunt Tilda was in Newcastle, she’d come and see us. Sometimes I’d go to her place and let Mum and Dad have a bit of time on their own. Her house is right near the beach, nearly as much fun as a caravan.’ Jax smiled to herself – Tilda’s house was almost a mansion – and kept talking when she saw the sharp turn of his head to the back window. ‘When I was older, I lived with her in Newcastle for a couple of years, then at uni I’d stay with her on weekends. That’s where I was going today. To my aunt’s house.’ Not just Tilda’s anymore. Miranda and Zoe’s, too.
    It was sanctuary, Jax told herself again. Not defeat. And not a subject she wanted to discuss with him. She closed her window, searching for something else to talk about. But he