Bloodborn by Kathryn Fox Page A

feel uneasy. “What’s going on?” she said, moving back toward the door.
    “I just don’t want anyone walking in on us.”
    “You’re beginning to scare me.” She looked around for signs of anyone else in the house. “Unbolt the door and we can talk.”
    The lawyer put two open hands out in front of him. “I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless. I just meant that I wanted to talk to you privately and in complete confidence. There’s someone else with a key and I don’t want to be interrupted.”
    Someone with a key? His latest society girlfriend, no doubt. Before Anya had left for overseas, she and Dan had shared a celebratory meal when a case of Dan’s ended with the acquittal of a homeless man accused of murder. Anya’s evidence had been instrumental in the verdict. That night, Dan had been attentive and sweet, but two months were a long time in his fast-paced world.
    “Fine.”
    Usually immaculate, Dan’s untucked shirt and jeans were creased, as if they had been pulled straight from the laundry basket. A crepe bandage barely hung on a bruised ankle and foot.
    “Does this have anything to do with the first-aid attempt on your foot?”
    “Yes, sort of. I stepped on some floorboards and went right through them. Wasn’t easy getting a size fourteen out of that hole.” He glanced down at his attempt to cover the injury, then reached out to open a pair of sliding wooden doors.
    Anya followed and took in the room as he hobbled along. Most amazing was the room’s centerpiece—a walnut grand piano, flawlessly polished.
    All the wall space was occupied by bookshelves stacked with hardcovers and leather-bound books. It was Anya’s idea of a dream room, only hers would have a set of drums taking pride of place next to the piano.
    “I didn’t know you were that much of a reader.”
    “I’m not,” he said, sitting on a brown leather lounge near a marble fireplace. “This was my parents’ home until recently.”
    Anya knew that Dan’s mother had died and that his father was in a nursing home following a stroke, but very little else about his parents.
    “My mother was a voracious reader. Anything from philosophy and religion to world affairs. It always surprised me that crime fiction was her true guilty pleasure. She was also an accomplished writer and artist.”
    “Your father?”
    “A couple of weeks after Mum died, Dad had a massive stroke. We tried to keep him at home but he needed twenty-four-hour nursing and the house and garden aren’t wheelchair friendly. To be honest, I think he found it hard to be here without Mum.”
    He flicked something minute off the arm of the lounge.
    “Anyway, we moved him into a nursing home but he had another stroke and lost all speech. I didn’t like the care he was getting so I moved him a couple of weeks ago.”
    Anya felt more comfortable now they were discussing his family. She had not met Therese Brody, but had heard wonderful things about her philanthropy and work with indigenous literacy projects; she had obviously been an intelligent woman with a strong social conscience.
    “Has he settled in?”
    “I believe so. Where are my manners—can I get you a coffee?”
    “No thanks. I am curious, though, what you wanted to see me about. Please don’t say it’s just to check your ankle.”
    Despite the warmth of the room and seeing Brody in a new, almost refined light in his home, she didn’t feel the visit was meant to be social, particularly if he had a new girlfriend. Another woman arriving home and getting the wrong idea was the last thing she wanted tonight.
    Dan sat straight and ran both hands down the thighs of his jeans. “Maybe I should just show you.”
    He limped out of the room and returned with a faded wooden box, not much bigger than average shoe size. He held the object with almost outstretched arms, as if frightened of the contents. After looking around, he opted to place it on the carpeted floor, then stepped away and sat on the stool with his