She wandered to the kitchen, wondering if she should make keto muffins when her gaze fell on Tabby’s iPad. There was something she could do…not the smartest idea, but compelling enough to push apart her clouds of Sundayitis.
She turned on the tablet and opened the Silver Daughters email account. After looking around fervently, she pulled up Noah’s last paycheck invoice then copied his tax file number into her work accountancy program. His details came up at once.Noah Harold Newcomb.
Harold?Her inner Tabby cackled.Fuckin’ woof!
It was a fairly bad middle name. She didn’t know if anyone had ever looked less like a ‘Harold.’ Her fingers hovered over the touchscreen—to click or not to click? What she was doing wasn’tillegal, but it didn’t feel moral.
If you want to know about Noah’s past, why don’t you ask him?her inner Sam suggested.
Because he wouldn’t tell me anything.
What do you think you’ll find?
Something.
She knew there was something to find, knew it down to her bones. Noah’s refusal to talk about his past was more than stoicism, she was sure of it. Then there were some of his tattoos—a spider web on his left elbow, a clock with no hands hidden inside his right sleeve, the bushranger Ned Kelly’s last words‘such is life’scrawled along the back of his neck. Noah wasn’t the kind of guy who jazzed up his middle-class background with criminal tattoos, so why did he have them? She’d always been suspicious but now he’d bitten her lip and told her his fantasies would give her nightmares, she’d be an idiot not to dig. She had a moral imperative to dig!
And you’re single enough to dig?Sam asked.
“Shh.”
Nicole took a deep breath and clicked his name. The first thing she saw was his birthday—November 15, 1985. He was thirty-four. That wasn’t a huge surprise, but it felt good to know. The man who’d held her palm to his cock had a birthday, just like everyone else.
The rest of the results weren’t nearly so straightforward. Noah had only consistently filed taxes for the past five years—when he’d started working at Silver Daughters. Had he been earning so little before that he didn’t meet the minimum threshold? It didn’t seem likely and he didn’t seem the type to have been studying or living overseas or any of the obvious explanations. Disappointed, Nicole exited the accounting website and googled ‘Noah Newcomb.’ The top results were the Silver Daughters website and Instagram. The rest of the Noah’s were randoms.
Nicole’s gnawed her lower lip. Not being able to stalk someone in this day and age was infuriating. Her research options were dwindling. As his boss, Sam could apply for a national police check on Noah, but she wasn’t going to do that. As Sam’s genetic double, she could pretend to be her twin and ask for the police check, but if Sam found out, she’d slap her into the next decade.
She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table, trying to think of things to Google. She added Noah’s middle name to the keywords and tapped search. A wall of flaming skulls filled the screen.
An old tattoo design of Noah’s? They didn’t look like his style, though they were weirdly familiar... Nicole squinted and realised they weren’t skulls, they were helmets. Square helmets with a slit for eyes, the same kind Ned Kelly and his bushrangers wore. Was Noah related to Ned Kelly and trying to keep it a secret? That would be kind of cute…
She scrolled to the text results and saw news articles accompanied by more flaming helmets.
Further arrests in Rangers Motorcycle gang operation.
Bikie Boss jumps bail for Bali.
Two in court on drug charges following Rangers gang raids.
A golf ball lodged itself in her chest, forcing her ribs out and away. Shedidknow that flaming helmet, but not because of Ned Kelly or a tattoo she’d seen growing up. She knew it from the news.
With shaking fingers, she clicked the link that saidBikie Boss jumps bail to get to Bali.
“Oh my gosh!”
The man in the image wasn’t Noah, but the resemblance was uncanny. He had the same wide forehead and hollow eye sockets, though his irises were brown, not green. Nicole stared at the flabby, unshaven face and her heart gave a hot squeeze. She felt like Bluebeard’s wife, standing at the door of her husband’s forbidden room, key in hand. There was still time to turn away, though she knew she wouldn’t.
In for a penny, Sam whispered.
“In for a pound.”
She inhaled and scrolled down.
Notorious one-percent bikie boss, Harold Newcomb, is believed to be hiding in Bali’s Kuta beach. Newcomb is avoiding prosecution for manslaughter, blackmail, possessing a prohibited weapon, drug trafficking and assault, all crimes he conducted during his reign as chapter president of The Rangers Motorcycle Gang.
Spit filled Nicole’s mouth. She kept scrolling through the details of Harold Newcomb’s crimes, speculation he was being hidden by fellow bikies, reminders that he was incredibly dangerous and, right down the bottom, a quote from his ex-wife, Natalie Newcomb.
I haven’t heard from Harry for years and neither has my boy. P**s off the lot of you.