“Right,” Toby said. “What’s new with you?”
“Stay still.”
“I am staying still. How’s Scott?”
The ease with which he brought up his old boss irritated her. “He hates you. Says it all the time.”
Toby laughed softly. “You’re gonna play it like that, huh?”
“I don’t talk while I tattoo.”
“Bullshit. You always said your favourite thing was finding out weird stuff about people while they were in your chair.”
Tabby scowled. More stupid remembering. But then, he had always been like that. He knew where she stayed in Montmartre when she was twenty, the time she saw Skrillex in Flinders Street Station. He’d once bought her new laces when Morgan the puppy chewed through her Docs because he remembered she’d said shoelaces were unnecessary when string existed. “You can’t put string in your shoes, Tabs. It’s just wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she told his arm.
“Not even if I throw in a little extra?”
“I’m gonna take this moment to remind you I’m working ink under your skin with a needle.”
“Fair, but silence is boring.”
“You’re fucking boring. You and this Barbie playhouse you call a home.”
“That’s more like it,” he said with satisfaction. “Why don’t you just talk at me, then? Say whatever you want?”
For a second, she entertained the idea, telling Toby what a ballbag he was, then talking about the client she’d had today with the third nipple. But she knew that was dangerous ground. Talking about anything related to Silver Daughters could easily transition to talking about Jo. She’d never been great at keeping secrets, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she and Tobyhadbeen close once. It was all too possible she’d get comfy and spill the beans. She couldn’t let him keep baiting her into conversation, though. She needed to seize control of this situation.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “How about I askyousome questions?”
“Great. Lay it on me.”
“Do you feel guilty about ditching Scott with no notice, right when he was drowning at work?”
Toby’s arm stiffened. He didn’t say anything.
“Hmm, not so keen for chats now,” Tabby said, tracing a pinecone. “Okay, round two, are your parents still in that cult?”
A muscle flicked in Toby’s arm like a warning. “It’s… probably not a cult.”
“Sure, man, whatever helps you do blow at night. Round three, is Mopsy here? I can’t imagine your folks took her to cultland with them?”
She looked up to see a flash of incisor as Toby’s mouth twisted in irritation. Feeling perversely satisfied, she kept going. “I’m gonna say they left her with you, and since nothing in your house is covered in fur, I’m guessing you got rid of her?”
“I’d never get rid of Mopsy,” he said, anger burning in his voice.
“So where is she? Taking a little sojourn in the countryside?”
Toby stayed silent.
“Pretty cooked,” she said. “She spent years giving your parents puppies, way too many puppies, and she loved you more than anyone and now she’s all alone somewhere if she’s even still alive.”
“What are you trying to achieve, Tabitha?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Point taken,” Toby said in a tight voice. “No more talking.”
