She wanted to shoot something. Or curl into a ball and weep for a century. Or both.
She stood at the rear of the Crossway Church property. Perched on the corner of Main and Riverside Road, the stone church’s steeple towered above her. Plywood boarded up the shattered stained-glass windows.
Three months ago, she’d staggered from this building drenched in other people’s blood, Milo’s small trembling hand clenched in hers.
Quinn had dragged Milo out of hell itself.
“You can come closer,” a deep voice boomed. “No need to sneak around.”
Quinn flinched. She’d thought she was alone. Some super spy she was.
Several yards from the parking lot, Atticus Bishop knelt beneath a cluster of barren maple trees. Caught in her reverie, she hadn’t noticed his presence.
In front of him, three wooden crosses rose from three mounds of packed dirt—one large, two smaller. Each cross was about three feet tall, constructed of nailed two-by-fours.
Still kneeling, Bishop twisted around to look at her. He hunched his broad shoulders, his face gray with fatigue and sorrow. Two wet tracks traced his cheeks into his bristly beard.
He’d been weeping. Grieving his dead family.
Quinn was a trespasser. She shouldn’t have come.
She swallowed, her mouth dry as a desert. “I wasn’t sneaking.” Though she had. Kind of. “I’ll go—”
“No.” Bishop swiped at his reddened eyes with the back of his arm. His face cleared, and he smiled. “Please. I want you to stay.”
Bishop had never treated her with anything but kindness. She couldn’t say no to him.
She glanced at the crosses again, then nodded numbly.
“Couldn’t keep away, huh?” Bishop meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.
Quinn didn’t know what drew her back to this place, the origin of her nightmares. She had to come, like a moth drawn to a flame.
The scent of fresh paint was unmistakable in the crisp air. Glancing around, she caught sight of several empty cans clustered outside the side door that led to the recently reopened food pantry, along with a stack of two by fours, a bucket of nails, and a paint-splattered canvas tarp.
Rolls of ragged carpet leaned against the outside wall. Bloodstains had leaked through the carpet backing.
Her gaze flicked away, her heartbeat quickening. She hooked her thumb and pointed behind her. “You’re repairing the church.”
Bishop’s forehead wrinkled. “I couldn’t leave it like that. The house of God, a place of refuge. It felt…desecrated. I’m repairing what I can. The people need a place to worship. To heal. I need it, too.”
“Oh.”
“I’m working on plastering the bullet holes. You’re welcome to help if you’d like.”
Her stomach did a sour-sick somersault. She didn’t know about that. Hell, she was pretty sure she never wanted to step inside Crossway again. “Maybe later.”
“I’d like the company. Of course, it’s up to you.”
Much had happened since the massacre. The vivid scenes still echoed in the deepest recesses of her mind—the awful screaming, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire. The fear like a vise constricting her throat, the taste of terror a copper penny on her tongue.
Ray Shultz and his bulging, half-crazed eyes as he opened fire on the church sanctuary. Billy Carter, psychotic child murderer, killer of Bishop’s family. Octavia, her druggie meth head mother who’d done a single good thing at the end—she’d saved Quinn from Billy.
The slaughter of innocents had set in motion events that had brought the militia, the executions, tyranny, and fear, that had led inexorably to the showdown with Rosamond and the death of Noah.
Quinn met Bishop’s gaze and recognized the shadows of regret and loss in his eyes. He was reliving the same night.
He’d watched them die. The daughters Quinn had failed to save, the wife he couldn’t rescue.
They shared that terrible history. Milo wasn’t old enough to understand the way they did. To live with the nightmares, both sleeping and waking.
Maybe that was why she’d come, driven by the guilt and shame eating at her.
Bishop understood what had happened here. He’d lived it. And he’d loved Noah; he’d lost a friend, too.
Maybe he’d understand about Sutter, too. Why she’d felt driven—compelled—to do what she did. Why she’d had to kill him.
How pain was a thing that burrowed deep inside you. It changed you.
Bishop watched her, head tilted, his jaw working like he wanted to speak but was holding back. Then he turned and faced the crosses.
She stared at the back of his bushy head until her eyes blurred.
It was hard to look at the crosses. So rough and bare. So ugly. They didn’t fit the vibrant people buried beneath them.
Juniper, the tomboy with dirt always under her nails, dressed in jean overalls, her wiry black hair tugged into two buns. And Chloe, sweet, beautiful Chloe. Hers were the cries that still haunted Quinn’s dreams on her worst nights.
She rubbed at her eyebrow ring and looked away. A sharp bitterness welled on her tongue. The wind whistled through the maple trees ringing the parking lot.
This was a mistake. She didn’t know why she’d come, why she’d thought bothering Bishop with her problems would make a difference anyway— A tree caught her eye. A big tall oak with great spreading arms.
Her stomach wrenched. Her breath caught in her throat. Almost against her will, she drifted toward it.
After all these months, the pink and purple construction paper target Chloe and Juniper had designed was long gone. She could almost hear the squealing laughter and delighted cheers as she’d drawn back her slingshot, released, and hit the bull’s eye.
Quinn knelt at the base of the tree, steadying the AR-15 with one hand. Her boots sank into snow-crusted dirt. Pine needles and dead leaves littered the damp ground. The scent of wet earth filled her nostrils.
With a bare hand, she brushed aside a lump of dirty snow and uncovered a small object—the object she knew she’d find.
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Three