“I’m eighteen years old!”
And under our roof, Liz thought. But she didn’t say that. Nor did she bring up the supper that would be on the table in an hour, the fresh green beans and burgers from the grill and lemonade that she had squeezed that afternoon. Quinn drove a hand-me-down car from her father and charged gas to his account at the local station. She was educated and well dressed and had wanted for nothing in all her eighteen years. Didn’t that in and of itself demand a little respect? It did.
“He loves you,” Liz said, but something about the words rang insincere. Jack Sr. was not a lover. A provider and caretaker, a breadwinner. He kept his family safe and warm, but his affection was spare. Even toward her. And if Liz was perfectly honest with herself, there were things about her husband that made her skin prickle, too.
Really. They had nothing to complain about. The Sanfords had the sort of life millions—billions—could only dream of. And Quinn had been slow to reject it. As much as Jack Jr. loved his place in the world, Nora hated hers. But Quinn had spent the better part of her life bridging the gap between the two, wishing for peace. Liz saw a lot of herself in her younger daughter. But this? No, it wouldn’t do to rock the boat now.
“Be grateful,” Liz had said. And she wasn’t just talking to Quinn. She was talking to herself.
Liz was no idiot. She knew that their lives were far from perfect, that things simmered just beneath the surface of their shiny facade. Shadowy things that hinted of discontent, of darkness that she could only begin to imagine. Weren’t they all just a knife blade away from madness? From obsession? From giving in to every lust and desire and impulse? Or even just one. One slip would be more than enough.
But life was hard and self-flagellation was for the weak. People pitied those who refused to help themselves. Who couldn’t make a mistake and then, proudly, stand back up in the middle of their own mess and smile. I meant to do that. I knew all along.
Liz chose dignity.
Of course, Quinn hadn’t listened. Instead of falling back into line, she had run the first chance she got. Just like Nora. She had nearly cut ties with her family altogether and forsaken the roots Liz had tried so hard to cultivate. Quinn had done things that were permanent. Final. Or, almost final.
The loss of her younger daughter was the reason Liz took one small blue sleeping pill every night and a slow-release capsule for heartburn every morning. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone.
And yet. Quinn had come home. Liz intended to remind her of just how good home was.
Thursday
9:22 a.m.
Nora
How’s Lucy?
Quinn
Are you serious?
Nora
Has anyone called? Come by?
Quinn
No.
Nora
Don’t tell anyone, Q. Swear it to me. Please.
Quinn?
This isn’t a game.
QUINN
QUINN BATTLED THE URGE to throw the phone across the room, but Walker was watching. He stood on the other side of the bed, half-dressed. A pair of ripped jeans was hanging from his narrow hips, but he didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t zipped them as he studied his wife with a decidedly skeptical eye. He looked troubled. Wary.
“Is that Nora? Give me the phone.” He held out his hand, clearly unconvinced that Quinn would comply.
She didn’t. Quinn wasn’t a very good liar, but this one came to her lips easily enough. “It’s my mom. She’s mad that I’ve been opening the windows.”
Walker gave her a long look but let it go. “Is that why she came by this morning? To complain about the windows?”
Quinn lifted one shoulder as if to say “I guess so,” and slipped her phone into the back pocket of her shorts. She wanted to respond to Nora—even better, to tap the little icon of a telephone that would ring her sister. They needed to talk. But now wasn’t the time. Not with Walker around. And certainly not with Lucy curled up in a ball in the corner of the bedroom where she had slept. After using the bathroom earlier that morning, she had scurried back to the room just off the kitchen and hid in the farthest corner. As if Quinn and Walker were terrifying, dangerous people. As if they intended to hurt her.
It made Quinn shiver. What would make a child react like that? What had happened to her? Quinn couldn’t bring herself to think about specifics; instead her heart blistered at the heat and color and suggestion of unknown violence. Of terror.
Her niece. If Walker was right, Lucy was her niece. Nora’s daughter. That meant Quinn was an aunt. She kept turning the word over in her mind, shaking it out like a garment that didn’t quite fit and then trying it on again. A part of her felt stupid that she hadn’t put the pieces together herself. It was true, Lucy bore some similarities to Nora. She was lean and angular, even at such a young age. And she had those distinctive Sanford eyes. But really, that didn’t mean much. Quinn knew that her sister’s eyes changed color depending on the weather, a shift in emotion, or the hue of the shirt she was wearing. Lucy’s were equally indeterminate. Gray blue, green, hazel, even lavender. How was Quinn to know?
Oh God. The implications were unthinkable.
Quinn swallowed hard and forced herself to bend over the king-sized bed where she and Walker had been curled up only hours before. It felt ridiculous to focus on the details, but it was all she knew to do. As she untangled the flat sheet from the quilt, she wished she could rewind the day, start over and find a better way to break the news of Lucy to Walker. A way that wouldn’t end with them at odds.
In the midst of this firestorm Quinn needed him beside her. But her husband’s disapproval was a palpable thing—it came off him like steam and enveloped her in a cloud of guilt. Never mind that Nora was the one who should feel guilty. How could she? How could she drop a bomb like this in the middle of their lives? Nora had no idea of the havoc she had wrought.
Quinn surprised herself by wishing Walker would go back to the boathouse and leave her alone. She needed to think. To come up with a way to force her sister’s hand. But then she heard the metallic snitch of his zipper and Walker took the other side of the sheet she was holding.
They made the bed together in silence, and Walker even went so far as to position the many throw pillows just the way Liz had shown them when they first toured the cabin. It was a peace offering of sorts, and when they were done Quinn met him at the end of the bed and buried her face in his chest. Walker’s arms went around her slowly.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It’s just a bed.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Walker put his hands on her shoulders and pushed Quinn gently away so he could see her face. “I need you to know that I hate this.”
“I know,” Quinn whispered. She couldn’t meet his gaze.
“It’s crazy. Like, crazy crazy. And dangerous. Something is going on here.”
“But it’s Nora,” Quinn said helplessly. “And if you’re right—”
“I’m right.”