“Why?” she asked, her voice so tiny it was barely a whisper.
Good question. Quinn slipped a pair of delicate gold hoops through her earlobes and touched her neck to make sure she was wearing the right necklace. She was stalling, trying to come up with an answer that would explain why she was shirking the duty Nora had so thoughtlessly—so belatedly—thrust upon her. But I’m punishing my husband and I just have to get out of here weren’t exactly kid-appropriate answers. Neither was We have to discuss what to do with you.
And Quinn absolutely couldn’t speak the truth that was making her heart beat high and just a little too fast in her chest: I’m dying to see him.
She pushed the thought out of her mind with a savage thrust and said: “My mom needs me.”
It was an explanation that seemed to resonate with Lucy. She nodded in resignation, as if she knew what it was like to be beholden to her mother. Why? Quinn wanted to ask. What happened to you? But prying had proven to be an exercise in futility before. Little Miss Lucy-Lou was a riddle with layers that had to be slowly, carefully peeled back.
“I won’t be gone long,” Quinn assured her. “And Walker will be here with you.”
That didn’t seem to offer Lucy much comfort. She was wedged into a corner of the couch, and at the mention of Walker’s name she drew herself into a tight little ball: knees tucked snug beneath her chin and arms wrapped around her legs. Lucy was wearing the pajamas that Walker had bought her and she balled the excess fabric in her fists.
“Hey.” Quinn sank to the floor in front of the couch. Her dress was a soft, silky material and it pooled around her thighs as she knelt. Tentatively, Quinn reached out a hand and placed it over Lucy’s bare foot. Besides brushing Lucy’s hair, it was the only time that Quinn had touched her, and she was grateful that the child didn’t jerk away. They were making progress at a snail’s pace, but at least they were moving in the right direction. Were they bonding? Or starting to? A part of Quinn wanted to stick around and find out, but she was committed now. Her mother had texted no less than four times and Walker was in the shower, prepping himself for a night on the couch and a House of Cards Netflix binge.
But they both knew he had no intention of watching TV. Walker would spend the evening listening, watching, waiting. After Lucy’s unnerving phone call, Walker had abandoned his sculpture for the day. Instead of working, Quinn watched as he fished a tire iron out of the trunk of his car and unearthed an old metal baseball bat from the shed.
“What are you doing?” Quinn whispered when she saw him carrying the tire iron in one hand and the bat in the other.
Walker didn’t look at her as he passed. “She’s afraid. I’m going to keep her safe.”
From what? Her father?
“This is ridiculous,” Quinn said, following him.
Walker wheeled on her. “You saw her. She’s scared to death, Quinn. I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s something terribly wrong—and if your sister won’t tell us what it is, the least we can do is make sure Lucy’s okay.”
“Nora—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Walker stormed past. “Stop covering for your sister. Lucy is the one who needs our protection.”
They had hardly spoken the rest of the day. What was there to say? Walker wasn’t a violent person. As far as Quinn knew, he had never even been in a fistfight. If something actually happened—if someone came for Lucy—what would he do? But the whole situation still seemed ludicrous to Quinn. Impossible. This couldn’t be their lives. All the same, she agreed to go to her mother’s in the hope that Liz would be ready to join the cause. Whatever it was.
Quinn sighed and tried to give Lucy a reassuring smile. She squeezed her foot. “I’m going to tuck you in,” she said, “and when you wake up in the morning it will be as if I was never gone at all.”
“It’s not my bedtime.”
“It’s eight thirty,” Quinn said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “When I was your age I had to be in bed by seven thirty.” It was true, or at least close enough. Quinn still wasn’t exactly sure how old Lucy was. She had asked, but the number changed. Six? Seven? Was it common for children not to know their age? Quinn just wasn’t sure.
“I’m not tired.” But Lucy’s eyes were heavy, her arms loosening their grip on her skinny legs. She was clearly exhausted.
“I’ll carry you to bed . . . ?” It was an offer that Quinn wasn’t sure the girl would accept, but after a moment of consideration, Lucy held out her arms.
She didn’t weigh much. Or maybe she just held herself carefully. Either way, in one quick movement Lucy was pressed against Quinn. Her legs went around Quinn’s waist and her arms circled her neck. Quinn stood still for a heartbeat, two, as she held the girl close and breathed in the scent of her hair, her sun-warmed skin. It was impossible not to love a child, and Lucy’s innocence was an arrow that pierced Quinn. I think I love you, she thought, and I don’t even know you. The thought surprised her. And scared her.
Quinn carried Lucy to the bedroom and tucked her in, tugging the sheets up to her chin and offering her the stuffed fox that Walker had bought. Lucy took it and pulled it close, then rolled onto her side so that her back was to Quinn and the bedroom door. She cut such a sad silhouette that Quinn faltered, ready to break her promise to her mother and forget the whole evening out. But then she had an inspiration.
“Wait a sec,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Grabbing a pen and the handset of the telephone off the wall, she hurried back to Lucy. “Give me your hand, honey.”
Lucy rolled over, a skeptical look on her face. But she held out her hand anyway.
Writing carefully, Quinn traced her cell phone number onto the smooth skin of Lucy’s palm. “This is the number to my cell,” she said. Passing Lucy the handset she added, “And here’s the phone. If you need me for any reason at all, you call that number and I’ll be here so fast your head will spin.”
Lucy stared at the numbers, her face blank and unreadable. But then she curled her fingers over her palm as if protecting a precious secret. With her other hand she took the phone and hid it beneath her pillow. She settled back, wrapping herself tight in the covers.
Quinn watched the curve of her back for a moment, the rise and fall of her steady breath. “Do you want me to lock the door?” she asked, wondering what Lucy would say.
She nodded.
“Okay.” Quinn touched her shoulder and wished she dared to brush a kiss across the shallow divot of her temple. “Good night, Lucy.”