Once, I found the title to a car in Donovan’s underwear drawer when I was putting away laundry. It wasn’t in his name, but the initials were the same so I remembered it: Derick Robertson. Nora helped me look him up on her laptop and what we found is this: Derick Robertson was charged with the possession of child pornography and the abuse of an undisclosed minor less than one year before he waltzed into my life. The charges didn’t stick. Well, the abuse one didn’t.
But I could testify in a courtroom that he was guilty as hell and just as slippery. Thing is, I’m not a credible witness. And I don’t want the world’s so-called justice anyway. I just want my girl safe. The plan was always that we would leave together—we thought it would be easy when Donovan was sent to jail.
They let him off.
Sometimes I think I should just kill him. I could. I hate him enough. But whenever my vision goes black and I burn with loathing so thick and animal it scares me, I pull myself back to Everlee. Her smile. The way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating. The sound of her bare feet slapping, always running, across the narrow boards of our wood-plank floor. Can you imagine? Everlee Barnes, the murderer’s daughter. She doesn’t deserve that.
And I don’t deserve her.
Day Four
* * *
Saturday
QUINN
BENNET DIDN’T REALLY have to drive Quinn home because she was sober as a kitten. In fact, she hadn’t had a single sip of alcohol all night. The pinot grigio she’d contemplated guzzling was forgotten the second she turned and found her former fiancé standing before her. But she let herself be led to his car anyway (a black Land Cruiser, he’d always wanted one) and climbed in without protest when he held open the passenger door for her.
Quinn felt weak and feverish, as if her body were fighting an infection. Being with Bennet was so strange, so painful Quinn could hardly bear the ache. It was foreign and familiar, bitter and sweet. Her mouth stung with the taste of metal and lemons, acid and burnt sugar. The second she laid eyes on him she realized the truth: she loved him still, and always had.
Or maybe she just loved what might have been.
Bennet swung into the driver’s seat and asked, without looking at her, “You’re living at the chateau, right?”
Quinn cringed a little at the nickname she and Bennet had given the cabin she and Walker now called home. She stole a glance at her former fiancé in profile and wondered if he remembered that they had once dreamed of living there. Of course he did. When her dad bought the dilapidated A-frame and her mother began restoring it, they snuck into the construction zone one night and made love in the loft. Daydreamed out loud about how they would decorate the rooms and the number of children who would fill them. Three, at least. Maybe four. They both wanted a big family.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “How did you know that?”
“Your mom told me. And”—he paused, seemingly hesitant to say her name—“Lucy is staying with you?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.
Bennet knew about Lucy. Quinn still hadn’t decided whether she was horrified by this or relieved. If they needed help, Bennet could very well be the person to provide it. But what if the police were exactly who Nora was hiding from?
Quinn was just as perplexed by her mother’s motives. It wasn’t like Liz to call things out, to invite scrutiny. She wanted Bennet involved for some reason, but Quinn had yet to puzzle out why. It was enough to give her a migraine.
“Want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Liz had summed up pretty much everything that Quinn knew. Nora had dumped Lucy in Key Lake without so much as a hint about why or where she came from or what she needed protection from. “Nora didn’t tell me anything.”
Bennet stopped at an intersection for three full seconds and looked both ways before continuing on. So straightlaced, even past midnight. Even on empty country roads where the only light was cast by the moon and the glow of his own headlights. “I’m going to have to check the missing and exploited children’s database,” Bennet told her quietly.
“Bennet, please—”
“If Lucy is in danger, and if you don’t know who she really is, I don’t have a choice.”
“She’s my niece,” Quinn said with more conviction than she felt.
“Did Nora tell you that?”
Her silence was answer enough.
“I’m going to need to talk to her. Nora, I mean.”
“Good luck,” Quinn muttered, turning her head to look out the window. A part of her wanted to lay her cheek against the glass and cry. And another part wanted to bridge the gap between them and make Bennet remember that they had been more than this once. More than strangers.
How many times had she sat like this, beside Bennet as he navigated the same dark roads they now drove? She used to reach across the console and take his hand, trace patterns in his palm like a love story in a sign language all their own. In some ways, it would feel natural to do so now. Her heart cartwheeled at the thought, but instead of thrilling her, Quinn felt nauseous.
“You shouldn’t get involved,” Quinn said. “Please, just forget that my mother said anything at all.”
“And if something happens?” Bennet slid her a sideways glance. “That’s on my head, Quinn. If I knew about Lucy and didn’t look into the situation, I could lose my badge.”
Was he punishing her? Quinn couldn’t tell. She knew she deserved it. If the roles were reversed, Quinn would want her pound of flesh. Recompense for the way they had been torn apart. Who wouldn’t? In some ways it felt like a lifetime ago that they had stopped on the sidewalk in front of Betty’s Cakes, but in others it was only yesterday. The wound was fresh, seeping.
“I can’t do this,” she had said. She was standing in the shadow of a sweeping lilac bush in late May, the fragrant purple blooms just a little fetid and a week or so past their prime.
“Forget your mom,” Bennet said, lacing his fingers through hers and giving her forehead a chaste kiss. “If you want chocolate cake, let’s have chocolate cake. So what if white is traditional?”
But Quinn wasn’t talking about the cake. She was breathing quick and shallow, her lungs pinched tight as she struggled beneath the wave of panic that threatened to consume her. It was all too much, too fast, and their whirlwind engagement (less than three months from proposal to wedding day so they could take advantage of married student housing in the fall) had left her dizzy and heartsick.
“I don’t care about the cake,” she choked.
Quinn could see in the way his heart shattered before her eyes that Bennet knew exactly what she meant.
It wasn’t supposed to be forever. Just a little break while Quinn set herself in order. But then she found the acceptance letter from Biola when she was cleaning out her backpack, and suddenly the option she had already discarded seemed her only saving grace. She was gone.