“But—”
The doorbell interrupted their argument before it could heat up.
“Are you expecting someone?” Liz asked warily, eyeing the hallway that led to the door.
“No. But I’m sure it’s Nora.” Quinn stalled for a moment, looking back and forth between her mother and the concealed entryway. “Just, listen, okay?” she urged. “Let Nora talk. Let her say what she needs to say.”
“Are you implying that I don’t—”
“Please.”
“Fine, fine.” Liz threw up her hands and turned her attention to the bottles of fingernail polish that still littered the counter. She began to gather them up one by one, checking and double-checking the lids to make sure they were on securely and then depositing them back in the Rubbermaid. In order by color and shade because it was the only thing she could do in the moment to put things right in her world.
Liz was in a private place, a locked room in her mind, where everything was dark and hushed and smooth—no edges, no worries, nothing to make her frustrated or angry or sad—when the sound of Quinn calling fractured her fragile peace.
“Mom? I need you to come here.”
Of course. Liz smoothed the front of her shirt and gave her hair a fluff. It had been a while since she had seen Nora and she was walking a fine line between wanting to touch her baby girl and wishing she could smack her around a little. Not that she had ever given in to corporal punishment. That was Jack Sr.’s job, and he had carried it out with a cool, detached efficiency. And a ruler. Liz had once seen the red marks on the backs of Nora’s legs and it filled her with an indescribable fury. How dare he? But then, she had given him permission to do so. It was a decision they’d made together.
Nora. Liz practiced her name, the way she would hold out her arms and hope that Nora fell into them. But that wasn’t like her eldest daughter at all, and by the time Liz rounded the corner she was confused and hopeful, scared and upset. How did her children always manage to make things so difficult?
But Nora wasn’t standing in the doorway.
Tiffany was.
She looked different than the last time Liz had seen her only days ago. No, not different, necessarily; her distinctive hair was just swept up in a colorful scarf, bohemian-style. It wrapped completely around her head like a turban and hid her lovely dark waves. But somehow it worked for her. It was her cheekbones, her eyes that slanted up just a bit at the corners. She looked exotic and lovely, as if she hailed from somewhere far more extraordinary than Key Lake, Minnesota.
“Tiffany,” Liz exclaimed, fumbling for purchase. What was she doing here? What now? And though it was insane for the thought to pop into her head at such a heavy moment, Liz remembered the urn. The ashes of Lorelei Barnes. “I have something for you.”
“I believe that you do,” Tiffany said quietly. “I’m actually here because—”
There was a quick patter of light footsteps. A little gasp. “Mom?”
Tiffany’s face crumpled and she fell to her knees, arms out for Lucy as her child raced across the space between them. When the girl threw herself against Tiffany, all doubt about her lineage was erased.
“Oh, baby.” Tiffany buried her face in Lucy’s hair and pressed her close, hands tugging at her arms, her dress, the blunt ends of her hair. It was as if she was drinking her in, memorizing each line and curve with the urgent stroke of her fingers—a blind woman fumbling for sight. “Oh, honey,” she cried. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Lucy pushed back from her mother, small hands squeezing her shoulders in reproach. She was sobbing, the tears sliding down her cheeks and off her chin in quick succession. “Why did you do that to me? Why did you leave me? Why—”
Tiffany put her fingers to Lucy’s mouth, stopping the flow of words but not the accusation, the hurt that still poured from the child’s wide eyes. “Shhhh,” she said, her own lips trembling. “That’s enough now.”
“But—”
“Enough.” Tiffany stood up abruptly and brushed her own tears away with a determined swipe. She took Lucy firmly by the hand. “We’re leaving.”
Liz reached out to stop her and realized at the last second that there was nothing she could do. “Wait,” she said, but Tiffany was unswerving in her confidence, in the set of her jaw and the hard look in her dark, flinty eyes.
“Thank you for watching Everlee these past few days,” Tiffany said, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.
Everlee?
But before Liz could even formulate a question, Tiffany and Lucy (Everlee? Her granddaughter?) were gone, running across the browning August grass. Lucy tried to look over her shoulder once, to catch a parting glimpse of Quinn and the house where she had been fed and cared for, where her toenails had been painted the color of spring and moss. Of hope. But Tiffany held on tight and Lucy’s head snapped back around before she could make eye contact with either of the women who stood framed in the doorway.
Liz wanted to do something, but she was frozen, her feet cemented to the ground and her throat strangled by a nameless, faceless panic that she couldn’t quite identify. This was wrong. Everything about it was horribly, terribly wrong, but she didn’t know why.
There was nothing she could do. It was too late. There was a car at the end of the driveway and Tiffany yanked open the back door. She pushed her daughter inside and climbed in behind her.
In the driver’s seat, the man with the square jaw and black hair gave Liz and Quinn a little two-fingered salute. And then he put the car in reverse and squealed out in a cloud of dust and exhaust that filtered slowly through the air to where Liz stood, choking.
Saturday
3:47 p.m.
Quinn
They took her.
Nora
Who?
Quinn
Tiffany. And the man from Malcolm’s.
Nora
Oh my God.
Stay there. I’m coming.
QUINN
THE MOMENT AFTER she read Nora’s last message, Quinn texted Bennet. I need you.
He wrote one word in reply: Coming.
But the impending arrival of help, of people who would be able to make sense of what had just happened, didn’t begin to take the edge off Quinn’s panic.
“Where are you going?” Liz half shouted as Quinn shoved her phone into her pocket and took off across the yard.
She didn’t even pause to acknowledge her mother.
Quinn banged on the door to the boathouse, two-fisted and frantic. Lucy was gone and Quinn was so heartsick she was weeping. When had that happened? She hadn’t even known she was crying until she heard the ragged intake of her own shuddering breath.
Her palms landed on Walker’s chest as he wrenched open the door. He caught her wrist in one hand and held on tight. His grip was desperate, his eyes wild. “What happened?” he barked. “Are you okay? Is Lucy okay?”