“Soon.” The parking lot was busy, but there was no sign of Mick, the hot maintenance guy. For the best because, well, her hair. “I’ll let you know.”
There was a long pause. “Honey . . . you know we didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know. I’m just confused.”
“Well, come home so you can get unconfused.”
“Soon,” she promised. “I’ve gotta go. Love you, Mom.” And then she disconnected.
A minute later she got a text.
MOM:
Forgot to tell you something! Yesterday at the grocery store, I stood in line with the nicest man. Harvard. Lawyer. I showed him your picture and gave him your number.
QUINN:
Mom, you can’t just give my number out to strangers!
MOM:
HARVARD.
Annoyed and tired, but far too keyed up to go back to bed, Quinn showered—with an eye peeled for bugs—dressed, and headed out.
Downstairs in the main entry there was a buffet setup. Loosely. There was coffee and a choice of doughnuts. She took two with her to her car.
For her, the good, ol’ US of A had always consisted of Los Angeles, New York, and San Francisco, with nothing in between except a nap at thirty-five thousand feet. She realized that probably made her a city snob, but the truth was, she just didn’t know anything different.
But California’s midcoastal area took her breath away. Endless green rolling hills, lined with gorgeous old oak trees, dotted with ranches scattered far and wide.
Wildstone itself wasn’t much more than a few streets of historic downtown buildings filled with a mix of both old and new shops: an art gallery, a handmade-jewelry store, an ice-cream parlor, a hair salon, a bar and grill, a general store. Several of the storefronts were vacant. She could see that they were trying to lure in tourists, but they had a ways to go.
Since her appointment with Cliff wasn’t for another hour, she took a few side streets and found an old café named Caro’s. It was kind of cute despite the fact that it was located in the middle of absolutely nowhere. But what got her out of the car was her growling tummy. The doughnuts hadn’t really done it for her.
To her dismay, the place was closed.
Damn. Back in her car, she programmed Cliff’s address into the bitchy GPS and ended up parked in front of a small, older house sitting on the edge of town. A discreet plaque read: CLIFFORD PORTER, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Quinn was a little early, but the receptionist was there. A distracted-looking woman in her early twenties wearing a headset, she held up a finger while she glared at her printer—which was blinking but not printing. “Dammit,” she said and slapped it around a little.
It still didn’t print.
“It knows you’re in a hurry,” Quinn said. “They can smell fear.”
“Bastard.” The woman pulled off her headset and sighed. “Sorry, I was in class. Online Psychology. It sucked.” She shut her laptop and shook it off. “Okay. Switching hats from prelaw student to lawyer receptionist now.”
Quinn smiled. “Good morning.”
“Well, if it was a good morning, I’d be on a South Pacific island being massaged by Tom Hardy. But that’s another story. I’m Kelly, how can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Porter,” Quinn said. “I’m—”
“Quinn,” Kelly said, giving her the once-over although her eyes remained warm and friendly. “Nice to meet you. Cliff had to run a quick errand, but make yourself at home in his office, he’ll be right back.”
Cliff’s office was small but neat. The walls were dedicated to pictures, some of them going back decades. One had Quinn stopping in her tracks and leaning in closer. It looked like a recent pic of herself and Cliff—except it couldn’t be, for two reasons. One, he was looking at her with familiarity and so much love it took her breath away. And two, the date on the print was 1996, when Quinn would have been . . . ten.
“It’s your mom,” Cliff said, coming into the office.
Still unable to think of the woman she’d known only as Carolyn as her mother, Quinn turned to face him. “And . . . your dad?” she guessed.
Cliff smiled. “They were close. I took over his law practice when he retired a few years back.”
Quinn stilled. “Oh my God. Are we . . . brother and sister?”
His smile widened. “No. Dad loved your mom though. But then again, most men did.”
Quinn looked at the picture again, honing in on Carolyn’s younger, happier face. “She didn’t love him back?”
Cliff came to her side and eyed the picture as well. “She wasn’t one to be tied down.”
“Just knocked up then?”
Cliff met her gaze. “I take it you’re curious about your father.”
“To say the least. I have less than zero information. Did you know him?”
“Not personally,” Cliff said. “His name is Eric Madden. He’s a professional bull rider, or was until his age caught up with him. He still lives on the circuit, but he’s their traveling chef now. He rarely comes through town anymore, if at all.”
Quinn’s legs felt a little wobbly and she staggered back to a chair and sat heavily. “A chef.”
“Yes.” Cliff poured her a glass of water. “I’m guessing that hits a little close to home. I’m sorry. He was contacted about Carolyn’s death, but he didn’t respond. In any case, I’m very glad you changed your mind about coming to Wildstone to discuss the estate and your inheritance. There are decisions to be made.”
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” she cautioned. “This is a fact-finding mission only.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled out a file. “Here’s Carolyn’s will. Her assets include some property. Everything gets passed to the heirs.”
Quinn’s head jerked up. “Heirs? As in plural?”
“Yes. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He paused and there was a quiet empathy in his gaze. “You have a sister, Quinn, born from the same parents you were. Her name is Tilly. She’s fifteen and I just brought her here; she’s outside, waiting to meet you.”
Quinn stared at him, trying to take in the words through the bomb he’d just dropped. She had a sister.
She’d had a sister.
She’d lost that sister.
And now she had another.
Her head spun in circles and she had absolutely no idea how to land on any of the emotions racing through her at the speed of light. Rising to her feet, she headed to the door.
“Quinn—”
Ignoring Cliff, she strode out into the main room and turned in a slow circle. It was empty.
Kelly burst in the front door, looking breathless. She put a hand to her heart and gulped in air. “That girl can run.” She met Quinn’s gaze. “I’m sorry. Tilly didn’t take to the news of a sister very well. She’s gone.”
I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .
Those four words were a terrifying, horrifying, nightmare-inducing repeat of what she’d been told the night of Beth’s accident, when she’d stood in the ER staring in shock at the doctor.
I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .
“Gone?” Quinn repeated past a clogged throat.
Kelly nodded. “She’s faster than I am. Plus she can climb a tree and I can’t, so—”
“Which tree?”
“What?”