QUINN
“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?” Quinn reached across the counter and drizzled syrup all over Lucy’s blueberry pancake.
“Pink. No, green.”
“Tough choice. You can have more than one. I do.” Quinn couldn’t believe that they were talking, really talking, but her quiet joy had a shadow side. Walker was outside with the fire chief, answering questions about the shack and the fire. Answering questions about their very lives. Do you own this land? Who is your insurance provider? Where were you last night? As if he was a suspect. A criminal.
It had burned to the ground. A pile of smoldering ash was all that remained of the little building where Quinn had once posed for senior pictures. The peeling paint and rustic boards had made a perfect backdrop for her white lace dress, the long flow of her strawberry-colored hair. Quinn would never look at that picture the same way.
“Would you like me to cut up your pancake for you?” Quinn asked, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. On the child before her.
“In strips,” Lucy said. “I can do the little cuts.”
“Of course.”
“What’s your favorite color?” Lucy had no idea what had happened outside the walls of her bedroom only hours before. It was hard for Quinn to reconcile the girl’s innocence, the tender way she was starting to unfurl, with the violence they had experienced last night.
It wasn’t an accident.
Walker told her the truth in the wee hours of the morning after Quinn woke and crawled from the bed she had shared with Lucy.
Quinn had nodded, resigned. She knew there was no way the old building could spontaneously ignite.
“They found evidence of accelerants,” Walker said. “And there were multiple points of origin.”
“Now what?” Quinn didn’t know if her question was rhetorical or if she actually hoped for an answer.
“They’re investigating.”
“That’s it?”
“It could take weeks.” Walker reached out and tried to pull Quinn close. She resisted at first, but he folded her into his embrace. Her hands went around him reluctantly. Not because she didn’t want his comfort, but because she didn’t believe she deserved it. Wasn’t she the one who had gotten them into this mess? Who insisted that they keep Lucy a secret? The sudden appearance of her niece in their lives, the phone call, the fire . . . surely they were all connected. And this was all her fault.
“Bennet promised me they would leave you alone for a while. And there’s been no mention of Lucy,” Walker said. “At least, not yet.”
A scrap of grace in this whole frightening mess. “For how long?”
“Awhile.” It was the best he could give her.
“Do they really think . . . ?” She couldn’t finish her thought.
“We’re not suspects, Quinn. Just witnesses. They have to ask questions, they have to find out what, if anything, we know.”
“Okay.”
Walker kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her smoky hair. “Everything is going to be just fine,” he said. Quinn wished she could believe him.
A little huff of disbelief pulled her from her reverie. “Don’t you have a favorite color?” Lucy asked, incredulous, impervious to Quinn’s growing anxiety. Walker had been gone for over an hour.
“Colors,” Quinn corrected, forcing herself to focus on the child before her. “I have more than one, remember? Blue and turquoise.”
“That’s kind of the same thing.”
“I don’t think so.” Quinn finished slicing the final strip and pushed the plate toward Lucy. “Orange juice?”
The girl nodded, a big bite already stuffed into her mouth.
Quinn grabbed the carafe of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured a glass half full. “Turquoise is a bright blue-green, like water in the Caribbean Sea or a peacock’s feathers or the sky at sunset after a thunderstorm. Have you ever seen a turquoise stone?”
Lucy shook her head and took a sip of her orange juice.
“Here.” Quinn slipped a finger beneath the silver chain that hung around her neck. After they whispered together in the kitchen as dawn spilled light across the horizon, Walker had led her to the bathroom. He slid the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, then turned on the shower and made her stand beneath the cool spray. When she stepped out, he was gone. But her clothes were laid out for her. She had added the necklace as an afterthought.
“I’ve had this for years,” Quinn said, standing on tiptoe and leaning over so that Lucy could admire her pendant. It was about the size of her thumb, an irregular orb cut through with dark veins and flecked with bits of copper.
“Pretty,” Lucy said, turning it in her fingers.
“That’s turquoise.” Quinn pulled back and turned to the stove so she could flip a pancake that was turning golden in the frying pan. “Not the same as blue at all.”
Lucy murmured her assent gravely and popped another bite in her mouth.
“Favorite food?” Quinn asked, still standing at the stove. It seemed almost ridiculous to act as if nothing was wrong, but what else could she do? So much better to keep Lucy in this sweet, curious state than worry her with all the ugly that waited for them outside.
A beat of silence and then: “Blueberry pancakes.”
“Oh really?” Quinn twisted, the second pancake balanced on a spatula. She flipped it expertly onto a waiting plate and slid Lucy a tired smile. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you happen to be eating the world’s best blueberry pancakes at the moment, would it?”
Lucy giggled. It was a rapid burst of sound, a gravelly rasp in the back of her throat that was over before it even began. But it was music to Quinn’s ears. She schemed, trying to come up with a way to make the girl laugh again. She could never tell a joke properly; she screwed up the punch line every time. And slapstick just wasn’t her thing. She’d have to simply keep talking—and hope.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “My favorite food is maple-glazed doughnuts, with bits of crispy fried bacon on top.” She almost added, “Don’t tell Walker,” but realized at the last second that the mention of him might send Lucy into an emotional scurry.
“That’s a thing?” Lucy asked, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think you can put bacon on a doughnut.”
“Oh, but you can. And you should. Everyone should. It’s the most delicious thing in the world.”
Lucy was still unconvinced. “I would try a little bite.”
“You’re very brave.” Quinn smeared a pat of real butter on her own pancake and drenched it in syrup. Walker would probably have a heart attack just looking at her breakfast. The butter melted and pooled on her plate, and she cut a big bite and dredged it through the glistening goodness. “And if you don’t like it, I promise to finish it for you.”
“You’re very brave, too,” Lucy said sagely. “Two doughnuts at once is kind of a big deal.”
So she had a sense of humor! “It’s true.” Quinn nodded. “But then I’m kind of a big deal.”
“Me too.”
“Yes, you are.” Quinn could feel her cheeks glow warm and was pleased in spite of the situation. In spite of everything. Darling girl.
When the doorbell rang, Lucy froze, a forkful of pancake halfway to her mouth. “Who’s that?” she asked carefully, setting her utensil down on the side of her plate. Such manners for someone so young. Such vigilance.
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. She didn’t know what to do. Walker had said they would be left alone for a while. Long enough, hopefully, to formulate a plan. To talk to Nora. What now? Should she ignore whoever was at the door? Ask Lucy to hide? Or pretend that the little girl in her kitchen was the child of a friend and she was simply babysitting for an hour or two? Each option seemed flimsy and fraught with risk. “Maybe you’d better . . .”
But Lucy had already climbed down from the stool and was making her way to her bedroom. She shut the door, without once looking back at Quinn.
The doorbell rang twice more as Quinn walked toward the entryway. “Hold your horses,” she muttered, attempting irritation, though what she really felt was a ripple of fear. You can do this, she told herself. Be firm. Send them away quickly.
But when she turned the handle on the door, the person on the outside pushed it wide open.
“Quinn!” Liz burst through the door and grabbed her daughter by the upper arms as if she intended to shake her. “I’ve been texting you and texting you!”
“I think my phone is in my purse,” Quinn said, trying to pull away. Liz only held on tighter. “I haven’t checked it lately.”
“That’s ridiculous! Who doesn’t check their phone? How are people supposed to get in touch with you?”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“What happened?” Liz looked frantic, downright disheveled. It was such an unusual state for her that Quinn wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
“Is everything okay?” Quinn asked. A drop of panic seeped into her stomach and blossomed like blood in water.
“Clearly not. What is going on here?”
Over Liz’s shoulder Quinn could see an unmarked car still parked by the side of the road. Nearby, a small circle of men hovered over the crime scene. Two in uniforms. They were no longer combing the site of the fire, sifting through the ash as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Instead, they were talking determinedly, comparing notes, and apparently continuing to question her husband. Walker stood in their midst, sandals planted firmly on the scorched earth, arms folded across his chest.
“There was a fire,” Quinn said. She reached around her mother and shut the door. Locked it.
“At the shack? But there’s nothing there. No electricity, no wires, nothing.”
“I know.”
“Do they think . . . ?” Liz left the question hanging and Quinn nodded, against her better judgment.
Liz rummaged around in her purse for a moment and handed Quinn a folded piece of paper. “This was stapled to my light pole this morning,” she said.
Quinn knew it was Lucy the second she looked at that grainy photo on the flyer. No matter that the picture quality was poor (obviously taken on a cell phone and blown up) or that it was wrinkled and creased with folds. Lucy’s hair was long and silvery blond instead of short and red, but those eyes were unmistakable. “What are we going to do?”
“Where’s Lucy?”
Quinn shook her head as if to clear it and then tucked the flyer into her pocket. “She’s right here. She’s fine.” Quinn walked over to the guest room and opened the door. She gave Lucy what she hoped was a warm smile. “My mom is here. Remember her? You met her the other day.”
Lucy looked skeptical, but she came out of the room and reclaimed her place at the counter. It seemed the pull of the pancakes was too much to resist.
There was an awkward moment or two as Quinn watched Liz study Lucy. They were mother, daughter, granddaughter caught in some strange, bewildering rite. It shouldn’t have to be like this, the three of them circling one another like strangers, and Quinn felt a stab of anger at her sister. Nora. Sometimes it felt like everything came back to Nora. But she didn’t have time for spite.
“Would you like a pancake, Mom?” Quinn wasn’t aware that she was going to say the words until they were out of her mouth. But the look of surprise on Liz’s face, and the accompanying half smile, made Quinn’s heart stutter. Such a simple kindness, and yet her mother looked as if Quinn had offered her the moon.
“I’d love one.”
They were silent as Quinn poured the batter into the frying pan and Lucy continued to make short work of her breakfast. By the time Quinn turned the pancake onto a plate for her mother and passed it over, the room was crackling with tension and unanswered questions. Quinn was sure she could feel them spark against her skin like living things. But she didn’t dare to talk about anything that mattered in front of Lucy. Not here. Not now.
“Thank you,” Liz said quietly.
Quinn watched as her mother poured the syrup and took a tentative bite of the warm pancake. It must have earned her approval because she cut off three squares in quick succession and lined them all up on the tines of her fork. “These are delicious,” she said, and for some reason she looked as if she might cry. “Did you make them yourself? I didn’t know you could cook!”
“Of course I can cook. Very well, actually.”
“But Walker’s the baker in the family.”
Quinn felt like throwing her hands up in the air. When she had first told her mother about Walker’s aptitude with bread, Liz had smiled thinly and made a comment about how she had never before known a man who baked. As if baking bread was akin to collecting porcelain unicorns. “I’m not sure you’ve ever even tasted his bread,” Quinn managed, fighting to keep her tone civil.
“And that’s wrong.” Liz’s eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fervor. “I would love to taste his bread.”
Quinn was so taken aback her tongue was cemented to the roof of her mouth.
“I’m sure he makes delectable bread. Can I buy some from you? Maybe a loaf a week or something like that? I’m not really supposed to eat carbs, but . . .” She trailed off.
“Mom.” Quinn gave her head a little shake, trying to regain some of her composure. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I told you that already.”
Quinn leaned her forearms on the counter so she could be face-to-face with her mom. “You need to tell me what’s going on. You’re not having a stroke, are you?”
“Absolutely not! That’s a crazy thing to say.”
“You’re not exactly acting like yourself.” Quinn searched her mother’s pale blue eyes. What were the ABCs of a stroke again? Wait. That was the acronym for a suspicious mole. FAST? Yes, that was it. Face drooping, something about the arms . . . Quinn couldn’t remember the rest. But it didn’t seem to matter anyway. Apart from acting like she had been the victim of the body snatchers, Liz looked perfectly fit and healthy. As always.
“We need to talk,” Liz whispered. As if Lucy was deaf. As if she couldn’t hear the woman who was sitting right next to her. “Alone.”
“Mom.” Quinn shot Lucy a quick, nervous smile. “I think that—”
“You don’t understand,” Liz said, ignoring her. She looked pained, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy as if she, too, had hardly slept. “Honey, there are some things I need to tell you.”