Chapter 34
SECRETS
Bronte
Poppy has not yet woken. Instead of remaining a useless heap of anxiety at her bedside, I’m covering a graveyard shift for a sick colleague.
Lightning whips the black clouds above as I pull into the lot and park beside the only other vehicle here: Quinn’s old moss-green Wrangler. I haven’t given her a single thought since Poppy convinced me to talk to her rather than strangle her.
Locking my car, I flash my penlight through the Jeep’s windows.
The leather interior is perfectly clean and devoid of any damning evidence.
I stroll across the pavement at a stiff pace, swiping my badge at the entrance and weaving through the empty office space.
Downstairs, I skip the morgue and head straight for the lab.
I hear them before I see them.
Sighs and moans, heady and breathless, reach my ears. I halt at the lab window and duck at the sight of two half-dressed, writhing bodies. Peering over the counter, I squint into the dark room and decipher the silhouettes.
There, bent over a table of beakers and test tubes, is Quinn. Behind her, his broad frame flexing beneath his business attire as he grips her curls and rails her with mighty strokes, is none other than Detective Shane fucking Scull.
What in the actual fuck? Is he who she’s been seeing this entire time?
Having too many theories and not enough brain cells to process them all while the pair fuck like rabbits in heat, I slip back to the morgue and wait it out. A grueling hour later, their footsteps and voices grow near.
Fisting the Kimber in my jacket pocket, I step casually into the hall and act surprised when we spot each other. “Oh! Bonjour, mes amis. To what do I owe the…pleasure?”
Scull subtly tucks his pistol back into its holster as Quinn plants a hand on her chest, gasping, “You scared the shit out of us.”
I scan the floor. “No, I didn’t.”
Quinn huffs a nervous laugh as Scull crosses his arms. “What are you doing here, Bourbon?”
“Working. What are you doing here, mon ami?”
“Working.”
“Mm. So late?”
“Sin never sleeps.”
I stifle my urge to snort. “Touché.”
A moment creeps by as Quinn’s freckled face reddens by the millisecond.
“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” Scull remarks, glancing at Quinn. “Appreciate your help with that case, Wildes. I’ll be on my way.”
I’m insulted by how dumb he thinks I am. “In what cruiser?”
Quinn’s mouth tightens as Scull utters a curse and drags a hand down his face. “What do you want, Bourbon?”
“What do I want?”
Scull’s jaw flexes. “To keep this to yourself.”
“This, as in your secret relationship that will surely get you both fired for conflict of interest?”
“Don’t play games with me. I think you already know you won’t win.”
My eyes narrow, my temper rising. “Does your girlfriend know who you really work for?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“I do.” Quinn clears her throat, her big blue eyes flitting between me and the man old enough to be her father. “Let me talk to him, Shane. Pick me up in the morning?”
Scull nods without another word, shouldering me roughly as he passes. Fucking alpha complex.
“Bronte?” Quinn notes my wary frown, wringing her wrists. “Let’s grab a bite while we catch up. My treat.”
Sitting at my desk under the morgue’s dim lights, I pick at the pizza Quinn called in for delivery.
Waiting.
Quinn nibbles on her crust, apprehension written all over her face. I offer nothing but a cold mask of indifference with a heavy hint of disgust.
“Back in May,” she begins, a nervous hitch in her voice, “do you remember when you found a strand of Poppy’s hair and gave it to me for testing?”
“Oui,” I grind out, failing to conceal my irritation at her passive confession that she knew, even then, who I’d been chasing. It makes sense; as Scull’s lover, she would’ve known anything about the Morgensterns he decided to share. Which, apparently, was everything. “I remember.”
From her tote on the floor, she pulls a familiar object crafted with raven feathers, animal bones, and blood-crusted twine.
Along with it, a card not unlike Nikolai’s invitation, creased as if she spent countless hours folding and unfolding it.
She slides it across the desk. Instead of coordinates, it’s printed text—a letter.
“It basically says that I’m an accomplice for not only assisting you in your illegal pursuit of a known vigilante but also acquiescing to your request in prioritizing evidence without official authorization from law enforcement.
They threatened to turn me in if I didn’t deliver the second poppet that came with mine to you.
I took this to Shane and explained the situation. He told me to do as I was instructed.”
I skim the text, all of which matches her testimony.
Interesting. No note was left behind with Margot’s poppet, nor was there any correspondence attached to mine. What Quinn is claiming doesn’t fit Leviathan’s pattern.
It doesn’t mean she’s lying. It means Leviathan knows how to remain unpredictable.
Poppy was right: Quinn was being blackmailed.
There’s still one major problem, though.
“You kept this from me, Quinn. I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends, Bronte.”
“Friends don’t keep secrets like this.”
She scoffs and jabs an accusatory finger at my glare. “You have no right to judge me. Imagine my surprise when Shane told me that you weren’t only working with Poppy, but that you’re with her. That the vigilante you’d been so hellbent on bringing to justice is now your—what? Lover?”
“How often do I see you?” I parry, unwilling to let her turn this on me. “How many times could you have told me about any of this? You’re so self-absorbed, you can’t even see how much of a hypocrite you’re being, or how much you’re hurting me right now.”
Tears crystallize her long lashes. “You’re hurting me, too.”
The crack in her voice slices me to the bone. A heavy weight presses down on my neck. It feels like shame’s thickest blade, sinking deeper than any knife ever could.
Quinn sniffles wetly. “Maybe we were never friends after all.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Quinn says nothing as she gathers her belongings and heads for the doors. Not once does she look back. At the threshold, she pauses and tilts her head to show a quarter of her shaded profile as she debates saying what she ultimately chooses to voice.
“I’ll put in a request to switch around my shifts so I’m working when you’re not. Probably best we stay out of each other’s way from now on.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
The doors shut behind her with a final, mournful note.