12. Quadri
QUADRI
INTERVENTION PENDING
“You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”
They are. Mary’s watching me, waiting for a story to unfold—wide-eyed, taking everything in, her sweater sleeves pushed up to reveal the soft, rust tones of her shirt, like she dressed to match the season without realizing it.
Shelly, on the other hand, is seconds away from interrupting, her foot tapping a sharp, relentless rhythm against the floor, bright pink jeans impossible to ignore.
I let the silence stretch. Just long enough for them to lean in without realizing they’re doing it.
I chose the library garden deliberately because it’s public enough to discourage theatrics, quiet enough for a conversation that doesn’t need witnesses.
Round tables sit beneath the oak trees, dappled shade shifting with the breeze, chrysanthemums and goldenrod lining the paths.
No corners to get boxed into. Just enough ambient movement—pages turning, distant conversation—to dull anything said too loudly.
Also, if someone happens to wander through at the right moment, it won’t feel staged. It’ll feel like coincidence.
People trust coincidence.
“It’s pretty here,” Mary says softly, glancing at the leaves drifting down in slow spirals.
“That’s not the point,” I reply.
Shelly hooks a boot around the bench rung, posture loose, eyes already probing for weak spots. “What is the point, then? Because you dragged us out here like we’re about to plan a heist.”
Not entirely inaccurate.
“In a way,” I say, “we are.” I lace my fingers on the table. “We need to talk about what happened between Dannica and Mystery Man.”
“Oh my god, finally,” Shelly says.
Mary presses her lips together, but she’s smiling.
“Those sparks,” Shelly continues, practically vibrating. “Actual sparks. I’m surprised the fire department didn’t storm the place. That’s why I booked it out of there and went to get you guys.” She says it all in one breath, words tripping over each other in their rush to get out.
Exaggerated, but not entirely wrong.
Mary sighs—the kind of sigh that belongs in an old romance film. “I’m so glad you did.”
“What made you instigate the whole thing in the first place?” I ask Shelly.
She doesn’t hesitate. “He took her picture. With a real camera. Right there in front of everyone. With the flash on! It’s like he wanted her to know.” She leans in, eyes bright. “That’s putting yourself out there.”
“Or he just forgot to switch the flash off,” Mary offers.
Shelly glares at her. “Why do you always have to spoil the fun?”
“I’m not trying to. Either way, it’s still romantic.”
I don’t weigh in on that. Whether it was deliberate or not, Mystery Man still stepped forward and took the shot. That’s not nothing.
“A couple of days ago, you two thought he was a criminal,” I say.
Mary turns a fallen leaf between her fingers. “That was before I saw the way he kissed her.”
“Bundy was charismatic.”
“This guy isn’t another Bundy,” Shelly says, nodding like she’s just settled something. “I have a vibe about it.”
“Again with the vibe. We don’t even know his name.” That lands the way I intended. A small silence follows. “Which is why I called you here.”
Mary’s gaze sharpens. “You want us to play detective.”
“Exactly. And Dannica can’t find out.”
Shelly blinks. “Shouldn’t she be here?”
“Hell no. She’s already trying to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. If we bring her in, she shuts it down before we’ve started. She’s not going to go looking for him—she’s going to avoid him.”
Shelly huffs a quiet laugh. “Too true.”
“So.” She sits up straighter. “What are we doing about it?”
“A structured approach,” I say. “We create an environment where interaction is inevitable. Controlled setting, minimal distractions. A dinner, after closing. We make sure they’re both there and let it develop.”
Shelly stares at me. “A kiss in a setting designed for love had the man bolting. You really think a romantic dinner will keep him there?”
“I’m the only one with a plan.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s lazy thinking.” She leans forward, fully animated. “What you need is momentum. Something unexpected happens and suddenly they’re thrown together—forced proximity, shared experience. That’s where the magic is.”
“This sounds like an accident waiting to happen.”
“Not an accident. A setup.” She gestures between us like she’s physically pushing two people together. “We get them on a tandem bike?—”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I didn’t need to.”
Mary perks up. “Wait, let her finish.”
Shelly shoots her a grateful look. “Thank you. We get them on a tandem bike, right? Cute, a little chaotic, very memorable. Maybe Dannica’s bike breaks down and?—”
“You want to involve moving parts,” I say, “and Dannica’s coordination, in the same plan.”
Shelly pauses. “Yes.”
Mary tries to hide a laugh.
“Fine,” Shelly says. “What’s your idea then, Miss Efficiency?” She looks at Mary.
Mary straightens, suddenly serious. “She needs to be swept off her feet. Properly. Something happens, she’s in trouble, he shows up and?—”
“No.”
Mary blinks. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“Dannica is not a damsel-in-distress type of woman.”
“It could be a secret fantasy.”
“Unlikely.”
“You’re suggesting we manufacture a crisis,” Shelly says.
“I’m suggesting we create an opportunity,” Mary counters.
“That requires deception,” I say.
“It requires romance.”
“It requires liability insurance.”
Shelly laughs outright.
I let the options arrange themselves, looking for the overlap.
“We’re never going to agree,” Shelly says.
“Why don’t we try all of them?”
Shelly’s grin comes back slow and dangerous. “Now that I like.”
Mary leans forward. “All of them?”
“Yes. We let the outcome determine which one works.”
“We should bet,” Shelly says immediately.
Mary gasps. “Oh, I love this.”
“Winner gets their shifts covered,” Shelly says, pointing between us. “Any shift they want.”
“Deal,” Mary agrees, without a second’s hesitation.
They both look at me. Betting ensures participation and accountability. Removes the option of disengaging midway through.
“Fine.”
We’re just about to seal it when?—
“You three cannot be serious.”
I don’t turn immediately. There’s only one person who delivers judgment with that particular brand of unfiltered, unwavering brashness.
Beverly lowers her magazine—she’s been sitting at the next table this entire time—her expression arranged in open disdain, like she’s come across something that offends her.
Which, knowing Beverly, she has.
“This plan,” she says, “is the most juvenile thing I’ve heard all week.”
“Noted,” I say.
Shelly waves a hand. “We weren’t asking.”
Mary pointedly ignores her.
“It doesn’t matter,” Beverly continues. “You’re wasting your time.” She pauses, letting the satisfaction settle across her face. “Because I already have a connection with him.”
I go still for a fraction of a second before I turn to her. “Explain.”
“He helped me change a tire.” She smiles, thin and satisfied. “And I intend to make sure he ends up with Peyton.”
I run it through quickly. Motive. Proximity. Intent. A complication, but manageable.
“Not gonna happen,” I say.
“I say it is.”
“Over my dead body.”
Peyton made Dannica’s life miserable in school. I’ll be damned if I give her another opportunity to make her feel less again.
Beverly’s smile sharpens. “Don’t tempt me.”
She gathers her things, heels clicking against the stone as she walks away, the sound carrying longer than it should.
Shelly exhales. “I cannot stand her.”
Mary scowls. “She’s unbelievable.”
I’m already standing and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Shelly asks.
“I have to confirm something.”
Luke is exactly where he always is—under a car, boots sticking out. The radio is slightly off-station and crackling between songs, tools scattered in a way that looks like chaos but somehow isn’t.
Consistent and predictable.
“Luke.”
He slides out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Quadri? Everything okay?”
“I need a favor.”
He nods immediately. No hesitation. “What you need?”
And reliable.
“Did Beverly come in recently? Tire issue?”
Recognition flickers across his face. “Yeah. Couple days ago. She was in with Roger. Bossing him around like always.”
That tracks.
“Did she mention a stranger helping her out beforehand? Changing the tire?”
Luke huffs out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t stop talking about it. Thought Roger was going to lose it. Said she would’ve been stranded if he hadn’t shown up when he did.” He pauses. “Mentioned his voice too. Like… an audiobook narrator or something.”
He says it like it’s nothing. Luke can rebuild an engine blindfolded, but anything without moving parts tends to pass straight through him.
I file it away anyway.
“Did she say where it happened? Where he might live?”
Luke tilts his head. “You sweet on him or something?”
I inhale too quickly and immediately regret it, coughing once as I recover. “God, no. I just like to know who’s in my town.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Fair enough. I adjust.
“Luke.” I step closer, resting a hand lightly against his arm, just enough to hold his attention. His eyes flick down, then back up to me, a little thrown. “If I tell you something, will you help me out?”
He hesitates. “I’m not really one for gossip.”
Dear innocent Luke.
“It’s not gossip,” I say. “It’s contained.” I lower my voice. “Dannica was kissed by a masked stranger at the festival. I’m trying to find him.”
Luke whistles. “Yeah… town’s been talking about that.”
Naturally.
“I think they’d work,” I say. “She just needs a push.”
“You don’t even know who he is. How do you know they’d work?”
He chooses today to be perceptive. Inconvenient.
“Woman’s intuition,” I say.
He watches me, still weighing it. “Shouldn’t Dannica be the one looking for him?”
Also inconvenient.
“Tell me where Beverly’s mystery hero helped her out,” I say, “and I’ll personally deliver your coffee for the next week. No queue. No Ashley trying to convince you to invent another denture detector.”
That’s got him. I see it immediately.
He exhales. “She said he was on foot, so probably local. Said it was out past Miller’s farm.” He gestures vaguely. “There’s a turnoff. Leads to a small apartment complex, kind of tucked away. She figured he lived there. Mentioned Peyton should head out there for her walks.”
Apartment complex. Could be it.
“Quiet?” I ask.
“Very.”
Good. That’s enough.
“Your caramel latte will be delivered to your door tomorrow,” I say.
He scratches the back of his neck, looking like he’s not entirely sure how he got pulled into this.
Understandable. I’m not entirely sure either.
The turnoff is easy to miss—a gravel road, narrow enough to pass if you weren’t looking for it. The farther in I go, the quieter it gets, the main road fading behind me until there’s nothing left but the low hum of the engine and gravel under the tires.
Then it opens to an apartment building. I slow down, scanning the parking spaces.
Empty. All of them.
Inconvenient. I was hoping for a rental car, something unfamiliar. There’s nothing for it. I pull over to the edge of the road and settle in. It’s not inconspicuous, but if someone questions me, I’ll invent something about waiting for a landlord.
Minutes pass. Then more. Then hours.
The front door doesn’t open. No footsteps. No sign that anyone is here at all. The silence stretches, heavy and unbroken.
Ugh. How do cops manage stakeouts?
I could watch some behind-the-scenes footage of Supernatural. Nothing like a Jensen Ackles fix to keep the boredom at bay.
Battery low.
Goddamn it. I don’t have my car charger because Shelly borrowed it yesterday and didn’t return it. Typical. I should know better than to rely on her for anything that involves follow-through. I’m going to strangle her with the cord.
I lock my phone. No unnecessary risks.
Nothing happens in this town—except when it does. Somehow, I’m always there for that part, but not today. I scan the building one more time, then start the car.
The drive back gives me too much time to think. Waiting at the apartment made no sense. I’ve been known to hole up in my own place for days when I’m not on shift. He could be doing exactly the same thing, and I’d be parked outside indefinitely like a…
Like Beverly.
Absolutely not.
There has to be a better way. Something that doesn’t rely on chance. Something controlled.
I pass Mrs. Everett’s Pastry Shop and slow as a sign in the window catches my eye.
Buy one, get one free.
I look at it for a second longer than necessary. Then it settles.
Exactly what I’m going to do.
By the time I get home, the plan is already forming, each piece slotting into place. I grab a diet soda from the fridge—the cold bites straight into the molar Dr. Greene said I brush too hard, which is frankly insane—and sit down at my computer.
It doesn’t take long. It never does when I know exactly what I’m doing.
Clean layout. Clear messaging. Just enough incentive without feeling excessive.
A coupon for a free meal at the diner. Sunday evening. And if he’s anywhere near this town, he’ll see it.
The apartment building is just as quiet when I return. No movement. No change. Good.
I move quickly, placing a coupon in each mailbox—efficient, no wasted motion. In, out, done. Five apartments. Five mailboxes. But the silence suggests only one occupant, if that.
If Beverly crossed paths with him around here, he’ll come back.
My gaze lingers on the upstairs windows a second too long before I pull it away. I don’t dawdle. If I do, I might start drawing conclusions I’m not ready to deal with, and assumptions are inefficient. My father was very clear about that. He was rarely wrong—or rarely admitted he was wrong, rather.
I don’t linger on that, either.
By the time I get home, I’m satisfied. If he’s interested, he’ll come. If he’s not, nothing is lost. Either way, the outcome will be clear.
Clean. Definitive.
Exactly how I prefer things.