Chapter 23 #2
“—so I wanted to check on her, make sure she’s doing okay.
See if she needed money to start fresh somewhere new.
But Lindsay vanished.” I jam my hands in my hair, remembering too late that I put gel on it this morning.
“The only good news is, Ray Overton’s been calling the shelter looking for her too, so at least she’s not with him. ”
Quinn absorbs all of that in silence.
“What?” I ask defensively.
She shrugs. “For someone who doesn’t like caring about people, you sure care about a lot of people.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. It’s exhausting. Keep eating.”
I keep eating, but only after glaring at her, and only because it’s delicious.
“Speaking of, when are you going to drop the whole Dr. Mohr act for the princess next door?” Quinn asks.
The hand not holding my spoon curls into a fist on top of the island. “The princess next door sat with me all night on Friday when I needed someone.”
I don’t share the rest of it. The feel of her finger on my lips. The shape of her body when she’s curled around a mug of tea. The intimacy of her quiet, nighttime voice. Those details belong to me.
But Quinn notices what I’m not saying, just like she notices the way I force my fingers to flatten again.
“Interesting.” She turns to the sink and rinses her bowl and spoon before depositing them in the dishwasher. “Took her long enough to notice your finer qualities.”
I have no response to that, and Quinn is silent until she’s washed and dried her jar.
“And you don’t feel guilty about having a secret girlfriend?”
“You mean the one whose name I don’t know?” I fire back.
“Easy enough to find out if you really wanted to.”
My pulse skitters, and I reach up to adjust my glasses out of habit only to find them missing. I’m meeting Morticia two days from now, but my anticipation isn’t as sharp as it was when we made this plan in Navarro’s bedroom over a month ago. She’s still the murder babe of my dreams, but…
But Rue. In my surveillance footage. At the mailbox. On my couch.
“Just be careful.” Quinn crosses her arms over her chest, her dark scowl at odds with her vibrant clothes. “You don’t know anything about her. She could be an undercover cop or a spy for Pell or just as bad as the people you kill.”
“She’s not,” I say immediately.
“Have you seen her commit a murder? Or has she shown up, pumped you for incriminating details, and vanished again?”
“That’s not…” I press my fingers against the healing edge of my bruise, using the flare of pain to ground me. “It’s not like she’s seen me kill anybody either.”
Quinn hums noncommittally. “If you go down, it won’t take long for some FBI toxicologist to notice that your favorite paralytic is made from a chemical with my name on the patent.”
Grandma Erzsébet’s stew curdles in my stomach at the idea of the FBI using me as a flashing neon arrow pointing to Quinn.
“Just saying, your choices affect me, and I’m counting on you to make the right ones.”
“And you’re saying Rue’s the right choice?”
“God, no.” She grimaces. “The smartest choice is not getting involved with either of them in the first place.”
That prediction of doom delivered, my own personal Cassandra stands and pulls on her long coat. “Okay. Good talk.”
Translation: I’ve delivered my message and am now removing myself from this conversation because it veers toward human feelings. I’m too used to it to take offense as she clomps out of my kitchen, leaving me to grab her empty jar and trail after her.
“Thanks for checking on me,” I say when we reach the front door. “It means a lot.”
This earns me a glare, but she softens it by saying, “You’re the only person I’d voluntarily call Pell for.”
“Jesus, buy me a drink first.” I grin at her.
“Fuck off.” She plucks the mason jar from my hands, yanks the front door open, and comes to a halt.
Standing on my porch, fist raised to knock, is Rue.
“Um. Hi,” Rue says. “I brought tea.”
She’s got the small red box clutched against her midsection, and she looks ready to bolt as her eyes zip from Quinn to me, then back to Quinn. Quinn looks at me, then back at Rue. I stare at Rue and only Rue.
Quinn heaves an enormous sigh and rolls her eyes to the heavens. “I made stew. He should have another bowl. There’s enough for you if you want it.”
Grudging invitation delivered, she turns and stomps down the steps, her skirt swirling around her ankles, the jar clutched to her side, the colorful coat floating after her like a patchwork superhero cape.
“That was my friend Quinn,” I say once she’s rattled out of my driveway in her ancient truck. “She doesn’t like a lot of people.”
Rue smiles at that. “Too bad, because I already like her. Anyway, I’m not staying. I just wanted to drop this off.”
She finally relinquishes the box, and my brows lift in surprise. I’m used to knowing everything about her, not the other way around.
“I noticed the box in your recycling the other night.” She lifts her chin and says stiffly, “I was at the store anyway. It’s not like I made a special trip.”
Everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done, everything that required nerves of steel and cast-iron composure…
that’s all undone by this woman noticing a box in my trash, deducing I was out, and buying me more.
I don’t have the heart to tell her only two stores in this area stock Clarendon House Tea Co.
’s Lapsang Souchong, so I damn well know she went out of her way to get it.
“Thank you.” I smile at her. She smiles back. We stand on opposite sides of my front door, smiling at each other.
“I’m not staying,” she tells me again.
“Okay. Do you want some stew?”
“Okay.” Her gaze doesn’t leave mine as she crosses the threshold and steps into my entryway, which is when I remember I took my glasses off for Quinn’s visit and have been making love-struck eyes at her without that extra layer of protection.
Thankfully, she walks past me without comment, letting me snatch them off the table as I stalk after her.
Good thing I was already in the cardigan.
“Don’t hover. Sit.” She points to the island when I join her in the kitchen. “I didn’t interrupt my sleep schedule to make sure you survived the night on Friday just to let you overexert yourself today.”
I sit. Getting bossed around never held much appeal, but I’m starting to rethink my stance on that.
She busies herself at the stove and turns with a steaming bowl in each hand, setting one in front of me and sliding onto the other stool with her own serving.
Before her spoon hits the creamy orange liquid, she leans into me.
“How are you feeling?” Her eyes search my face. “Headaches okay? Sleeping enough? Staying off your screens?”
“Neighbor girl,” I say with a laugh, “will you shut up and eat?”
She blinks, then laughs and digs in. Once she’s made some progress, I answer her.