“I understand. I’m here for you, sweetheart,” he said. “Just let me know what I can do.”
He heard her smile.
“Thank you, Quinn. I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, how is Tim?”
“He lost a lot of blood. I’m told he’ll pull through.”
“You’re not at the hospital-”
“No,” she said. “I was for a good part of the day.”
“I see,” he said. A little tug of disappointment nagged at him. “Well, please let me know if I can do anything to help.”
“I will, Quinn. Thank you.”
She ended the call. He stared at the phone.
I’m losing her, too. Damn it!
He sighed, again looking at Megan’s name.
Kitty.
How desperate am I?
He looked at her photo again, feeling a little sick.
“Not desperate enough.”
He threw himself back into his work.
***
A little while later his phone vibrated, the little jingle making him jump. He picked it up.
Kitty.
He opened the text.
“Take off your shirt. Send pic.”
He huffed and texted back.
“What?”
“Take off your shirt, take a picture and send it.”
“I don’t have time for this right now, Megan.”
Instead of responding she sent him a shot of her bare chest. He sighed but stared at it, his tongue in his cheek.
“Alright,” he said out loud. “Maybe it’ll shut her up.”
He did as she asked, removing his shirt and taking the photo, sending it without even looking at it.
“Back to work,” he typed.
Another text popped up.
“Now take off your pants. Send pic.”
“Megan. Not now. I’m working.”
“Duuu eeet.”
He groaned.
“Come on, red. Duuu eeet.”
“No, Megan. Goodnight.”
She sent him a shot of herself from the waist down sideways, completely bare. Another cat tattoo curled around her hip to her left buttock.
“Duuu eet, red.”
He huffed but stood, dropping his sweat pants, taking a shot the same way she had.
“Nice ass,” she texted.
“Yeah, alright, that’s enough, Megan. I’m turning off my phone now.”
“Send a pic like this.”
She sent one touching herself. He groaned and shut off his phone.
“Little slut. My god… I’m actually glad Tamara isn’t hanging out with her anymore,” he said to himself.
But the photos lingered in his head. He stared at the full page of text he had written for the book, unable to think at all. He picked up his phone, turning it on.
Megan had sent three more.
“I’m waiting, red, honey. The next pic only comes if you send one too.”
He sucked in a deep breath.
“One thing about it, I can’t catch anything from her this way,” he said, mumbling to himself.
He stood and paced a little, up and down the hall. After a good ten minutes, he texted her back.
“Alright, you win,” he said. He walked to his room and dropped backward on the bed.
Two minutes later he sent the photo she asked for.
Chapter 18
SPIDER
Quinn rolled over as the train whistle blew. He opened one eye as the alarm on his phone played it’s little happy tune and snatched at it, holding it to his face. He peered at the screen and swiped his thumb across it, then let it drop, still in his hand on the bed.
Memories of the night before flashed at him. He and Megan had sent photos back and forth for a long time, then she called him and they did the same thing in voice. If nothing else, she had a vivid imagination. He smirked as he remembered, his eyes still closed.
She’s a tramp but a helluva good one.
He rolled on his back, still smiling a little. Eventually, his eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling. A huge brown house spider walked slowly across it. He watched it head toward the window, finally dropping somewhere in the curtain.
The curtains seemed to want to wave like flags, but just barely shivered a little in the cool blowing air of the wall unit. He blinked twice, watching them billow and wiggle. The day outside was gray and dull but still made a faint glow on the back of the curtains, a pale backlit square. For only an instant, he remembered the shadow box resting on the windowsill. He shook the thought away as soon as it began.
He lifted his phone and turned on notifications. Kate had written just one line.
“I miss you, Quinn.”
Tamara wrote forty-two, a huge wall of text and emoji greeted him when he opened her chat.
“I can’t believe you did that with Megan. OMG. You are the worst bastard! I fucking hate you, Quinn Tilman. You are a total shit. How could you do this to me? I loved you so much. I would have done anything for you, baby. Why did you do it? Why her? What about me? What’s wrong with me? OMG. I hate you now.” A dozen sad and crying emoji followed.
It went on and on, repeating the same things over and over. He sighed.
“Sorry, angel.”
He let the phone screen go dark and dropped the thing on his chest, staring up at the ceiling again. The spider was again struggling around the wall over the window. He watched it fumble and fall in the top of the curtain a second time.
His phone ringtone startled him, the vibration rattling his rips. He stared at the screen.
Unknown caller?
A flash of that early day on the train tracks shot into his head. He answered.
“Hello?”
“Mister Tilman.”
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Ben Maetters.”
“Ah.”
“You did very well taking matters into your own hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cybering with Megan was perfect. Managed to make Tamara hate you and her at the same time.”
“That was not my intention.”
“I know.”
Anger bubbled in Quinn’s chest.
“You arranged all that, didn’t you?”
“I only gave Megan a little encouragement.”
“Encouragement?” Quinn snarled. “She was demanding photos-”
“And you gave them.” Ben laughed. “It’s alright, Mister Tilman. Mission accomplished. Nothing needs to be done now. I guess I should’ve had a little more faith in the two of you. Thank goodness she had written down both of your numbers. Her father had deleted all of them from her phone. Though the hard copy is destroyed now as well.”
Quinn rubbed his eyes.
“You’ll hear nothing more from your ‘angel’, Mister Tilman. As for Megan, well, I’m afraid she’s your problem. My job was to protect Tamara.”
Quinn froze.
Job?
“Who paid you?”
“Professional secrets must be kept, Mister Tilman. I cannot give you the name of my client.”
“I thought this was all some secret society the elder families created-”
“You’ve been talking to Stephen.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Quinn said. “This is interfering in Tamara’s life.”
“And yours,” Ben said. “You’re not getting your needs met.”
They both went silent. The spider again struggled to climb to the ceiling.
“I understand Tim Lambert will be at the hospital for a couple of weeks. He apparently lost a lot more blood than anyone thought, and the weapon had bacteria on it. Was just used to cut raw chicken,” Ben said. “So, chin up then, yeah? There’s always lonely Carol.”
Quinn gritted his teeth.
“In any case, this is the last you’ll hear from me,” Ben said. “I wish you well. You and your family. And thank you again, on behalf of the Holt family.”
The call ended.
Quinn stared at the phone. He r
eached up and blocked the number before going to his contacts and trying Tamara’s. The call rang and rang. He thought about driving over there, but the massive size of her father made him rethink that idea.
His phone sang its little jingle for a text. He looked.
Megan.
“Are you still in bed? What are you wearing?”
She sent a photo of herself in only a bedsheet.
“Send eeeet.”
He blocked her number.
***
A short while later, Quinn sat at the table in the kitchen, the ache in his ankle much more bearable. He set up his workspace as he munched on a sandwich and settled in to work on the last two chapters of the book.
The quiet house creaked, the horse outside snuffed and snorted, and the old woman across the street sang. Quinn longed to block her out of his head. The faint happy tune colored everything he did. He sneered as she repeated it again, longing to poke his head out and scream at her to shut the fuck up. Instead, he decided to take a break.
He stood and did a little straightening and cleaning. He started some laundry, threw away a few things from the tiny fridge. Then he went back into the bedroom to straighten up in there. A little movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing the spider crawling up the curtains, and behind it, through the sheer fabric, he saw something moving outside.
He walked with a little hesitation to the window, gently pulling open the curtain the spider was not on and peering out. Dean Christmas and the man who rented Quinn the house were standing in the lot behind it, pointing at a long warehouse. It was open on one side, all the way along, with so many repairs it appeared more like a corrugated metal patchwork quilt. Inside it was filled from floor to ceiling with boxes, crates, car parts, boat parts and various vehicles in all states of repair. He heard the tone of their voices but their words were muted. He watched as they walked out toward it and then the scene changed.
As if the day was an illusion it melted away behind tall flames, crackling and popping at the trees, the grass, the house catching. Fire exploded to life from the curtain, the flames eating them all the way to the rod. The spider scrambled but curled up with them, turning to ash.
Quinn backed away, shocked and gasping. He scrambled backward over the bed, twisting his ankle a little, making him cry out in pain. He rolled to the floor on his left foot and half hopped down the hall.
The fire crackled all around him, roaring like a beast, the smoke making a fog around his head. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the living room, hearing the creak of boards out of sight. Glass broke somewhere. A tall bookshelf that he had never seen before suddenly toppled over, almost on top of him. It banged against the fireplace mantel, spewing books, papers, and trinkets across the floor. They seemed to explode with flame, popping and hissing, the pages curling to black as he worked his way to the kitchen.
He crawled to the front door and reached up to unlock the bolt. It was so hot it burned his hand. He howled with pain and grabbed a damp dishtowel, flipping it to unlock. He jerked the door open and gasped in the fresh air.
The noise was gone. He blinked at the gray day. A faint hint of rain scented the air. He looked down at his hands, at the dishcloth in his palm before turning around. Everything was exactly as it should be. He took a few halting steps to the living room. No bookshelf, no books, no ash, no fire.
Rage bubbled inside him. His eyes slanted from side to side.
“I know you don’t like me, Miranda,” he said. “But I’m here to do a job. And when it’s done, I’ll leave. Stay. Away. From me.”
His voice became progressively louder with each word. He stomped to the front door, his eyes catching the old woman across the street standing there, staring at him in silence. He slammed it hard and spun around.
“You will not drive me out, goddamn it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will be here for two more months. And then you’ll be free of me forever.” He glared at the ceiling and the walls, opening his mouth to speak again, but something seemed to shimmer at his right.
He turned. The sheer green curtains rippled and billowed as if a breeze had flooded in through the window, but the window was closed. He stared at it a few seconds before noticing the wooden box behind his laptop. Holding his breath he stepped around it.
Again he saw his bedroom. This time a black cat stood by the bed. The paper heart angel had fallen upside down, dirty as if stepped on. The salt and pepper birds hid in the far corner. A tiny scarf looking so much like Carol’s laid half off the bed. Sprawled across it on his belly, a drawn and painted likeness of Quinn laid there, his back bare.
He gasped in shock, his eyes bulging. He threw the dishtowel at it.
The house burst into an inferno. He shouted and dropped to his knees, crawling on the floor. He curled up under the table and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Stop it,” he said behind gritted teeth. “Stop it, damn it.”
The fire roared around him, a monster making an orange glow behind his eyelids.
His phone rang. He jumped, opening his eyes. The fire was gone. He crawled out, pushing himself to stand. The shadow box had disappeared. He blew away a long sigh of relief and snatched up his phone, answering it before reading who it was.
“Quinn?”
“Gin?”
“Oh, there you are. Rang longer than I expected. Did I interrupt another romp in the sheets with Jerry’s office assistant?”
Quinn sighed and dropped hard into the chair by the laptop.
“I assume she’s there,” Gin said.
“No. She’s not,” he said, trying hard to keep his rage and fear in check. “Did you need something?”
She sighed. He listened as she breathed, imagining her trying to think of the right words, that little line etching between her perfectly plucked brows. A little shock zapped through him.
“Angela’s okay?”
“Yes, she is. That’s why I was calling. She got the scholarship, Quinn. They were so impressed. All the first chairs got in.”
“That’s great. Tell her I’m so proud of her.”
She took a deep breath.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” she said. She hesitated again.
Something she doesn’t want to say.
“Whatever she needs, Gin, I’ll get it, I’ll do it. Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course you would. I just-” She paused again. “I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for keeping your word. I know it was hard not to go. And I swear I will step aside for the next one, no matter how important. You need to be there next time.”
Quinn blinked, his rage evaporating. He leaned back in the chair, staring at nothing.
“They’re selling DVDs of the concert, so I ordered one for you,” she said. “It should be there in a week or so.”
“Thank you, Gin.”
“Thank you, Quinn.”
They both fell silent for a long moment.
“How’s the writing coming?”
“Very well,” he said. “This place is amazing. There’s more material here than I could ever have imagined. I may be able to squeeze an entire series out of this place.”
“That’s great!”
“How have you been?” He knew his voice sounded dry and ragged. He cleared his throat.
“As you’d expect,” she said. “Keeping busy. Lots of overtime lately. But of course, this is the season.”
They both went quiet again. Quinn’s thoughts drifted to the last time he held her in his arms.
“I still love you, Gin,” he said. “And I miss Angela. I miss you both.”
He heard her tapping her nails on the table, like a nervous woodpecker, a habit she had as long as he knew her.
She’s thinking.
Come on honey. Come on. Say the words.
“I understand, Quinn.” She sighed, her voice breaking a little, but strong as if she had rehearsed it before. “But you know it’s over.”
He closed his eyes, a li
ttle pain shocking him.
“But Gin-”
“Quinn, no. Let it go. We tried. It’s over.”
He groaned. For a long moment, all he heard was the roaring in his ears.
“Can we still be friends?” His voice had dropped to a pained whisper.
He heard her breathy little laugh, imagining that tiny curl wrinkle that always appeared on the left side of her mouth when she smiled.
“Alright, Quinn. Friends. Angela would like that.”
One foot in the door.
“So we could still have dinners together sometimes? Holidays maybe?”
She laughed a little.
“We’ll see, Quinn.”
“I love to hear you laugh.”
She laughed again and sighed.
“And if you’re feeling lonely,” he said. “Maybe sometimes I could stay over?”
She went quiet. He listened, waiting.
Come on, honey. Come on, Gin. Say it. You still want me.
“You’ll never change,” she said. He heard the disappointment in her voice. “Goodbye, Quinn.”
She ended the call.
He stared at the phone and sighed, sitting a little while in the quiet, the fire illusion nearly forgotten. He remembered where he was and set the phone on the table.
“I apologize, Miranda Wilder,” he said out loud but in a soft voice. “I don’t need you to make my life hell. I already have a woman who does that.”
He got up to check his laundry, half dragging his feet.
***
He worked a few hours more with no incident, though he peered around the place periodically just in case. He went into the little girl’s room and stared up at the loft and entrance into the attic but talked himself out of climbing up there again. The room was muggy and hot, cut off from the cooling of the wall unit in the living room. A little spider, smaller than the one in his room struggled across the tallest panes of the window, jerking and shuddering as it made its way to the other side. It stopped, wiggled and fell to the floor. Quinn backed up a little, watching as it began again, crawling up the wall and then began slipping and struggling up the glass again.
“That’s very familiar,” he said. “Trying to start again on a slippery slope. Good luck.”
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