Finally, a steady set of lights approached, and a plain dark Impala nosed into one of the parking stalls along the side of the station reserved for police cars. There were no markings on the car, but there was no doubt it belonged to a cop.
The trunk lid of the patrol car opened before the officer got out of the cab. She emerged and slung a large black bag onto her shoulder and then gathered several brown paper bags from the trunk, pinching them together at the top and clamping them in her left hand.
Quinn opened her door and started to drop the butt of her cigarette in the street but thought better of it and drowned it in the coffee dregs at the bottom of an old cup from the Burnt Bean. Raising the hood over her head, she approached. “Detective Wyatt?”
The officer slammed the trunk lid, and Quinn could have sworn she looked like she wanted to draw down on her. “Yes?”
“I was hoping for a minute of your time.” Maybe ten.
“I’m really sorry about your friend, but I don’t have anything more to share yet.”
The detective had put on a wool hat since Quinn last saw her. Gloves, too. She looked warm, sensible. Safe. It pissed Quinn off. “He’s still dead, you mean.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Dispatch said you wanted to see me. Is there something else about Mr. Horton that you’d like to share?”
“I need your help with something else.”
“I see.” The circles under the officer’s eyes seemed to darken under the streetlights.
“I’ve been threatened,” Quinn said.
“Threatened?”
“Over the internet,” Quinn clarified.
“The internet.” Wyatt paused. “So, not in person.”
“No.”
“Do you know this person?”
“Plural—people—but no. I don’t know them.”
“Have you had any problems at your home?”
Quinn shook her head.
“School?”
Another shake.
“Work?”
“It’s not that simple,” Quinn said.
“Look. I’m still on the call involving your friend.”
Quinn tucked her hands under her armpits, trying to keep them warm. “Threats, Officer Wyatt.”
“So you said.” She sighed, still holding the bags. “What kind of threats?”
“Oh, you know. Murder. Rape. The usual.”
“Threats aren’t that common in Echo Valley.”
“Exactly my point.”
“I’ll call another officer for you. You can wait in the lobby. It’s warmer there.” Wyatt raised the bags to eye level. Red evidence tape sealed them closed. “Let me drop these off inside, and I’ll come around to let you in.”
“Wait.” Quinn grabbed Wyatt’s arm.
All semblance of Wyatt’s fatigue vanished, and she suddenly seemed like one of those tall, fierce warriors who lived on that all-woman superhero island. The detective pointedly looked at the hand on her arm, then raised her gaze to stare down Quinn. “You may want to rethink that before I consider you a threat.”
Quinn released her grip. “That’s rich. That’s why I’m here, remember? If I wanted another officer, I wouldn’t be standing here freezing my ass off.”
Wyatt sighed. In the cold, Quinn could literally see the officer’s frustration—a long through-the-nose exhalation that sounded exactly like what Quinn’s mother used to do. Like what her sister still did.
“What do you want from me?” Wyatt finally asked.
“Do your job,” Quinn blurted.
Detective Wyatt stiffened, then held up the bags of evidence. “I am.” Presenting her back to Quinn, she started for the employee door at the far end of the building.
“‘The only things you’re good for is as a place for my cock and making me a sandwich.’”
Wyatt spun, her eyes slitted. “Excuse me?”
“Or how ’bout this one? ‘I hope you get raped. It’s the only way someone’s gonna fuck you.’” Quinn spoke normally, but the words sounded overloud in the quiet neighborhood. “The death threats are always fun. They’ve expanded to include my family. One guy even threatened to run over my dog.”
“Do you have a dog?”
“Not the point.” Geez, why did cops always focus on the wrong thing?
“Why would someone target you?”
“It shouldn’t matter, should it? They’re threatening me, and it’s getting worse.”
Wyatt raised one shoulder like she was too tired to shrug them both. “The why shouldn’t matter, but sometimes it makes the situation easier to understand.”
That made sense. “I play video games.”
“Video games.” Light from the streetlamp stretched the detective’s shadow to the curb. “This is a joke, right?”
“Nope.”
“All this over a game?”
Gaming had been a part of Quinn’s life since she could wrap her baby-fat hands around a console. Games had comforted her when she switched schools and no one wanted to befriend the new girl. The nerd geek. People who didn’t play didn’t get it. Games had saved her life.
“All this because I’m a woman who plays video games,” Quinn answered. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Sounds to me like you need a new hobby.”
“Yeah. Cuz I’m the problem.” Cops. They all sucked. The only thing she’d get out of tonight was frostbite.
Quinn stomped to her car and yanked the door handle. Her hand slipped and tore her frozen nail down to the quick. Cradling the injured finger against her chest, she watched her blood splat against the snow. “I thought you were different. That you of all people would get it.”
The officer had followed Quinn to the front of her car. “I’m tired. You’re going to have to spell it out for me. Get what?”
“Being an outsider.” Anger chased away the cold. Her chest burned with it. “I saw the way that other cop treated you. Trying to take over and be all Mr. Nice while doing his best to make you look like his fucking secretary.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “That’s gotta make you feel special. When are you going to get your stripes, Sarge?”
A stoic mask of indifference settled on the detective’s face. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. You don’t need to shout.”
It wasn’t the first time Quinn had seen cop face. It probably wasn’t even the first time it had been directed at her, but never before had it pissed her off to the point of stupidity. “So, you’ll break away from your fucking report to arrest me but can’t be bothered to help me. Priceless.”
“Let me get you a Band-Aid,” Wyatt offered. “You’re bleeding.”
Sarcasm? The detective’s face gave nothing away and it looked like a genuine offer, but Quinn didn’t care. “Fuck you.” She wrenched the car door open so forcefully it bounced back and hit her on the hip.
“Suit yourself.” The detective readjusted her grip on the evidence bags. “I’m working tomorrow.” She hesitated, then blew another of her dragon-frost-through-the-nose sighs before digging in her pocket and retrieving a business card. “Lose the attitude. Bring me the printouts. We’ll talk.”
4
“The hell we’ll talk.”
Quinn entered the curve a little hot, and the car fishtailed.
Stupid snow.
The road that clawed its way to her apartment wound around towering trees and was three times longer than any hilly street in San Francisco, and at the moment it was covered in snow.
Why’d she ever leave California?
Because I had to.
Habit made her glance in her rearview mirror. No headlights.
She eased off the gas so she didn’t slide past the slippery slope of her driveway. She cut the corner and swore. Just once she’d like to come home and park in her own spot. It wasn’t even a good spot, crammed between a dumpster and a light pole that hadn’t worked a day in the year and a half she’d lived there.
The other seven parking spaces were full, and she in
ched her car behind the gunmetal-gray Challenger trespassing in her spot until her front bumper kissed its ass. No use calling the landlord. The property management company didn’t take calls after hours. Not that they were keen to take calls any other time either.
Stan? No, Stu. Stu stood in the doorway of his apartment holding a bong. Light poured out around him, and she couldn’t see his face until he flicked the lighter in his right hand and took a hit. He watched her over the flame.
She got out of her car and slammed the door. Techno-thump bullshit assaulted her ears, and she raised her voice. “You’re in my spot.”
He held the smoke in his lungs a long moment before releasing his breath. “You hit my car.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t ram it right into your fucking apartment.”
He held out the bong. “Here. You obviously need this.”
“I need my parking spot.”
He dug into his pocket and tossed her the keys. Instinctively, she snatched them out of the air before they landed on her hood. The metal banged against her injured finger. Another fucking injustice to add to the night.
“I’m not your valet.”
“You want your spot? I’m too buzzed to drive. I get another DUI and my folks will kill me.”
“We could only hope.”
The wind bit through the thin fabric of her sweat shirt. Living on the hill gave her a great view but did nothing to stop the frosty gusts that threatened to freeze her eyelashes. Could that happen? She brought her fingers up to her face but stopped before she touched them. The way the day was going, they were already frozen and she’d snap them off.
She sighed. The road to warmth meant jockeying cars. Arguing about it would only delay the inevitable. “This is the last time.”
“You said that last time.”
“Next time, I empty a bottle of Jäger on your front seat, smash your car into the college gate, and call the police. Tell them I saw a drunk guy with shitty taste in clothing and an impossibly large Adam’s apple run into your apartment.”
“Seriously, take a hit. You’re making me feel bad—and don’t park in the handicapped spot this time. The last ticket sent my parents off the cliff.”
She backtracked to her car and double-parked it behind an unfamiliar Jeep with Oregon plates. She hit the fob to unlock the Challenger and slid into the leather seats. The engine roared to life, and she adjusted the driver’s seat closer to the steering wheel than she needed. She found a pack of gum in the center console and helped herself to a frozen stick to chase away the nicotine and dead-coffee taste that had taken up residence in her mouth.
She goosed the gas as she left the parking lot. Instead of making an angry statement, the spinning tires only confirmed that she didn’t know shit about driving in snow.
The interior of the Challenger wrapped around her like a cocoon, and she stretched the tension from her shoulders. This was nicer than her Mini Cooper. More stable. He had a full tank. How far would that take her? Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Would it be far enough?
But she’d made a promise.
Reluctantly, she pulled into the admin lot of the college, bypassed a row of empty spaces, and parked the Challenger in the handicapped space by the building. Cold seeped through her jeans as she trudged back to the apartment building.
Finding the apartment had been a fluke, and she’d rented it sight unseen. Even in a godforsaken outback of humanity like Echo Valley, rentals went quick, and most weren’t ever advertised. She’d overheard two college students yammering on about the great apartment they should rent up on the hill. As one gal was giving the number to the other, Quinn was dialing. It might have been a mistake, but at least she could walk to class. Save on gas. Fulfill the promise she’d made to her mom. Even if it killed her.
When she got back, Stu took in the snow clinging to the lower part of her jeans. “You parked in the gimp spot, didn’t you?”
“Yup. Seat’s up, too. Sure hope you don’t forget when you try to get in.” She wound up and threw his keys back. He had to sidestep to avoid getting nailed. Nice to know she still had her pitching arm.
Quinn eased the Mini Cooper into her assigned spot, and the car’s headlights settled on her neighbor. It’d be so easy to jump the parking bumper.
No, if she was going to run someone over, she should have chosen the detective. Stu annoyed her. Wyatt had royally pissed her off.
“You know, if you just went out with me, I wouldn’t have to park in your spot to get you to talk to me.”
“Look, Stu—”
“Stan.”
“Whatever. I’m not interested.”
“You gay?”
For a moment she thought about saying yes, but that was chickenshit. She had too many queer friends to lie about something like that. She slung her messenger bag across her chest and headed for the steps.
“It’s okay,” he called after her. “I’m a lesbian trapped in a man’s body. We can work something out.”
She flipped him off as she climbed the stairs. Assclown.
Her steps slowed as she neared the top of the staircase. The music still thumped its aggressive tempo from downstairs, and she tried to filter it out so she could detect other sounds. Nothing. She hugged the outside rail to get the best view of the corridor formed by the apartments on one side and a shaky railing on the other. Empty.
Footprints mashed the snow in front of the other three apartments on this level, but none of the steps pointed toward her door. A thin layer of snow dusted the window ledge. Frost crawled up the glass. Good.
She brushed her foot against the threshold and cleared a small bit of snow away from her door. About an inch from the ground, a folded business card jutted from the jamb. Still there. She’d have to find something a tad more waterproof. Wet paper might stick to the door when it opened, and that wouldn’t tell her squat about anyone breaking into her apartment.
She quietly unlocked the deadbolt and stooped to retrieve the card. Tomorrow she’d swap it for Detective Wyatt’s glossy business card. Apparently a card was all she was going to get from Echo Valley’s finest.
She twined the keys through her knuckles until her fist looked like a low-budget Wolverine knockoff. The heat of the apartment blasted her as she entered and hit the light in the same stride. The overhead light sputtered, illuminating her small living room and kitchenette. Empty.
She crossed to the bathroom. The shower curtain remained pushed to the side. Good.
Running the wall, she took a breath and entered the bedroom. Closet door open. Window shut. No one on the other side of the bed. Clear.
She stood for a moment and let the warmth wash over her.
Normal people didn’t have their mattress on the floor. Normal people didn’t worry about someone hiding under their bed. Normal people weren’t afraid to open their computer. Read their email. Go home. Live.
She kicked off her shoes and retraced her steps to the living room. Double-checked the dead bolt, slid the door chain into place, and crammed one of her two kitchen chairs under the doorknob. Then she settled down on the love seat that served as her couch, opened her laptop, put on her headset, and grabbed her gaming console.
Fuck normal.
5
Whoever said home is where the heart is had never dealt with a broken marriage.
Even in the dark, the lines of Jo’s childhood house stood out, backlit by the gibbous moon and lingering clouds. To the casual observer, the house looked the same as it had when she’d grown up within its walls. But she saw the differences: the broken gutter, the neglected garden, the slightly askew mailbox from when her father had backed into it last winter. The house sagged, as if it still mourned the loss of Jo’s mother.
Home—at least for now. At the end of this kind of night, all she wanted was ten uninterrupted hours of sleep in her king-sized bed. But that was still at the house she’d shared with Cameron. What she’d get tonight was a blow-up mattress on the floor of her old bedroom
and an alarm clock jolting her awake in little more than three hours.
The tires of her Ford Explorer crunched through the icy crust of snow that had accumulated in the driveway. She’d have to allow enough time to scrape the windshield in the morning. Maybe she should have waited until the spring to leave Cameron. At least then she’d still be parking in their garage. His garage.
She grabbed her backpack. Keeping to the shadows, she hurried to the dark porch. Her dad had removed the bulb from the fixture. No sense giving someone a clear shot. Maybe it was better that way. Over the years, the drab two-bedroom clapboard house seemed to have shrunk. Putting a spotlight on the porch would only highlight the flaws.
Inside, she unzipped her jacket and then thought better of it. Her mother used to keep the heat a click below tropical. Every time the power bill came, her parents argued over it, but in the end, her mother’s smile had always melted her father’s anger.
Embers smoldered in the fireplace and spit a wan glow into the hallway. Her father slept in his battered recliner in the living room. Jo closed her eyes against the image of another man—a lifeless man—in another chair, but knew it would be a while before that memory faded. Memories of the dead never completely disappeared.
Gray strands outnumbered the brown on her father’s head, but it all looked dark in the flickering light. In sleep, the creases in his face softened, and he was the father of her childhood. When he could do no wrong. Before she’d learned better.
Other than DNA, Joseph Charles Wyatt shared only two things in common with his daughter: a name and a crooked nose. The first he’d given her over her mother’s protestations that a girl shouldn’t be saddled with a man’s name. Her mother had suggested Josephine, or Joanne. He’d held firm to Joe. Her mother had smiled at the time, and then quietly erased the final letter at the hospital.
Genetics had determined her father’s nose. Jo’s was another story. That had come from a drunk driver who didn’t think “a little girl” like Jo could make him go to jail. Turned out he was wrong.
Shadow Ridge Page 3