The sudden, unexpected news of Evie’s death had created a shift in Quinn’s thinking the day before, and she realized something—she couldn’t take one more second of Marcus’s bickering. One more second of living a life she’d wanted to run away from for years. Her mind made up, she’d sprinted from the house to her car and reversed, peeling out of the driveway. She hadn’t bothered looking into her rear-view mirror as she sped off. She knew what she’d see. Marcus chasing after her. After all, she’d broken one of his rules, one on a long list of stringent house rules—never leave home before an argument was resolved.
Screw you.
They were the last words to cross Quinn’s mind as she tore up the hill, her tires spitting fragments of freshly laid asphalt back onto the revitalized street. Her eyes flooded with tears. She couldn’t wipe them all away before another gush sprang forward, taking their place. Thinking back now, it must have been the incessant eye wiping that impaired her vision, causing her car to veer off the road, careening into an old, knotty tree.
Now she rested on a hospital bed, her body bruised, heart broken.
Desperate pleas emitted from her mother’s mouth, but they were overshadowed by something else—a sound—long and steady. A beeping that refused to end.
An unidentified male voice barked commands. “Everyone clear the room. Now!”
In a strange, twisted kind of surreal reality, Quinn found herself detached from her physical body, floating inside the room, hovering between this life and the next. Time had spilled from the hourglass until all that remained were a few tiny grains. She had a choice to make, and she needed to make it now.
And yet she couldn’t decide.
Staring at her limp, lifeless body, a part of her preferred her own death rather than living out her days knowing she’d never see Evie again.
CHAPTER 3
Two Days Later
A decision had been made. Life. But not just life.
Living. Breathing. Existing. Over seven billion people did it every day. Existing, the hum-drum, day in, day out kind, didn’t make a life. Not one worth living.
The last time Quinn had seen Evie, Evie said, “Are you happy?”
She responded, “Yes.”
Evie then said, “But, are you really?”
While Quinn squirmed, unsure of what to say, Evie changed the subject. She’d said what she set out to say. There was no need to press any further.
Thinking back on it now, all Evie had ever wanted was for Quinn to live a life worth living. And at present, the opportunity for such a life was being overshadowed by an oversized impediment, hollering his opinion about what she needed to do.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” Quinn stated, when Marcus had finished speaking.
Marcus’s bent pointer finger swooped through the air in full lecture mode. It was just one in a plethora of unattractive habits Quinn had grown used to over the years. In terms of how much his lecturing bugged her, she ranked it at about a five, knowing the offense was still light years away from the most grating pet peeve of all.
“You almost died, Quinn. You can’t leave. The doctor hasn’t released you yet.”
Dressed in single-cuff, black trousers and a pair of striped socks squeezed into new, pristinely polished loafers, Quinn wondered what had happened to the board-shorts-wearing surfer dude she dated, the one all the girls vied for. When they first met he was charming. Flirty. Curious. Five years her senior. The man standing before her today was stuffy, his sense of humor slipping until it was almost nonexistent.
Unable to connect anymore, Quinn had withdrawn inside herself. Marcus resorted to work. Loads of it. If she had to distribute blame somewhere, she placed it squarely on the shoulders of his job. The higher he climbed the corporate ladder at the law firm of Stanley, Moss, Roanoke, & Associates, the more pretentious and distant he became, until he exhibited a “holier than thou” attitude and she no longer recognized him at all.
Marcus’s conservative slacks were just one indication of what a difference several years made. Not that she judged him on his choice of apparel alone. She didn’t judge him at all. She never had. It was Marcus who excelled in the scrutiny department.
Looking at him now, there wasn’t much left to say, so she decided to keep it short. “It’s already done.”
Quinn attempted to slide off the hospital bed onto a standing position. Her wobbly legs disapproved. She coiled a hand around the railing, doing what she could to steady herself while Marcus looked on, his arms folded, disapproving.
Always disapproving.
“What’s done?” he scowled.
“I’ve asked to be released. I have a few forms to sign and then I’m free to go.”
“Against Doctor Falcon’s orders?”
“This isn’t the military, Marcus. If I want to leave, I can leave.”
He was pointing again. “That attitude won’t get you nowhere.”
There it was. The ten out of ten on a scale of one to irritating. The double negative. The cherry atop Quinn’s pet peeve list.
“I’m flying home with my mom and dad tomorrow morning.”
“Cody, Wyoming isn’t home anymore, Quinn. Your home is here, in Utah, the same place it’s been for the last six years.”
But was it her home?
Or was it his?
The modest town in Utah, population just under five thousand, an hour away from Marcus’s job in Salt Lake City, was where she’d resided since they married. Here a handful of prominent families, including Marcus’s, actually thought their surnames meant something special, gave them prestige, the green light to gloat if for nothing more than the sake of hearing themselves speak. An hour away, those same families weren’t regarded at all. No one cared if they owned the only Ford dealership in their town, or the only gas station. Their incessant chatter was nothing more than narcissistic puffery, something Quinn found amusing. She had also been raised in a small town, but the feeling there was different, a far cry from this place.
Marcus stomped a foot onto the polished shine of the hospital floor. “Quinn! Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”
His anger fueled, she saw no point in starting a debate. It was what he wanted. It was what he always wanted. “I’m going, Marcus. I want to be there for Evie’s funeral.”
The look on his face said: she’s dead. She won’t even know if you’re there or not. He stepped forward, his face so close to hers the snort he expelled from his nose fogged up his glasses. “You’re not going anywhere.”
How could he be so insensitive, so cruel, at a time like this?
Two days ago, his insistent “you’re not going anywhere” comment would have signaled the end of a discussion in which the old, timid Quinn would have relented. A new, more determined Quinn had emerged since Evie’s death. And new Quinn’s eyes were wide open.
“I’m going,” she said.
“I don’t understand what’s happening right now. You’re not yourself.”
“You’re wrong. I am myself. I feel like a completely different person. I feel like me.”
“I’m your husband. I know you, and your actions, your behavior ... this isn’t you. You’re being erratic.” He removed the oval-shaped glasses from his face, the ones through which he frequently looked down at her, making her feel subpar. Always analyzing. Always criticizing. He stroked the pressure points on both sides of his nose, said, “I don’t want you to go.”
“You have no right to expect me to stay,” she said. “Evie was my best friend.”
“I’m not asking.”
They squared off, Quinn eyeballing Marcus, Marcus eyeballing her back.
Marcus had never been unfaithful. He didn’t lie. He was reliable. He had a good job. But he was a bully. He’d sucked the light from her soul until all that remained was a mere flicker, a ray of light dancing in front of her like a carrot dangling from the end of a string. Every time she reached out, every time she tried to grab hold, another piece of herself slipp
ed through her fingers, a constant reminder of the woman she’d lost.
Surely there was more to life than this.
There had to be.
“Let’s get you home,” Marcus said.
He was right. She needed to pack.
“Fine.”
At least he’d relinquished her decision to leave the hospital.
Or had he?
“Once you feel better,” he said. “Once you get past this ... whatever is going on with you right now, everything will be fine. Everything will be normal again.”
Normal. It was the one thing she feared the most.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last two days.”
“About what?” he asked.
“About us. About our life together.”
He raised a brow. “And?”
“I’m not right for you, and you’re not right for me. I don’t think we ever were.”
He responded with a simple shrug of his shoulders, unfazed, acting as if she hadn’t said much of anything at all. “That’s just the meds talking. You don’t mean it.”
“You haven’t complimented me in ... I don’t know how long. You haven’t touched me. Really touched me.” She shifted her eyes away from him. “I can’t even remember the last time we were ... the last time we had sex. I bet you don’t know either. That’s how long it’s been.”
He backed against the tan, pebble-textured wall and rubbed his hands together. “Where is all of this coming from?”
“When the doctor was trying to save my life, a part of me didn’t care whether I lived or died.”
He shook his head. “You couldn’t possibly remember what happened. You weren’t conscious.”
But she did remember. Every sound. Every second.
“I want to find purpose and meaning in my life again. I can’t stay shacked up in our house forever, living in fear, holding on to the past. Our son has been dead for two years now. It’s time I let go. I have to move on, Marcus.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
She wanted to scream: YOU ARE—can’t you see that?!
He’d stopped her at every turn, treating her like she was a shattered bottle, the kind no amount of glue could ever fix. And she was done feeling broken.
He reached out, using a single finger to brush up and down her arm, a look on his face like he was touching a thorny rose and trying to avoid getting pricked.
“You know I love you,” he said. “You know how much I care.”
His words were dull. Lifeless. Monotone.
“Do I?”
“Honestly, Quinn. I’m trying here. But I don’t know how much more of your ignorant behavior I can take.”
Yeah, because for once in your life, you’re not winning.
“I’m leaving.”
His eyes slanted to the point where he looked cross-eyed. “So you’ve said, over and over again. If I wanted a constant repeat, I’d buy a parrot.”
“No, Marcus. I don’t just mean I’m leaving for Evie’s funeral. I mean I’m leaving for good.”
“Leaving what for good?”
“Us. You. Me. This relationship. It’s over. I’m done.”
There it was. The simple, ugly truth. The whole truth. Finally. She’d said it.
He fisted his hands. She waited for him to hit something. Anything. He didn’t. He suppressed it, just like every real emotion he’d ever had in life.
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she said. “Truly, I am.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m not saying any of this to hurt you.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he scoffed. “You haven’t.”
He blew past. She closed her eyes, listened to the high-pitched squeak of the rubber on the bottom of his shoes as they accelerated down the hall. Away from her. Away from their life together.
The veil of darkness had finally been lifted.
She reopened her eyes and breathed.
CHAPTER 4
Eighteen medium-sized boxes. It was hard to believe a few handfuls of square cardboard was all Quinn’s life had amounted to after so many years. She peeled a piece of clear tape from the dispenser, spread it over the last box, and stood, hands on hips. She looked around. At the age of twenty-six, she was moving back in with her parents again. Sure, she’d have her own room. She’d even have a separate apartment behind her parents’ main house, but who was she kidding? It was like her life was being experienced in reverse. Who would have thought that could happen?
Quinn smoothed a hand over a box her mother had labeled “Isaiah” in black, permanent marker. The name had been scribbled inside a heart. Quinn outlined the heart with her finger, her only solace in believing Isaiah was no longer alone in the afterlife. At least if she didn’t have Evie, he did.
In many ways she felt like she had nothing. A blank page to a new life she cared little about. Instead of the beginning of a new chapter, her book of life seemed closed, the pages stuck together, unable to turn.
Quinn’s father entered the room, placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. At six foot four, he towered over her five-foot-eight frame. In his early sixties and with alabaster hair, he still looked as fit as she remembered him being when she was a child. A devout vegetarian with a workout regimen that included jogging five miles a day, it wasn’t hard to see why his body had held up so well. Or why he was the perfect match for her mother, a woman with a cocoa-colored pixie cut and the looks of a modern-day Grace Kelly.
“I’m surprised Marcus isn’t here to see you off,” her father said.
She wasn’t. And frankly, she couldn’t believe her father was so optimistic after she’d explained the uncomfortable altercation she had with him the day before.
“He won’t be here, Dad. He doesn’t want to see me right now. He might not ever want to see me again after yesterday. And the truth is, I don’t blame him. The decision I made was the right one. Still feels lousy though.”
Since announcing her decision to divorce, her mother had spent a fair amount of time humming. Although she’d always kept her feelings about Marcus to herself in the past, Quinn knew her mother never felt he was the right man for her. Hence the humming, and the permanent smile affixed to her face. Quinn was surprised her mother hadn’t purchased a pair of streamers and broken out in a celebratory dance.
Then again, she hadn’t ruled it out.
There was still time.
Time.
Quinn glanced at the antique clock on the wall, at the slender, gold pendulum swinging back and forth, ever smooth, ever steady. The dark wood case may have been carved by hand, but it meant nothing to Quinn. To her the clock was hideous. Three years earlier, she’d tried to replace it with a metal one she ordered from Pottery Barn. In less than a day, the old clock had been returned to the wall, and along with it, a stern warning. “This was handed down to me by my mother,” Marcus had said. “She received it from her mother before her.” He went on to say the clock was rare, made of something he called “serpentine”—whatever the hell that was. Looking at it now, she giggled just seeing that old clock, realizing it had outlasted her in the end.
No matter.
She was done with this life.
In the corner of the room, Quinn’s parents were engaged in a conversation, their voices too low for Quinn to catch what they were saying. They glanced her direction then hushed their voices again. Her mother was no longer smiling.
“What’s going on with you two?” Quinn asked. “If you’re worried about me because of all that’s happened over the last couple days, don’t be. It will take some time, but one of these days I’ll pull myself together.”
“Quinn, why don’t we all sit down for a minute?” her father suggested. “There’s something we need to talk to you about.”
“If it’s about Marcus, I’d rather we didn’t. Not yet. I mean, I’d rather you give it—”
He held a flat hand in front of him. “It isn’t.”
She shuddered, a cool tingling trailing up th
e sides of her arms. She didn’t know why, only that the somber look on her father’s face was cause for concern. Her friend was dead. Her marriage was dead. How much worse could it get?
Clear liquid streamed down her mother’s cheeks, dripping droplets of water onto the front of the cotton T-shirt she wore.
Quinn’s father reached out, draping an arm around his wife. “If this is too hard for you, Jane, you don’t have to be here for this.”
Her mother shook her head. “Evie was like a daughter to me, Mitchell. To both of us. I’ll stay. Quinn deserves to know the truth.”
What truth?
“Dad?” Quinn asked.
“When I called you a few days ago, told you Evie had passed away,” her father began, “I suppose I ... didn’t tell you everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d talked it over with your mother beforehand, and we decided it would be best to wait until you arrived back home before giving you all the details. Then we received the call from Marcus letting us know you were in the hospital. We boarded the next plane, and, well, you know the rest.”
A rush of vertigo swept through Quinn’s body. She sagged onto the couch. “Obviously, I don’t know the rest.”
“On the phone I told you Evie’s death was an accident,” her father continued.
“You said she fell off her bike, hit her head on a rock.”
Her parents exchanged glances, remained silent.
“One of you say something,” Quinn said.
Her father cleared his throat once, then a second time. “There’s no easy way to say this, Quinn. I wish there was. Evie’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“If it wasn’t an accident, what was it?”
“Honey, she was murdered.”
CHAPTER 5
Bo McAllister blinked several times before convincing himself what he was seeing was real—
Quinn Montgomery, sitting two rows in front of him, the closest they’d been to each other since she broke off their relationship at the end of their senior year in high school. Over the years, he heard she’d been spotted in town from time to time visiting her family, meeting with old friends. Hanging around with Evie. The small town in Wyoming was home to less than ten thousand residents, and yet she managed to evade him every time she visited. Sometimes he wondered if it was on purpose. Other times he knew it was.
A View to a Kill Page 2