Seeing her again, his stomach festered with a sick, uncomfortable queasiness. It felt like indigestion, only worse. He thought of her often since they’d been apart, always hoping one day he’d get a chance to clear the air, to resolve the one thing she never allowed him to explain. Give her the opportunity to do the same. Part of him still resented her for what she’d done. Another part longed to be in her presence again. Now here she was, dressed in a fitted black dress with capped sleeves, looking fragile and pale, like if the slightest gust of wind drifted past her, she’d be swept away.
It wasn’t the kind of reunion he’d imagined.
Not like this.
Not with Evie gone.
Despite the gap in time, Quinn had aged like a fine wine. Sophisticated and well preserved, with the same dark, lustrous hair he remembered. The same long, thin neck and defined collarbone that set her apart from every other woman in a crowd. Different eyes though, although it was obvious she’d been crying. He remembered her eyes changed on occasion, much like the colors in a mood ring. Today the bright orbs of jade had turned a hazy shade of gray. And why wouldn’t they? She was grieving.
Evie had been more like a sister to Quinn than a friend. He assumed the news of her murder had come as a shock. Murders rarely happened in Cody. Bo wondered how much Quinn’s parents had told her about the way Evie died, how much she still didn’t know, or if the tears were the result of her knowing too much.
When she entered the funeral home an hour earlier, he observed a nasty two-inch gash over her right eye. It looked fresh. It was obvious she’d tried blotting makeup over the wound in an effort to conceal it. It hadn’t helped much. He wondered how it got there. Had it been an accident, or something else?
When their eyes met earlier, he raised a hand, tried to get her attention. She discounted the gesture, acted like she hadn’t seen him, even though he was certain she had. He wasn’t surprised. She could hold a grudge longer than any woman he’d ever known, living or dead.
Seven years. He hung his head, stroked the hair on his chin. Seven years, and he could tell she was still not over it. Maybe he was the idiot for thinking one day she would be. Some things never changed.
Bo’s attention switched to Jacob, Evie’s four-year-old son. The boy slid off his father’s knee, his arms outstretched toward Quinn. She waved him over, pulling him onto her lap, her slender arms wrapping around him. Jacob leaned against her, his eyes fluttering open and closed as she rested her cheek on the side of his head, stroking his fine tufts of blond hair while she rocked him. She lulled him to sleep for a short time before his eyes shot open, a look of fear and panic coating his face. He buried his head in Quinn’s chest, locking his arms around her neck.
Quinn stood, a tear trailing down her cheek as she cradled Jacob in her arms, carrying him to the back of the room. She glanced in Bo’s direction for a split second when she passed before her eyes darted away again. Bo heard her soft voice singing into Jacob’s ear, the melody erasing the child’s fear until it appeared he was sleeping again.
He’d been so caught up in Quinn’s presence he hadn’t noticed the minister was no longer standing at the pulpit. Ruby, Evie’s grandmother, had taken his place. She was a spirited old woman with a kind of vehement personality that rivaled every old-timer in town. At eighty-two years old, some of the locals thought her mind was starting to go, though no one was brave enough to challenge the theory—not to her face.
By the looks of things, her talk was nearing the end, an end that sent a wave of horrific gasps throughout the room when Ruby reached a frail hand inside the front of her pleated drainpipe pants, hoisted a pistol into the air, and waved it around. Eyes wide, she said, “I intend to find the person responsible for robbing me of my final years with my granddaughter. And when I do, no judge or jury will decide his fate. I personally will see to it the son of a bitch is sent straight to hell!”
CHAPTER 6
Immediately following Ruby’s outburst, Bo stood, asking Ruby to hand over the gun. She refused at first. Then Ruby did something Quinn had never seen her do before—something no one had likely ever seen her do before. She cried. But not just any cry. It was a mouth-propped-all-the-way-open, full-fledged wail.
A fury directed at God.
At Evie’s killer.
At all those who listened.
The congregation looked on in reverent silence, sympathizing with her pain. No one spoke. No one moved. Everyone just waited.
When the tears stopped, the gun seemed to melt out of Ruby’s limp hand, clattering on the hardwood floor below. Bo retrieved it, passing it off before escorting Ruby back to her seat, where her friends did their best to calm her.
A half hour later, the funeral was over. Quinn sat on a bench at the back of the room, patiently waiting until everyone departed, hoping for one final farewell before Evie’s body was carted off to its final resting place.
But who was she kidding?
Evie may have occupied the same space Quinn occupied now, Evie’s lifeless body decaying inside the confines of an ornately designed wooden box, but her spirit was gone. Quinn could say whatever she liked. Yell if she wanted. Scream. Sob until her tear ducts ran dry. None of it would make the slightest difference. Evie would never hear a word she said. These last moments together, they weren’t special. They weren’t reserved just for her.
They were over.
The closed-casket ceremony didn’t give Quinn the closure she needed. Evie’s death still didn’t feel real. Standing now at the front of the room, hunched over, hands pressed onto the lid of the casket, she felt like she was at a funeral for someone else, like she’d been at the wrong place the entire time.
The decision not to leave the casket open had been the right one. The only one. As the details of Evie’s murder slowly emerged, Quinn learned Evie’s death had occurred in the evening, inside Evie’s home. She’d been murdered while soaking in the bathtub, robbed from a fighting chance to retaliate. The murderer shot her in the face once, and then fired a couple additional shots to ensure the deed was done. Whoever killed her didn’t just want her dead, he wanted to make sure she stayed that way.
He was a butcher. A coward. A cold-blooded killer willing to slaughter a mother while her only child played in the next room. Standing beside Evie’s coffin now, Quinn suffered an unspeakable void, felt the beginnings of an unquenchable need building inside her. A need for revenge.
CHAPTER 7
A drab mixture of colors swelled across a grumbling sky. It was like God had dipped a finger into a vat of black ink and another into gray, painting a canvas fit for a somber afternoon. Quinn stood, arms crossed in front of her, staring out of the transom window in Ruby’s living room. Ruby’s house was boisterous and irreverent, crowded with people talking over one another just for the sake of being heard. It didn’t seem like a gathering of mourners post-funeral. It seemed like an after party, a room full of people waiting for Evie to waltz through her grandmother’s front door so they could all yell, “Surprise!”
But there would be no “just kidding ... Evie is actually alive” surprises.
Not today.
Not ever.
A plate hoisted flat on a woman’s hand as she passed by caused Quinn’s stomach to lurch. The plate’s contents impregnated a cheesy stench into the air. Funeral potatoes. Tray after tray of them spread across the kitchen counter like casseroles on an assembly line. Enough shredded, greasy goodness to feed the entire town.
The ritual of gathering together to eat after a person was laid to rest had never sat well with Quinn. Food was the last thing on her mind. Since learning of Evie’s death, she hadn’t been able to hold much of anything down. Even the banana she’d nibbled several hours earlier refused to stay in place.
She eyed the front door, wondered how many people would accost her if she tried to make a run for it, or rather, a brisk hope-to-remain-invisible walk. Maybe if she didn’t make eye contact she had a smidgen of a chance. She looked around, realizi
ng it wasn’t worth the risk. There were too damn many of them. Safer to remain off to the side, sipping on green tea, and recalling the days she’d sat next to Evie in the very yard she was staring at now.
If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost turn back the hands of time, visualize them together. Talking. Laughing. It was the little things, the things taken for granted that she’d miss the most, like the way Evie giggled with her mouth closed when she thought something was funny.
Ruby was nowhere in sight, and Quinn hadn’t seen her since she arrived. One of Evie’s cousins was overheard saying Ruby had been “drugged up,” which was an impolite way of saying she’d been sedated. After being forced to hand over the gun she’d brandished at the funeral home, Quinn understood why. As it turned out, the gun wasn’t even loaded. Ruby, on the other hand, was.
Frail hands ran along Quinn’s back, massaging up and down. She winced and turned, faced her mother.
“I don’t understand how anyone can eat at a time like this,” Quinn said. “Makes me nauseous just thinking about it, let alone seeing everyone chow down.”
Her mother raised a crooked finger into the air. “Look around. How many of these people do you recognize?”
Quinn shrugged. “Maybe half?”
“All of these people—family, friends, from different cities, different states—they’re here to honor Evie. To remember.”
“To remember by stuffing their faces?”
“They’ve gathered together today to celebrate her life. This is the way it’s done. It’s the way it’s always been done.”
Quinn frowned. “I don’t feel like celebrating. I have nothing to say, nothing to offer to anyone by being here.”
“This is just how you’re feeling right now, honey. It’s temporary. Give it time.”
“Where have you been?” Quinn asked. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I was in the bedroom ... with Ruby.”
“How is she?”
“Sober.”
“Probably best she stays that way,” Quinn said. “No telling how many more guns she has stashed around this place.”
After a falling out with her daughter Peggy several years before, Ruby discovered Peggy had born a child, a girl she named Evangeline. She also learned the child had been living in foster care. Unable to care for the child, Peggy had taken her daughter to the neighbor’s house one morning, with a promise she’d “be right back.” Two days passed before the neighbor faced the inevitable truth. Peggy was gone for good. She wasn’t coming back. The neighbor made a call, and child services entered the equation. When Ruby was located, she immediately stepped up as Evangeline’s blood relation, and the state granted her permission to raise her grandchild.
As far as Evie was concerned, Ruby was the only mother she’d ever known.
Ruby hadn’t just lost her granddaughter, she’d lost a daughter as well.
From the opposite corner of the room, Quinn caught Bo’s eyes darting back and forth between her and the man he was engaged in conversation with—her father. Maybe he thought if he looked over enough times, he’d get what he wanted, see her staring back. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
Bo looked good, considering how much time had passed since she saw him last. When they were in high school, he’d always been clean-shaven, as most boys that age generally were. Now he sported a trimmed goatee. She couldn’t decide whether she liked it or she didn’t. Not that her opinion mattered one way or the other. His thick hair was still worn the same way, off his forehead and neatly parted to the side. A few rebellious hairs strayed from the rest, out of place, giving him the appearance of a reddish-brown-haired Tom Hardy, only younger and several inches taller.
Bo shifted his gaze from Quinn back to her father, showing off what Quinn had always considered to be his most attractive features—his wide, full lips and his dimples—and the way one recessed deeper than the other one the bigger he smiled. She’d been so caught up stealing glances at Bo, a finger tap on her shoulder caught her off guard. She jumped, something the man at her side picked up on.
“I’m sorry,” the male voice said.
“Roman. I didn’t see you there. How are you?”
He tipped the beer bottle he was holding to his lips, took a long swig. “Fine. You?”
Shattered, although she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not to him.
“I don’t know how I am right now.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” he said.
A full minute passed in silence.
Evie’s ex-husband Roman had always been a man of few words. And at the moment, Quinn could tell even simple chitchat was a strain. He’d obviously tapped her on the shoulder for a reason.
“I want you to know, I didn’t do it,” he blurted.
“Didn’t do what?”
“I don’t know what happened to Evie, but I’d never do anything to hurt her.”
Roman’s startling non-confession had her stumbling over her words. “I said you ... I mean to say ... I never said you did. I haven’t accused anyone.”
“I know you haven’t.”
His emphasis on the word you incited a curious reaction from the room she seemed to have missed before. There were those in her immediate vicinity who had been eyeing Roman, and not in a positive way. “Has someone suspected you of being involved with Evie’s death? If they have, that’s ridiculous.”
He bobbed his shoulders up and down. “Cops keep coming around, asking questions. Wasn’t sure whether you knew that or not.”
“I’m sure they’re just trying to make sure they dot and cross all the things they need to dot and cross. It doesn’t mean you’re a suspect. It’s protocol, the same rigmarole they’re obligated to with everyone. They’ll probably want to talk to me too, and I wasn’t even here.”
“It’s more than that, Quinn. They showed up at my house with a warrant. Didn’t find anything. I told them they wouldn’t. There’s nothing to find.”
“Give it time. I bet they ease off.”
Roman ran an unsteady hand down the side of his shaggy, thick mane of dark hair, stepped closer, his face only a couple inches from hers. His voice lowered. “Whatever anyone tells you, and no matter what happens, it’s important you hear the truth from my own lips. Evie’s death was someone else’s doing. Understand? I need to know you believe me, Quinn.”
What alarmed her the most wasn’t the stern look on his face, the fact he’d encroached on her personal space, or his sincere plea for her approval. For everything he’d just said, there was something he withheld, something he was unwilling to say. “Roman, I could never believe you’d harm Evie. Not even if you admitted it to me.”
He stepped back, nodded, breathed deeply through his nose. He placed a hand on her shoulder. For a brief moment she thought he’d lean in, envelop her in an embrace. He looked like he needed one. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t. He’d never been a “touchy feely” kind of guy.
Dressed in a button-up, navy and gray plaid shirt, a black vest, jeans, and steel-toed boots, he’d been scrutinized by some at the funeral ceremony, like his attire wasn’t appropriate for the occasion. Quinn disagreed. In the time she’d known him, she’d only seen him dressed in his Sunday best one time—on his wedding day to Evie. Even then, he’d scratched at the fabric, counting down the hours until he could become himself again. Today he looked casual but clean. He’d made an effort.
Roman jammed his fingers halfway down the front of his vest pockets. A plastic pill bottle tumbled out one of the pockets, making an upside-down landing on Ruby’s plush, mauve carpet. He reached down, snatched the bottle in his shaking hand, removed the lid, and popped two pills in his mouth. Then he shoved the bottle back inside his pocket again. Quinn wondered what kind of pills they were, but she didn’t dare ask.
“Thanks for taking Jacob earlier,” he said. “Means a lot.”
“Anytime. He’s like a son to me.”
“I know.”
He paused. She waited.
“I’m no good at parenting the boy,” he said. “Never have been.”
The polite thing to do would have been to disagree with his negative self-analysis. She couldn’t. It was true, and they both knew it. Roman may not have been a man Quinn considered excellent father material, but she never doubted his love for Jacob. He just lacked the skills needed to express it.
While Roman had excelled at everything from all-state in every sport in high school to owning the most popular bar in town, parenting had never come easy for him. His own father had abandoned him when he was a child, leaving his bitter mother with a hatred for men that cut so deep it kept her from ever involving herself in a serious relationship again. The experience forced Roman inside himself, locking his emotions away without allowing others the chance to get to know him. Not the real him.
Quinn recalled when Evie first started dating Roman. Evie had been so optimistic. Never one to back down from a challenge, Roman proved to be the biggest one of all. Having grown up without a father herself, Evie was convinced she was the one woman who could relate to Roman’s closed-off nature. The one woman who could fix him, get him to open up. He never did. Not fully. Not in the way she’d wanted.
Deciding Roman needed a boost of confidence a lot more than she did, Quinn wrapped her hand around his. “If you need me, for anything, just ask. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Glad to hear it.” He paused then said, “Jacob seems better now that you’re here. I was wondering if he could, ahh, stay with you tonight?”
She hadn’t expected that.
Her first instinct was to say yes.
A View to a Kill Page 3