by Bree Wolf
Avoiding a hit in the last instant, she shot past the abandoned vehicle. Her brakes were still trying to slow her jeep down, when she noticed a strange wet shine, coming from the street in front of her. And once on it, Quinn felt her car spin out of control. Her brakes wouldn’t take. It was as though the car’s tires had lost all contact with the road beneath them.
The tree line with the steep drop lying behind it came closer and closer. Quinn stepped on the brakes again and again, but when nothing happened, panic rose and the breath caught in her throat.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement other than her own. Something shot passed her, to the front of the car, and in the next instant, the jeep swung to the side, throwing her head against the window.
A dull pain shot through her head and her vision became unfocused.
The trees were still coming closer, but at a much slower pace. A distant part of Quinn’s mind wondered how that was possible with the brakes of her car all but useless.
The jeep slowed even more, and when it finally hit the tree line sideways, the impact was only minor, again banging her head against the window. Sitting back, Quinn put a hand to her throbbing temple, feeling a sudden wetness on her fingers. Slowly, she brought her hand before her eyes, and although still unfocused, she saw the red shine of blood.
She breathed in deeply, starting to feel nauseous from the sudden lack of movement. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on not passing out. As she opened them again, Quinn suddenly caught the hint of a shadow moving around the vehicle, and the faint hull of footsteps drifted to her ears. With a loud metallic crack, she heard the driver’s door being pulled open. Slowly turning her head to the noise, Quinn opened her eyes farther, blinking.
At first, she only saw the distant outline of a person bending down to her. But a moment later, his face came into focus, and Quinn found herself staring at the dark-haired man, she’d seen a few days ago in the shade of Mr. Foster’s toy store.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his dark eyes running over her.
Quinn couldn’t say anything, the words stuck in her throat. Her vision darkened, as the throbbing in her temple grew in intensity.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, fishing his cell phone out of the front pocket of his jeans.
Still fighting the dark blanket that was settling over her, Quinn asked, “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He looked at her then, and for a moment a corner of his mouth crinkled into that half-amused smile she’d seen on his face before. The amusement didn’t reach his eyes though; they were serious and leaning down to her, he whispered, “You called … and I answered.”
Quinn held his gaze for as long as she could, wondering what he meant, but then her eyelids grew too heavy and she lost all hold on reality.
Chapter 7 – Maybe, Maybe Not
Waking up was a strange feeling, different from leaving behind dreams after a good night’s sleep. Her mind came out of nothing, out of darkness and stillness, only to be filled with another kind of nothing.
With her eyes still closed, she had no idea where she was. Neither did her ears provide any clues, at least not at first. Then after a while Quinn heard her own breath coming in regular and steady intervals, interspersed by another person breathing nearby. Someone was holding her hand, skimming a thumb over the back of her hand. A flowery scent drifted to her nose and she knew that her mother sat at her bed.
Quinn had to have moved somehow or given some other indication that she was waking up because her mother suddenly said, “Quinn? Are you awake? I’m here. Momma is here. Please say something.”
Hearing her mother’s voice, slightly high-pitched and full of worry, Quinn bundled all her strength and slowly opened her eyes. A relieved smile rewarded her for her effort. “Oh thank goodness, you’re okay!” Her mother took a deep breath. “How are you feeling? Are you alright? Are you in pain?”
Quinn tried to shake her head but even the attempt sent a shockwave through it, and so she kept still. “I’m okay,” she whispered, trying to look around. “What happened? Where am I?”
Squeezing her hand, her mother said, “In the hospital. You had an accident. Up on Laurel Street, just before the intersection with Jameson Park. Don’t you remember?”
Bits and pieces drifted back into Quinn’s mind but the connection between them was still gone. Nothing made sense. The images flowing through her head were broken up and didn’t follow any kind of chronological order. “I’m not sure,” she whispered.
“What were you doing taking that route?” her mother chided, more worry than anger in her voice.
“I—” Quinn started but then the door opened and Dr. Barker walked in.
“Are we feeling any better?” he asked cheerfully, as though Quinn was just recovering from a cold. “How’s the head?”
Even the dim lighting in the room bounced off Dr. Barker’s bald head and made Quinn close her eyes for a second. He was a short, quite round, middle-aged man with a pointy nose and tiny eyes, which were almost swallowed up by his huge, bushy eyebrows, hanging on his face like two hairy caterpillars. When he flashed his teeth in a good-natured smile, his eyes lit up and shone even from underneath their hiding place.
“I’m okay,” Quinn whispered again, with a sideways glance at her mother.
Looking at his chart, Dr. Barker nodded. “I concur.”
Her mother heaved a relieved sigh. “Oh my god, I’m so glad.”
“It’s just a mild concussion, a few bruises and scrapes and a minor cut on her left temple. All in all, I’d say she was quite lucky.” He turned his gaze from her mother to her. “So, no more reckless driving, you hear? I do not want to see you back here for some time.”
“But—” Quinn was about to protest when her mother ushered Dr. Barker out of the room. “When can we take her home?” was all Quinn heard before the door closed.
Looking around, Quinn found herself in one of the upper rooms of Crescent Rock Hospital made available for patients needing medical supervision. The term hospital was maybe a bit of a stretch. It was a two-story building accommodating a waiting room, three examination rooms, an operating room for minor surgeries or emergencies on the lower level, as well as a number of private rooms on the second floor for patients like her. An old wrap-around porch made of wood, cut from the forest to the west of Crescent Rock decades ago, had come to be a meet-and-greet spot for old tattletales of the town. They would sit there for hours, drinking lemonade and looking down the little slope leading up to the hospital into the town, watching and gossiping. Quinn was sure that the story of her little adventure had by now reached every ear that wasn’t still asleep.
The sun was just climbing over the horizon and promised another hot day. Quinn pushed back the blanket that covered her to her ears, already feeling sweat running from her pores. Slowly she turned to her side, closing her eyes. The lack of vision calmed the throbbing of her head and she fell asleep quickly.
***
In the following days, which Quinn was happy to be allowed to spend in her own bed, many people lined up to talk to her. Most were just worried, like her friends and neighbors. Even Coach Grainer stopped by, but her well-wishes were accompanied not by chocolate and flowers, but by Math homework.
“Can’t have you flunk the next test,” was all she said, but her face did hold genuine concern and Quinn thanked her.
Naturally, one of the first to visit was Sheriff Monroe, Julia’s father. He came over the day after Quinn had been released from the hospital. Her mother, who had stayed home all day despite Quinn’s assurance that she didn’t need a babysitter, made tea and set out some of her to-die-for apple pie. They all sat around the kitchen table and despite being on duty, Sheriff Monroe was already munching on his second piece of pie before he had asked so much as a single question.
“So she wasn’t really being reckless?” her mother inquired after the sheriff had confirmed Quinn’s story of the
car in the middle of the road.
“Not at all,” he assured. “Could have happened to any of us.”
“Told ya,” Quinn said, looking at her mother reproachfully.
Ignoring her daughter, her mother continued, “Do you know whose car that was?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Won’t do much good. Was reported stolen about a week ago.” He turned to Quinn. “Do you remember anything else? A person maybe? Or another car?”
Trying to think back, Quinn said, “The car passed me, fast. Then I saw nothing for quite a while.” Replaying the images before her eyes, she concentrated as best as she could but there was nothing new. Nothing she hadn’t already told him. “Then I came around the bend and … there it was. Just standing there. No lights. No one in it. At least not that I saw.” She shook her head, feeling frustrated. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember exactly. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” he said, patting her hand. “It was a tough night for you.” He took another piece of pie from the serving platter. “What happened then?”
“I avoided hitting the car … barely. I shot past it and …”
“You didn’t hit the brakes?” her mother asked, frowning.
Quinn nodded. “No, I did. But … but the car wouldn’t slow down. I don’t know. It was like … like what you read about hydroplaning. It kind of spun out of control. No matter what I did, it kept swerving here and there and I just saw the trees coming closer and I knew beyond was nothing. I knew there was a bluff bank and I just froze. I …I panicked.”
Again Sheriff Monroe patted her hand and her mother’s arms came around her. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re safe now. Don’t worry.”
Quinn nodded, only now realizing how scared she had been and how close she had come to dying that night.
Sheriff Monroe pushed away his empty plate and looked at her. “There was motor oil on the road. Everywhere. More than there’d be if there’d just been a leak.”
Quinn just stared at him, not sure what he was saying, but her mother’s voice asked the question she couldn’t ask herself. “Are you saying this wasn’t an accident? That this was deliberate?”
The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. “To tell you the truth, we’re not sure. It does look like it. But then, why would anyone try to harm her?” He looked at Quinn, speaking like a father. “There is nothing to worry about. It was probably just an accident. Maybe the oil had been there before. Maybe it was just a coincidence. It probably doesn’t mean anything.”
Quinn nodded, but for her taste there were a few too many maybes and probablys in his sentences.
“So, you aren’t sure how you ended up sideways against the tree line?” he went on.
Again Quinn shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Suddenly the car spun around and … it slowed and then stopped.”
Noting that down, he said, “And that’s when Mr. de la Roche found you?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “Shortly after the car stopped, he was suddenly there.”
Her mother looked at the sheriff accusingly. “You’re not suggesting that he had anything to do with this?”
When Quinn had woken up for the second time, her mother had told her what had happened after she had blacked out. Apparently the stranger’s name was Arnaud de la Roche and he had just come to Crescent Rock recently, repurchasing old family property in the eastern part of town. According to his statement, he had been at the football game like most people and had then taken the same route like Quinn, coming upon the accident shortly after it had happened.
“No, not at all,” Sheriff Monroe assured. “I’m just establishing a timeline. Trying to get the facts straight.”
Her mother relaxed. The way she spoke of Mr. de la Roche, Quinn knew she would not let anyone say a bad word about him. He had saved her daughter’s life and in her world that secured him her loyalties.
Once the sheriff had left, Quinn returned to her room. Her head was much better but she still felt tired and was relieved to be excused from class for a week – doctor’s orders. The only thing that bothered her was that she was missing out on training as well. Coach Grainer couldn’t be happy. But with each passing day, Quinn started to feel better, more like herself. Only at night the pictures from the accident haunted her. It was dark and she felt like there was something lurking in the shadows waiting for her. During the day with the sun up and everything bright and shiny, she almost convinced herself that that was only because of what Sheriff Monroe had told her about the motor oil on the road. When the sun was up, she didn’t believe that someone had actually tried to kill her. But when it went down, shadows crept up on her and messed with her head.
Friday morning at the breakfast table, her mother announced, “I invited Mr. de la Roche for dinner tonight.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she chided. “It’s the only decent thing to do. After all, he saved her life.” She brushed a hand over Quinn’s head.
“It’s not like she was actually in any danger,” Cora objected, moving the rest of her waffles over the plate. “She just got a bump on the head.”
“Now, that’s not true,” their father said. “He did get her to the hospital.” He looked at his wife. “Yes, I think it would be a good idea to thank him again properly.”
Mrs. McPherson smiled while Cora sulked down in her chair.
“What do you think?” her father asked, turning to look at Quinn. “You haven’t spoken to him yet, have you?”
Quinn shook her head. Many people had come to see her in the past few days but Arnaud de la Roche had not been one of them. The moments before she had blacked out were the fuzziest. She remembered that he had been there. She remembered seeing his face. There had been concern there and that crinkle playing on his lips she’d seen before. And she was sure he had said something to her but she couldn’t recall what it was.
Quinn didn’t know why but something about him struck her as odd. In what way she couldn’t say. Maybe dinner would clear things up.
Chapter 8 – Hidden Wickedness
By the time her sister came home from school, Quinn’s nerves were completely on edge. Her mother, usually a very self-assured chef, had been rummaging in the kitchen all day, planning, preparing and pre-cooking. Now she was finally in the last stage of her dinner preparations and Quinn hoped desperately that she would ease up and return to her usual, calm and cheerful self.
“What’s that smell?” Cora frowned, wrinkling her nose.
Setting the table, Quinn shot a careful glance at her mother. “Don’t ask,” she whispered, but it was too late.
“Now what is that supposed to mean?” her mother demanded, sounding irritated. “I’m cooking dinner. It’s not like I’ve never done that before.”
“Eh, that’s true,” Cora started, eyes dancing back and forth between her mother and her sister. “But usually it doesn’t smell like that. What is it?”
Hands on her hips and eyes narrowed to slits, their mother said, “It’s real food, not the quick-and-easy stuff we serve at the diner all day, alright?”
“Okay,” Cora said, her voice still guarded. “What’s it called?”
“Well, it’s pan-roasted venison with cranberry cinnamon sauce … if you must know.”
The apprehensive expression on Cora’s face grew. “Mmh, sounds yummy.”
“Oh no, not here Quinn,” her mother ordered. “Set the table in the dining room. He can’t see the kitchen looking like this.” A sweep of her arm indicated the piled up dishes and crusted surfaces from her cooking marathon.
“And you,” she looked at Cora, “go upstairs and get changed.”
The sisters looked at each other with equally annoyed and confused expressions on their faces. Without a word of complaint or debate though, they left the kitchen, Quinn carrying a stack of plates.
“Formal dinner wear?” Cora mumbled.
“Yep,” Quinn replied, keeping her voice down.
>
“Is she insane?”
She nodded. “Probably.”
While setting the table with her mother’s fancy china, Quinn heard her father come home and receive the same stern instructions to go upstairs and make himself presentable.
“I’ve never seen her like this,” Cora said, peeking in from the hall. She now wore a light dress with her hair tied neatly in the back. “And everything just because he took you to the hospital?”
Quinn shrugged. “Why are you asking me? I never got her.” She pointed at the mahogany cabinet by the bay windows. “Could you get the silverware?”
“So, what’s he like?” Cora asked, placing knives and forks neatly on the placemats.
“I never really met him,” Quinn said. “But mom seems to like him. So?” She shrugged.
Cora laughed. “Mom would like the devil if he’d saved your life.”
Quinn joined in. “Guess you’re right about that.”
By the time the doorbell finally rang, the sun had already gone down. Like a chicken in the yard, their mother fluttered in from the kitchen, almost forgetting to take off her apron. She shot another warning look at her family and then opened the door to greet their dinner guest.
Arnaud de la Roche stood on the front porch, a polite smile on his face, and slightly bowed his head. Almost completely blending in with the dark of night, his entire wardrobe was black from shoes to jacket. Gone were the blue jeans Quinn had seen on him before. Like her family, he was dressed in formal wear, making him appear as though attending a conference or business meeting. But where the elegant clothing seemed unusual on her family, he wore it with ease. Only the open collar made him not completely stand out among their own, in comparison more casual wear.
“Good evening,” he said, his eyes wandering over them. “I hope I am not too early.”
“Not at all,” her mother replied. “Please come in. We are so glad you could make it.”
“I am most grateful for your invitation,” he said, stepping inside. “You have a lovely home.”