In fact, she was having a fit inside her head, but the grown-up version was doing her darndest to ignore her inner child. Instead, she sought out everyone else in the sanctuary. The memorial service was over. Some had already left, making their way to the gravesite, but plenty of others lingered. Those were her people now. Sooner or later, Aiden was going to get called away. She could wait him out.
Quinn shuffled in line to pay her respects with the other tongue-tied mourners. What do you say to parents burying their child? Nothing other than “I’m sorry.” There’s nothing to ease their pain. They had aged ten years overnight, although, somehow, Trina appeared the same.
They were a curiosity, Abigail and William Pemberley. Quinn had always wondered how two amiable people had spawned such mean-girl twins. Her aunt Johanna was good friends with their mother, who often said it’d be a task finding a sweeter soul than Abigail Pemberley. Her husband, William, was well liked—maybe a bit of an overgrown frat boy, calling other men “dudes” and “bros,” but otherwise inoffensive.
Now a fourth of their family was gone. Quinn couldn’t imagine what she would do if anything happened to Bash. It would be a chasm without end, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, but never reaching the bottom. An absurdist existence where nothing made sense, where something as fundamental as the laws of gravity could no longer be counted on.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pemberley, Trina, I am so sorry for your loss. I wish I could say something to take the pain away.”
“I know, dear,” Mrs. Pemberley said, nodding and reaching out to grasp Quinn’s hand. “I should’ve come by the store to see if you were okay after finding our baby the way you did.”
Mr. Pemberley leaned in. “You should know, we never believed the nonsense that was circulating,” he said. “Other than going to the funeral home, this is the first time we’ve left the house. Abby is right—we should’ve come by the store. Maybe that would’ve help dispel the rumors sooner.”
Quinn placed her hand on top of the one they were holding. “Please don’t worry about me. Truth always has a way of coming out—at least that’s what my nana used to always say.”
They smiled. Trina had her back turned already, talking to someone else. Quinn glanced down at the handkerchief she held. A tiny smear of mascara, but otherwise dry as a bone.
Meanwhile, the Pemberleys stared at Quinn, as if waiting for her to say something else.
“I don’t know if this offers any solace, but just so you know, I watched the EMTs work on Tricia. They did everything they could to try and bring her back.”
“I know. They told us,” he said. “I’ll never understand it—a perfectly healthy young woman suffering from liver and kidney failure. And the partial paralysis. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I hate to ask this, but do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her? Or did they find anything suspicious? I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
Tears welled in Mrs. Pemberley’s eyes.
Smooth, Quinn. Why don’t you just ask if you can peek in the coffin before they haul her into the ground?
“No one poisoned my sister—at least nothing showed up in the toxicology report,” Trina chimed in. “Why don’t you tell that detective you’re so friendly with to arrest Wyatt Reynolds already?”
Her mother looked stricken. “Trina! How could you say such a thing? We don’t know if he had anything to do with it.”
“Who else could it be? Did you notice he’s not even here?” she snapped. “Listen, Quinn, we’re not dumb. Tricia and I knew not everyone liked us. We’re very alpha, and we make no apologies. But no one had enough issues with Trish to hurt her. Except for Officer Reynolds, who was obsessed with her for years and was losing his mind that she was going to marry another man, even though the two of them had never had so much as a real date.”
Trina had a point: those she knew in Vienna might not have cared for Tricia, but high school was years ago, and most just regarded the twins as an immature nuisance. Did someone from around here really harbor enough ire to murder her? And where was Officer Reynolds anyway?
At least Trina was finally calling her by her correct name. Progress.
Quinn couldn’t help but notice that Trina vacillated between the present and past tense when discussing Tricia, saying “we” instead of “I” as well. Understandable, considering they were twins who did almost everything together. Quinn knew some would give way to speculation regarding Trina’s use of the present tense when talking about Tricia, but she wasn’t so quick to do so. It was junk science, and she understood if she was going to catch Tricia’s killer, harping on her usage of “is” versus “was” wasn’t going to cut it.
But she couldn’t shake the image of what she and Daria had found in the back of Trina’s office. Each poster with shining white teeth. She’d had plans to carry on solo for a while now, before Tricia’s murder, but why fix what wasn’t broken?
Unless, of course, something had ruptured, maybe beyond repair. Maybe that’s why Trina had reached out to Quinn to fix Tricia’s old yearbooks as part of an engagement present.
Mr. Pemberley’s color turned ashen. “Trin, the medical examiners and the police have been very careful not to classify Tricia’s death a homicide. They really don’t want us going around saying otherwise.”
“Ugh! As if I care what the police want. Wake up, Dad! What’s it going to take for you and Mom to realize Trish was murdered!”
The now half-empty church carried her voice, loud and strong.
Abigail Pemberley closed her eyes and swayed, grasping her husband’s arm. Trina reached for her. “Oh, Mom, hey, I’m sorry. I just can’t—”
Mrs. Pemberley opened her eyes and cradled her daughter’s cheek. “Shh, I know, baby. We’re all upset. But I think I really need some air.”
Mr. Pemberley held his wife up. “If you’ll excuse us, Quinn, we need to go.”
“Yes, of course.” She moved back, trying not to step on anyone’s toes.
A wave of people split and undulated, like the Red Sea. Thinking of the biblical reference reminded her of Daria. She texted her: The funeral is over. Are you okay? What happened?
No response.
Quinn hoped taking her time had discouraged Aiden from sticking around, but as she perused the sanctuary, sure enough, he was waiting by the exit sign. He must have felt her gaze because he turned his head, caught her staring, and gave one of those self-satisfied, Cheshire cat grins.
She rolled her eyes and turned away. She wasn’t going to offer him a scintilla more of satisfaction.
As more funeral attendants filed out of the church, Quinn spotted Scott standing with his parents. His mother had a vise grip on his arm. The three of them were off to the side, talking in hushed tones with the reverend, who seemed to be trying to console Scott.
Even from across the room, Quinn could tell he was devastated. His tanned complexion had gone chalk white, his eyes glittery with tears. His shoulders slumped, and his slow breath seemed labored. She noticed his mother, who whispered something in his ear. He straightened his posture.
The guy had just lost the woman he was going to marry, and she’s worried about him standing up straight? Quinn’s feet walked toward them before her brain realized she was on the move.
“Excuse me, Reverend, Doctor and Mrs. Hauser, Scott,” she said, nodding at each of them. “I just came over to offer my condolences.”
The knuckles of Milly Hauser’s hand, holding her son’s forearm, turned white with her grip. His dad offered a sad smile.
“Thanks, Quinn.” Scott smoothed his palm down the front of his tie. “It was nice of you and your family to come.”
“Yes, well, at least you were raised right, demonstrating some rudimentary manners. Everyone around here is acting as if Abigail and William are the only ones who lost someone. That girl was like a daughter to me. And my poor boy! What’s he supposed to do now?”
“Mom, enough,” Scott muttered back, his cheeks flushed.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife.” Embarrassment colored Dr. Hauser’s complexion. “She’s overwrought, as we all are. You understand.”
“Pardon me, Carlson, but I do not need you to apologize on my behalf.”
The reverend cleared his throat. “Grief is a circuitous process, and there’s not any one way to go through the path that the Lord has paved for us.”
Mrs. Hauser pressed her lips into a thin line. “With all due respect, Reverend, that sounds like a bucket of bull crap they teach you in the seminary to placate the grief-stricken.”
Scott twisted his arm out of his mother’s grasp. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to walk Quinn out.”
Mouth dropped open, eyes blazing, Mrs. Hauser looked ready to spit nails. “She is more than capable of walking herself out. You will stand here with your family and—”
His father lost patience. “Enough, Milly! Let the boy breathe for once.”
Staring straight ahead, as if the church exit was his last hope, Scott grabbed Quinn’s hand and pulled her out of the sanctuary. She wanted to rip herself out of his grasp but didn’t want to upset him—while also not wanting people to get the wrong impression about the two of them either.
Her eyes searched, scanning the area, but Aiden was no longer standing by the exit. Great. Just when I actually need him, he splits.
Once they were outside the church, she gently pulled her hand away and walked over to where she had secured RBG. Shoving her clutch under her arm, she took the water bowl she had left for her in one hand and the leash in the other, walking across the street so her dog baby could relieve herself. Scott followed.
“Hey, um, sorry about my mom back there,” he said, gazing off nowhere in particular. “She’s taken Tricia’s death hard, which is ironic considering she didn’t seem to like her very much when she was alive.”
Figures. Quinn placed the water bowl down while RBG sniffed around in the grass. “Oh, it’s okay. She didn’t like me very much when we were hanging out either.”
She couldn’t tell if he was processing anything she said.
“Scott? Do you need to sit down? Maybe I can get you some water from the church?”
RBG woofed.
Quinn couldn’t help but smile. Tail wagging, brown eyes dancing, her dog was working the cute. “You had your water already,” she told her.
She whined and Quinn knew why—the water hadn’t been cold enough for her liking. She had spoiled her dog baby by putting ice cubes in her bowl back home.
Meanwhile, Scott didn’t answer.
She placed her hand on his upper arm. “Scott? You okay?”
He snapped out of whatever trance he was in, nodding. “Remember, before all this happened, when we bumped into each other at Church Street Eats, I asked if we could talk?”
“Sure I do.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, what I had wanted to ask … I don’t know if you know any of this, but Tricia was planning on leaving real estate.”
Quinn stilled. “Really? Why?”
“She was sick of it, to be honest. It was good money, but she wanted a challenge. We both did. One of the things that brought us together was our desire to do something different for ourselves. Bonus if it had nothing to do with our families.”
“That’s great, Scott,” Quinn said. She meant it too. “What did she want to do instead? Did she have any idea?”
“She did, actually. We both did.” For the first time in a long while, he had a genuine smile. “We had this dream of opening up a law practice together.”
“Really?” As soon as she said it, Quinn realized how she sounded. “I’m sorry—I just had no idea either of you had that kind of interest.”
If he was bothered by her surprise, he didn’t show it. “That’s okay. No one did. Long story short, we studied our asses off for the LSAT and applied. A few months ago, we both got our acceptance letters from our top choice law school.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. Congratulations!”
“Yeah, our plan was to marry in the summer, then leave everything behind and enroll this fall.”
So that’s why Tricia said he wanted to get married as soon as possible. And I had made wisecracks.
Quinn felt like an ass, especially because Scott’s excitement over their plans was palpable and infectious. Still, something wasn’t adding up.
“Not to be rude, but why ask to talk to me? It sounds like you have—or had—a solid plan in place.”
The smile faded away. “Well, when Tricia told Trina what we planned to do … let’s say, she wasn’t taking it well. I knew my mom would flip out just as badly.
“Anyway, I remembered you and your brother pursuing paths your parents were originally less than thrilled about. I wanted to ask you how you got them to come around. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
And I thought he was going to hit on me that day. Someone call Tina Fey and let her know I’ve got Mean Girls, the Sequel, all covered. Yeesh.
Scott had been right too. After Bash blew off a spot at University of Virginia’s law school in order to earn a master’s in emergency fire service administration, he later joined a national emergency firefighter relief agency. For years, he traveled all over the country, either making department assessments or jumping into the action himself. His mother had been beside herself with grief over his decision; his father offered reluctant respect.
Quinn hadn’t offered much reprieve for her parents either. After she graduated college, she had forgone a bookbinding apprenticeship in Washington, D.C., in order to teach English all over the world. First stop: Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Her mom had had nightmares of her stepping on some long-forgotten land mine, and cried for a solid month.
Quinn wished she could offer some sage advice. “Honestly, there was nothing we could say to abate their fears. In the end, I think they just had to have faith in us to not take unnecessary risks. The rest, well, was time.” Something he said niggled her. “What do you mean when you said Trina wasn’t taking it well?”
“Oh, it was bad. Fights all the time, then calling Trish at home after arguing all day. She even came by my office, offering me money to break up with her sister and walk away forever. Can you believe that? Personally, I was ready to write her off, but it was her sister, and Trish really wanted Trina to come around and support her. It never happened. This past month they only talked if they absolutely had to.”
Sounds like motive to me.
“Hey, thanks for listening,” he said.
“Anytime.”
“I better get going.” Scott looked around the almost-empty parking lot. “We still have the whole graveside thing to do.”
She nodded. “Okay. Drive safe.” She picked up the water bowl and emptied the remaining liquid into the grass while giving the leash a gentle tug. “Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens, finish what you and Tricia started. Go to law school.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see. Thanks.”
Just then, a car came barreling right for them, honking several times in a row.
It was Aiden in his SUV.
Guess he hasn’t given up on our talk. Great.
She could see him through the windshield: he was definitely agitated, and not in the normal Aiden way. Something was wrong.
She opened the car door, letting RBG hop up and into the backseat, before getting in.
“Is everything okay?” Quinn folded herself in. She hadn’t even shut the door yet when he was already putting the vehicle into drive.
Aiden’s hands clenched the wheel. “Have you checked your phone?”
She buckled her seat belt, although he pressed his foot on the gas—hard—before the click, reeling her back and making RBG slip.
“You’re driving like we’re in a getaway car! Slow d
own!”
“Asked you a question, Quinn.”
“No, Aiden, I didn’t check my phone during the funeral. My bad. Why? What’s going on?”
He rubbed a hand down his face before switching on the emergency lights. “I was in the middle of checking emails while you were conversing with that tool, when I got a call for a ten-seventy-one.”
Aiden was cutting through traffic, weaving in and out, using the service road to pass slower vehicles. Quinn grabbed onto the handle hanging by the passenger door—her brother called it the “oh crap” grip.
“In English, please. What’s a ‘ten-seventy-one’?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “A ten-seventy-one is police code for a shooting in progress. Quinn, the call came from Guinefort House.”
Chapter Eleven
“This wasn’t just plain terrible; this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.”
—Dorothy Parker, Women Know Everything!
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
It was a toss-up what made Quinn more nauseated: Aiden’s maniacal driving or the thought of her cousin in mortal danger. Every time she peeked out the car window, familiar scenery morphed into a long blur—tree-lined roads becoming streaks of green and brown, stretched out like pulled taffy.
It was a blessing her parents couldn’t see her now. The irony wasn’t lost on her—three years in places considered unsafe by the U.S. Department of State travel advisory, only to finally be at home—and headed straight for a suburban combat zone.
She gazed over at Aiden, whose jaw was locked, his tight-fisted grip on the steering wheel. Quinn knew him well enough to know he was already going through about a hundred different scenarios on how the scene at the abbey was going to go down. If only she had a clue.
“Please, Aiden, talk to me.” She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady. If she sounded like she was going to crack, no way was he going to share anything with her.
He gave her a stern look. “You are here as a courtesy. Do you understand? Once we arrive at the scene, you are not to get out of the vehicle. You are not to call your family or anyone else. If there’s press on the grounds, you will not talk to them.”
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 13