Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  Her pulse sped up too fast, then plummeted. Deductions about the driver’s gender and age amounted to pure conjecture.

  “Couldn’t resist my charisma, could you?” Michael’s sing-song cadence mocked her.

  “You know me too well.” She willed the driver to look at her.

  “Oh-oh. Those itsy-bitsy mental cogs are spinning at the speed of light.” Michael stopped drumming his fingers on the gearshift and turned her face toward him. “Forget sucking in that guy.”

  “FYI, I was curious who’d drive in this weather.” Her attempt at sounding indignant came off pathetic.

  He patted her shoulder. “Uuuh-huh.”

  His long, melodramatic sigh nagged her. Told her reading her mind required zero effort. Reminded her he knew her like a book—a short, simple primer with wide margins.

  “Give it up, Quinn. Five minutes max, the road crew’s finished, the light changes, the guy next to us goes about his business.”

  “And then what?” Time was running out. She shifted toward Michael. “Where are we going? What about Pierce? What—”

  “Calm down.” He tapped his index finger against her bottom lip. “Just be glad I saved you from a life with Rex in South America.”

  The cell phone bit into her hip bone. Her mouth went dry. Michael gazed at the traffic light and kept talking—in love with his own voice. “Some people consider Buenos Aires quite charming.”

  Make him think you’re listening. She deliberately turned her shoulder away from the other car. “How’s your Spanish?”

  He grinned. “Money speaks every language.”

  “Silly me.” She slipped the phone from her left pocket into the folds of her coat. Careful, careful. Trying to bash his brains out with the phone in her left hand would be like trying to fly by flapping her arms. “I forgot the money.”

  “It’d be a fortune if Pierce hadn’t fucked us up.”

  “How’d you fool Pierce so long?” Carefully, slowly, she shifted the phone to her right hand. Images of Pierce helped repress memories of kissing Michael’s boo-boos.

  “Newsflash! Pierce is a legend only in his own mind.”

  “He does have a strong ego.” No stronger than this embezzling murderer next to her. “And a good heart.”

  “Mr. GoodHeart sucked your brain out the first time you met him.”

  He didn’t hear her intake of breath as she raised her hand. Didn’t read her mind. Didn’t turn until she slammed the phone into his right temple.

  “Jesus!” Unlike a TV character, he didn’t flick the pain away like a gnat. He clasped his head with both hands.

  She forgot he was her brother and hit him again. This time the phone connected with his nose. Blood spurted like a small fountain.

  “Unlock the door.” Tasting the coppery dregs of horror, she smacked the horn.

  “Stop that!” He swatted blindly at her with one hand.

  “Unlock the door.” She cracked his wrist.

  His screech sounded sweeter than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Sweeter still was his need to suck at his wrist and nurse his head and nose at the same time. Quinn seized another horn-smacking opp. This time the horn blasted. A hand waved from the de-icing truck as it passed through the intersection.

  “For godsake! Stop, Quinn.” Michael threw himself face down across the steering wheel but not before she saw blood trickle down his chin.

  His moans sounded pitiful, but she didn’t trust him. He wasn’t out yet.

  Damned inconsiderate of him since her ribs burned like Roman candles. Slivers of green flashed through the misted windshield. The left-hand turn arrow.

  On a roll now, she smacked the phone between his shoulders. He howled like a wounded ape and jerked upright. She whacked the horn again.

  Soft, nearly inaudible knuckles rapped Quinn’s window. “What’s wrong?”

  Hope flared, but she didn’t turn. Michael somehow managed to protect his face with one hand and punch the window down with the other.

  “No problem,” he called in a jaunty tone.

  A cold breeze shocked the skin on Quinn’s neck.

  “Call the police,” she yelled, pressing her cell phone into her thigh.

  “No problem.” Michael repeated and threw a bloody salute.

  In the corner of her peripheral vision, she caught a snapshot of a muffled-up man with steamed-over glasses peering into the Corvette. “Call the police!”

  The man took a step backwards. “The police?”

  “Now!”

  The left-turn signal flashed yellow.

  “No!” Michael grabbed the gearshift.

  “Call them!” Quinn slammed the cell phone down on her brother’s knuckles.

  His howl raised the hairs on her nape. The other driver rattled her door handle, demanding they open up, warning, “I’ll call the cops.”

  “Do it, dammit.”

  “Wait.”

  The click of the locks was softer than Quinn expected. The other driver jerked open her door. Icy air swooshed inside.

  “My wife’s strung out,” Michael said with incredible lucidity. “Got some bad coke. I’m taking her to St. Luke’s.”

  “Help me.” Tears spurted out of her eyes. She reached for the driver, who wisely didn’t stick his head inside the car. “I’m hurt.”

  “She’s strung out,” Michael insisted. “Can you believe it? She attacked me with a cell phone.”

  “He’s kidnapping me.” The car’s dash blurred.

  “Broke my damn nose.”

  The driver whistled. “Looks bad, man. You need a doctor.”

  Quinn shoved her phone at the other driver. “He’s insane. Call the police.”

  The Good Samaritan ignored the phone, and Quinn’s ribs refused to support extending it toward him any longer.

  He said, “You know St. Luke’s is behind you.”

  “No shit?” Michael said. “I guess I’m disoriented. I probably have a concussion.”

  Mr. Innocence. Praying Mr. Samaritan would wake up and take the damn phone, Quinn blurted, “He’s killed two men. There’s a dead woman in the trunk.”

  “Jesus!” The driver lurched backwards but grabbed the door jamb.

  “She’s hallucinating. I need to get her to ER.”

  “Maybe I should follow you,” the stranger said without conviction.

  “No. Please.” Next to Quinn, Michael growled. She tensed, waiting for him to peel through the red light, plowing into the salt truck.

  “Take me with you.” A current of electricity passed between Quinn and the stranger. She edged her hips toward the open door.

  Michael said, “You should go with me.”

  “No. I’m hurt.”

  Against all logic, after she’d beaten him to a pulp, she expected him to remember all the times she kissed his hurts, read him bedtime stories and promised she’d always be there for him. She’d failed him miserably, but surely he knew she’d never meant to abandon him.

  “That okay with you?” the stranger stayed behind the open door.

  Quinn’s ribs screamed. She put one foot on the frozen ground. Please don’t let her fall. Let the Samaritan offer his hand. Let Michael let her go.

  Finally, he said, “Sure. Meet you in ER.”

  Chapter 24

  8:50 A.M.—December 22

  “Why don’t you sneak over to your house and catch a nap before work?”

  Quinn’s hand jerked and slipped off the doorknob in Pierce’s bedroom. Heart racing, she shot a glance at the bassinette next to his side of the bed, then whispered, “God, I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t.” Pierce sat up in bed, dark hair tousled, eyes deep bruises against the yards of white gauze and tape bandaging his right arm and shoulder. “You’re quiet as a shadow.”

  “Ryder’s waiting. Can you go back to sleep?” She tiptoed to the bed and spoke in the whisper that had become second nature with Baby Quinn snoozing. “Fifteen straight nights of our girl screaming...”

&
nbsp; Pierce shook his head and replied in a conversational pitch. “When she’s an international opera star, we’ll remember she started practicing in the crib.” He paused, then added, “Well, maybe I won’t remember.”

  Quinn’s heart jammed her throat, but she crawled onto the bed, taking that fraction of a second to find words she hoped would comfort him. She pressed her lips against his ear. “You’ll remember. You remember more every day.”

  His mouth twisted. “Business details. Nothing about what put me in the hospital. Or why you look so sad every time I mention adoption.”

  “Not sad. I look like The Bride of Dracula.”

  He tilted her head backwards and gazed into her eyes. “You need a new mirror, m’dear.”

  A lie, but she managed not to cry. “Thank you. But we both know I’ve just insulted the count’s bride.”

  “Shhhh. You look like the woman I want to marry. And I do want to marry you, Quinn. Once I’m fairly sure I won’t become a vegetable or an invalid.” He kissed away her protests, held the kiss, then murmured, “Whether married or not, I intend to make sure I provide for our future opera star.”

  “Our star has you bewitched.” Quinn laid her cheek against his stubble, imagining the screams of his parents if he pursued adopting the baby of the man who nearly killed him.

  He stroked Quinn’s hair, and her raw nerves stopped jangling. “Admittedly, I am bewitched. But I owe that tiny creature, you know. Carrying her in my good arm gets me ready for P. T. next month.”

  “Riiight.” Tears stung the corners of Quinn’s eyes, but she laughed—because of Pierce’s obvious attempt at cheering her up. God, how could he be so gentle with Michael’s child?

  ****

  Forty-five minutes later, Quinn placed her hand on the doorknob at Alexander and Associates. The stink of grease and sugar hit her in the stomach. Dèjá vu. The parking garage and the image of a black-caped Ryder flashed. She closed her eyes. The queasiness and memory passed.

  God, what she’d give to be at home with Pierce, snuggled next to him under the down comforter, the house quiet...She indulged in five seconds of fantasy before she straightened her shoulders, opened her eyes, turned the doorknob and stepped into the reception area.

  Ryder had Leah, Janelle and Sami eating out of his hand.

  “Make mine chocolate.” Quinn forced a cheery tone. Lamar’s had become a habit with the red-haired detective.

  “Yo, Mama Quinn.” Powdered sugar stuck to the corners of his mouth. He shifted the box past Janelle to Quinn. “Looks like you could use at least two.”

  “Baby Quinn didn’t sleep last night?” Sami delicately licked the tips of her fingers.

  “Baby Quinn did not sleep last night.” Quinn hung up her coat, fussing with it in the closet. “My baby niece went AWOL the day they passed out the sleeping-at-night gene.”

  She bit her tongue, afraid she’d add what her mother had told her. From birth, Michael had been an owl, rarely sleeping more than an hour at a time.

  Do. Not. Go. There. She realized Ryder had fixated on her fists. She forced her fingers to relax. Her heart drummed in her ears. Baby Quinn would be okay. Perfect. Nothing like Michael.

  “My mom says I didn’t start napping before I was two,” Janelle offered.

  “Thank you for that ray of hope.” Quinn tried to imagine twenty-three more months of sleepless nights. Had lack of sleep turned Michael into a monster?

  Get a grip.

  “On a different note,” Ryder offered—noticing her shiver?—“my mother says my three sisters slept like babies from Night One.”

  Quinn bit off a chocolate sprinkle. “Consider me encouraged.”

  Sami opened her mouth, shut it, shot Leah and Janelle a get-to-work glare.

  “Sorry.” Quinn shook her head. “Hormone overload.”

  After a beat of awkward silence, Sami hustled to her desk. Fun time was over. Quinn tried to usher Ryder into her office. He stayed put. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone with her any more than she wanted to be alone with him. Or, maybe he was trying to lighten the mood which had gone South as soon as she opened the door. For whatever reason, he made a production of passing the pastry box off to Leah. Everyone but Quinn cracked a couple of jokes. Her chocolate confection tasted like cardboard. She slipped into her office and spit the greasy ball into her napkin, wincing at a twinge in her ribs.

  Ryder closed the door, flopped into the wing chair and adjusted his orange pig-tail, letting it lie on his chest. “Tough week?”

  “No worse than last week.” Or the week before. Nothing like the first week. Pierce in ICU. Baby Quinn’s birth. Luce falling apart. Michael vanishing.

  “Sounds like progress.”

  “Absolutely.” Quinn closed the collar on her jacket—just in case he could see her carotid pulse hip-hopping.

  “How’s Pierce?”

  His nosiness irritated her, but she said evenly, “Better, now that he’s out of the hospital.”

  What did Ryder want?

  “How’s his memory?”

  “The doctors are hopeful.” Quinn heard the edge. As a gesture of goodwill, she added, “They don’t think he’ll ever remember what happened in his bedroom, but every day, he recalls more and more business details.”

  He didn’t remember—or was it that he didn’t accept?—Tony’s murder.

  Watching Ryder study her, she picked up the top message on her desk. Despite Pierce’s denials, she knew his headaches mimicked migraines. “Right now, he loves having Baby Quinn with him. He says he might work at home, stay with her until she’s thirty, maybe forty.”

  Ryder chuckled. “Sounds like a man in love.”

  “A man besotted.” Quinn’s heart slowed. “He’s the one person who can soothe her at night. Or whenever she goes nuclear.”

  Ryder leaned forward. “Has your sister-in-law signed over her parental rights?”

  “Twenty-four hours after she gave birth. Her parents didn’t want their grandchild, either.” Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to block out the memory of the grandparents’ venom. She sighed. “They hate Michael. Never want to hear his name or see his child or do anything but spit on him in hell. If spitting gives him any relief, they’ll shovel on more coal.”

  A long whistle. “They blame him for their daughter’s breakdown.”

  A statement, not a question. Quinn exhaled and nodded. “Absolutely. If Luce had never married Michael—” Before she realized it, her bitterness erupted. “They’ll have the marriage annulled as soon as she recovers.”

  “Blood’s always thicker than water. They could change their minds—if Luce never picks up all her marbles.”

  Quinn felt her mouth twist. Ryder. What a silver-tongued devil. “Not quite the term the lawyers use, but that’s their concern...that she won’t ever pick up all her marbles. We assume her parents will never reclaim their granddaughter because Luce suffered such great emotional distress.”

  Shut up, Quinn. As if dismissing the whole mess—which she rarely mentioned to either her mother or Pierce anymore—Quinn waved. “I definitely have to cut back on sugar.”

  Ryder laughed. “Cut back on sugar. Your advice to me in the garage, remember?”

  “Vaguely. That scene feels like a movie I saw years ago.”

  “Think this would’ve played out differently if I’d told you up front I was a cop?”

  A slow headshake. “I’m pretty sure a happy ending wasn’t in the cards.”

  “You’re a realist, Quinn.”

  Face warm, heart thumping, she said, “Is Michael dead?”

  “Officially, no.”

  To her surprise, he hesitated, avoiding her gaze, steepling his fingers. He might think she was a realist, but he must also think she’d crash and burn if he got too graphic.

  “Officially because you haven’t found a body?”

  An image of Pierce, unconscious in ICU, steadied her when she said body.

  “That’s right. I check with my informants e
very day. Nada, zip, not a peep. Which is very strange.”

  “Why?” The single word caught in the back of her throat.

  “There should be some kind of buzz over a guy who stole fifteen million dollars of coke from the Hoàngs.” Ryder turned his palms up. “But if the Hoàngs don’t want us to find his body, we won’t find his body.”

  As if in agreement, Quinn nodded. Poor Baby—

  Stop. She pinched the back of her hand. Right this minute, Baby Quinn was fine, safe at home with Pierce. Safe. That was all that mattered right this minute.

  “With any luck,” Ryder said, “Your niece won’t start asking questions about bio daddy for a few years. Time enough for you to figure out what to say.”

  “Uh-huh.” Thinking she sounded ungracious, Quinn added, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  He stood. “Ain’t no roadmaps for where you’re going, Quinn.”

  “That’s a comfort.” She smiled. “I’m roadmap-challenged. I prefer landmarks.”

  A light danced in his moss-colored eyes. He extended his hand. “You’ve got my number. Call if I can ever help.”

  A little shock hummed through Quinn. “Does this mean you won’t be stopping by every week?”

  “Only if I’m in the neighborhood. Which isn’t likely.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’m working with the Feds on a couple of cases that cross state lines.”

  This added layer of transparency raised the hairs on Quinn’s arms. “And to think I’m one of those people who believed drug dealing happens in another galaxy.”

  “A common misconception.” Ryder made no move toward the door, and Quinn’s antennae snapped up. What was going on? He stroked his moustache, fueling her unease. “Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”

  “Busted,” he said, face and voice serious, scaring Quinn silly.

  “Tell me,” she said, her tone harsh and cold. She’d figured out a long time ago his clown facade worked to his advantage.

  “Okay. I have a question. A personal question.”

  How personal? She didn’t have a second to squawk like an airhead because he rushed on. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if your brother contacted you?”