by Bonnie Vanak
West hadn’t known her for long, perhaps a month or a few weeks. And yet in that time, they’d fallen in love. Or so he said.
He’d shared her bed, pledged his devotion and wanted to share his life with her. West seemed devoted to his job, his duty as an FBI agent. Tucking the photo back into the drawer, she sighed.
Quinn burned the image of his handsome face into her mind. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall anything about him. There, a flicker of memory.
Lying in bed with West’s arms around her, watching the television mounted to the wall. He had argued with her, playfully, not really protesting, about her choice of program.
Drawing in a deep breath, she smelled the tang of masculine aftershave, a slight floral scent of women’s perfume and the musk of sex. A smile touched her face. This memory made her feel cherished and safe and sated. For a minute she wanted to linger inside it, for it was a square on a cold, impartial blank slate.
They must have made love and then, too restless for sleep, watched television. Quinn picked up the remote on the nightstand, turned on the wide screen.
A cooking show came on. The hostess droned on about mixing spices.
She laughed. Perhaps she couldn’t remember what programs she enjoyed, but she’d stayed true to form.
She switched off the remote.
Next she explored the closet. Dresses, all colorful, some polka-dot, some floral. Pretty, not one of them in dull, dreary colors. Shoes... She bent down and examined the shoe rack. A few heels, nothing quite expensive, but smart. Two pairs of flats. Quinn lifted one shoe and looked at the well-worn bottom.
I must wear these while I’m working.
Sinking to the floor, she tossed the leather flat into the closet. Looking at shoes and clothing did nothing to stir dormant memories. Her stomach grumbled with hunger. Quinn pressed a finger against her right temple.
Hot tears burned behind her eyelids. Sitting on the floor, she let them come, surrendering to the sense of utter loss.
She might have survived the explosion, but she’d lost herself.
And Quinn didn’t know when she would ever find herself again.
Chapter 10
The warm South Dakota day promised to be fine. It was a time in August for last-minute vacations, fishing and enjoying the weather before the autumn winds blew in the burning colors of changing leaves, leading to the bitter winter snowfalls. The first hint of fall lingered in the cool breeze sweeping along the streets, fluttering the red and blue petunias in the flowerpots.
As he locked the front door to Quinn’s shop, checking it twice, West tried to keep his sense of calm. He headed for his truck, nodding politely to the pedestrians passing by, glancing with curiosity at Good Eats. People in town knew what happened to Quinn. A couple stopped, asked after her.
He kept his answers brief and vague. Anyone could pass along information to the unsub.
Hell, anyone could be the unsub, ready to strike again. Delivering death with a bomb intended to inflict as much suffering as possible...
Keys in hand, West went to unlock his truck when a flash of memory slammed into him.
Orange tongues of flame inside his home. Fire, too intense to draw near. Screams echoing in the night, coming from him. Had to get inside... Save them. Please, someone save them...
I’m sorry, West. Your parents and your sisters didn’t make it.
Closed-casket funerals, wood coffins lined up in a row. A seemingly never-ending parade of his father’s fellow cops, friends, neighbors, relatives.
Everyone murmuring sympathy, some weeping as they hugged him. He was a statue, stiff and unyielding. Show no emotion. Be like Dad, strong, stoic. Make them proud.
Only much later, after the funeral, and the cars and the hordes of people had left, did he lock himself into the bedroom given to him by his aunt and uncle...and cry. Scream. Rage.
Never again. Never again would anyone he loved die on his watch.
Memories so thick they become noxious, cloying smoke, threatening to squeeze his throat shut. Leaning against the door, he breathed deeply as his therapist taught him. Every male instinct fought to run upstairs, take Quinn into his arms and promise to stick to her until the killer was found.
Leaving Quinn alone, with only a security guard downstairs, made him nervous. He wanted to stay with her, keep her safe. But he had to return to work and analyze the findings on the crime scene.
Not to mention his own findings, and what he’d found at the first blast site.
Work offered solace, a way to deal with the ache of grief fisting in his stomach. Catching the unsub meant others would stay safe. He couldn’t bring back his family, or Tia, but he could perform his duty.
You have a clever mind, son. Use it.
Usually the recollection of his father’s voice pinched him with sorrow, but today it galvanized him. The memory made him smile a little for the first time in thirteen years. West had been fixing his sweet little Mustang, which had coughed out and died in the driveway. He loved tinkering with the car, but that Sunday, he’d only wanted to drive out to the lake, enjoy the summer sun and hang with friends before heading back to school the next day. His father had come outside to help.
The problem’s there. You can find it, his dad had encouraged.
But I can’t figure it out. He’d thrown down the wrench in sheer frustration.
His father had glanced down at the tool, then up at him. You’ll never find the solution by throwing away the key to it.
Ashamed by his outburst, he’d studied the problem again. Analyzed it. Eventually fixed it.
Walking away would have solved nothing.
Find the solution. Use your brain.
Keys. Cabins. Rentals, million-dollar properties left in the balance. Buildings blown up.
West dropped his keys. Picked them up. Jingled them in his palm.
Planning an explosion took effort, time, caution in using delicate materials that could ignite and turn you from a living, breathing human being into shattered bits of bone and blood and flesh. But it was the only way, other than fire, to fully destroy a building.
If the first explosion intended to destroy the abandoned hardware store to test out the TATP explosives used later for Tia’s office, what if the second bomb was a cover-up for the real target?
With all the Red Ridge PD concentrating on the explosion in town and Tia’s death, resources would be limited.
And a third explosion planned for an expensive vacation spot in Spearfish Canyon, the same property whose sale to the Larson twins fell through, could be rigged to look like a gas leak, garnering much less attention and manpower.
Maybe even covering up the tracks of one Demi Colton, Groom Killer suspect?
Quinn’s butterfly compact was found at the first explosion site. She might have hidden Demi at the abandoned hardware store for a day or two, and accidentally left her mirror behind.
Was there a connection between Tia and Demi and Quinn? Could Demi have planted the bomb that killed Tia? And do it at the same time she knew Quinn would deliver lunch? But why kill Tia, whose biggest vices were her greedy nature and short temper?
And more than that, why would Demi want to kill her only sister?
If Demi Colton had found out Quinn and West were together, it could have prodded her into harming her sister. West was FBI. Maybe Demi figured that Quinn would rat her out to her fed boyfriend. Then there was plain old jealousy. Demi had been dumped by her fiancé, so maybe if she found out Quinn was marrying West, she didn’t like the idea of her sister getting engaged.
Austin, Quinn’s friend, had figured out they were a couple. Chances were that others had, as well. They had been careful, but it only took one time to screw things up.
Planting a bomb took time, money and planning. Shooting Quinn and Tia would have been much easier and less messy.
Unless Demi Colton wanted to hint to people she was still around, still watching and waiting. The two explosions certainly had grabbed the attention of all the townspeople.
Questions swirled in his mind. Keeping an eye out for pedestrians who might overhear, he dialed Mike’s number. When she answered, he gave his report.
“Fingerprints at the crime scene belonged to Tia. There were more, but none in the system. Nothing else raised a red flag. If Demi Colton was in the real estate office, we have no clue. The Larson twins are under suspicion for it. We’re checking now to see if they were the intended buyers of a prime piece of property Tia planned to sell to them. The sale fell through.”
“Murders have been committed for less. But a bomb?” Mike’s heavy sigh carried through the phone. “That’s a risky way to take out someone you want to kill.”
“Unless the unsub used the explosion to cover the murder. Tia was dead before the office blew up. She may have surprised the bomber.” Quickly he explained about the autopsy.
“I’m working on another theory,” West continued. “The same property, Pine Paradise, is where Quinn took her sister, Demi, once. Demi might have hidden out there.” He thought over what he’d found so far. “It’s a stretch, but if Tia found out Demi was hiding there and tried blackmailing her, could be motivation for murder. She’d need help, though.”
The only way to tell for sure was to trigger Quinn’s memory. If Quinn actually saw her sister in the office before the bomb went off...
He swore quietly. Too many unknowns and risky factors in this case.
“Did you share this with the rest of the unit?” Mike asked.
“No. I plan to visit Pine Paradise soon. What about the hair samples and compact I gave you from the first explosion?”
“Lab doesn’t have the DNA yet. I’ll call soon as I have answers.” Mike paused and worry darkened her voice. “West, if Demi Colton is involved, you need to get Quinn to remember. Try anything you can. Have to run.”
West thumbed off the cell phone and leaned against his truck, pondering.
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted as he smelled an overpowering, spicy cologne, heard the brisk click of expensive men’s shoes on the sidewalk. West looked up, his hand automatically dropping to the butt of his sidearm.
“Larson.” His greeting for Noel Larson remained curt. Hostile.
“I heard Quinn was coming home today. Good to know. Home’s a good place for her to recover fully.” Carrying a leather briefcase, Larson’s expression didn’t match his words. He looked sly as his gaze flicked up to where Quinn’s bedroom window overlooked the street.
All West’s instincts fired on alert. Larson was a slick operator, but this kind of crime in town was bad for all the businesses. Unless Larson had a hand in it, and maybe he planned to profit from it?
Still, the man held power over Quinn because the Larsons owned the building and the rent was past due. West gestured to the building. “Quinn gave me a check for the rent.”
“It’s already paid.” Larson didn’t even blink. “Her business partner gave me a check for the past due rent, and next month’s, as well.”
He should have been relieved, but the news made him edgy. As her fiancé, he wanted to help her out. He knew Quinn’s pride, too, knew she would not want Austin stepping up to the plate.
“Guess he didn’t want Quinn to get evicted.” His gaze never left that smirking face.
“Oh, I wouldn’t evict her.” The smile grew wider. “Too much trouble, when there are alternatives.”
A tingle pricked his spine. Alternatives such as getting rid of her for good? “Where were you at noon the day of the explosion?” he demanded.
Larson stared at him and laughed. “You officially questioning me? I don’t think so, Brand. None of your damn business.”
“I make it my damn business when someone gets killed.” West got in the man’s face. “I don’t know what you’re about, Larson. But I’m keeping my eye on you.”
Larson blinked. “Keep an eye if you wish, Agent Brand. If you want to question me, you’ll have to go through my attorney.”
The man strode off.
If Larson had anything to do with the explosion, he’d hang him out to dry. But West realized this wasn’t his case. He had to work with the RRPD. No longer could he operate on his own.
With the death of Tia and the close call for Quinn, everything turned around for West.
* * *
Barely an hour after West’s departure, Quinn grew restless. She had cried and then washed her face, determined to scrub away the tears. Crying accomplished nothing.
Instead, she read a cooking magazine. It contained a few fascinating articles on organic vegetables, but she felt too edgy and distracted to focus.
She tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. Unable to sit still after confined to a hospital bed, she felt restless.
Then there was the matter of that pregnancy test. Quinn headed into the bathroom and took out the box.
Well, she wouldn’t find out by standing here.
Minutes after taking the test, she studied the stick. One single line. Not pregnant.
It might be too early. She had no idea of the timing of her cycle.
Quinn tossed out the test and put the box under the cabinet.
Maybe working in the kitchen would jog a memory of her life.
The security guard, reading a book in the store’s front, nodded to her as she entered the store. Quinn went into the kitchen. The industrial kitchen was sweet, a chef’s dream. Gas burners, all the appliances stainless steel, with plenty of large pots and pans to mix this, and bake and cook that.
She bent down to peer under the table and saw an enormous aluminum bowl, big enough to serve dozens.
A distant memory flashed.
Mayo Fest.
Hand on the table, she let the memory flow.
Mom, working as a server for a catering company. Her careworn, tired face sporting a bright smile solely intended for customers. A big bowl, like this one, filled with... What? Macaroni salad. Lots of mayonnaise.
The caterer had made plenty of salads, cheap and easy recipes, for a company party. Tuna salad. Macaroni salad. Potato salad. Quinn was a teenager, helping her mother serve.
Quinn had called it “Mayo Fest” because of all the white goo in the bowls. Quinn resolved she would own a business some day and serve only healthy, wholesome food.
Wait and see, Mom. I’m going to be a cook, and I’ll be the one serving you, only it will be grass-fed beef instead of mayo-clogged tuna, Quinn had bragged.
The memory vanished. Smiling, Quinn stood. Maybe it wasn’t a significant memory, but it was a good start. Others would follow.
More cheerful now, she combed through the row of books on the shelf above the table, she found a notebook and opened it. Strong, bold cursive words were inked on each page of the book. Quinn found a pen, copied one word.
The writing matched. These must be her recipes. Quinn removed the books and found a tattered notebook. Cutouts of fruits and vegetables adorned the front, along with a square of red ribbon. The cursive label penned in gold ink read Recipes.
She opened it.
These were different. Not wholesome ingredients or organic mixtures, but everyday dishes a busy mother might make for her family. Creole chicken. Taco burgers. Noodle supper.
The writing was different as well—more polished, the cursive careful, as if she’d penned this as a soothing meditation exercise. Flour stained some pages, and there were more stains on other pages, smearing the ink.
Her hand rested on the ink stains as a memory jolted her.
Twelve years old. They were fighting again downstairs. Yelling at each other, her mother’s shrill voice rising higher and higher. She hated it. Hated this stepdad. Writing would help, block out the v
oices, make the hurt in her belly go away, the pain of knowing soon her mother would divorce yet again, and they’d have to move...
Butter pecan popcorn. Yummy and perfect for watching movies on television, just her and Mom, settling down to watch what Stepdad number four sneeringly called “chick flicks.” Corn syrup was essential, the light kind. Oh, and the pecans, shelled and chopped, so ripe and crunchy she could taste them...
Pulling herself back to the present, she pushed aside the notebook to take upstairs. For now she’d bake a cake.
Feeling more settled, she read over a recipe for organic cranberry-orange cake. Yum.
A batch of colorful bandannas were in a wicker basket near the door. She pulled one over her curls to secure them. Soon she was mixing this and adding that, humming as she worked.
A knock came at the front door.
Drying her hands on a towel, she went into the tiny storefront. Tom came to attention, looked at her.
“Do you want me to tell her the store’s closed?” he asked.
Quinn sighed. “She doesn’t look threatening.” She unlocked the glass door.
The girl looked younger than herself, and had dark eyes and dark hair. She beamed at Quinn.
“Hi, Quinn! I’m so glad you’re home again. I’m your cousin Valeria.”
The woman ignored the palm Quinn held out, and hugged her instead. Quinn winced.
“Oh dear, that was my fault. I forgot you’re probably still hurting.” Valeria looked her up and down. “You certainly look like you were in an explosion.”
My hair? She went to touch her messy curls, secure under the bandanna. It looks like you stuck your finger into an electrical outlet, a voice droned from the past. Who had said that? Her stepfather?
A stepfather.
But Valeria stared at her face. Self-conscious, Quinn touched her bruised cheek.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. A little makeup will cover it,” Valeria told her.