“Don’t,” he said again, this time gentling his voice. He laid the pen down and held out his hand. She placed her hand in his and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not your fault. You can’t control what other people do.”
She swallowed, once, twice, three times. “I introduced you to her. You didn’t want to get involved but I forced you.”
“It would have happened anyway.” He spoke the words and realized the truth in them.
“What do you mean? If I’d never introduced you, then you wouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“I was involved the second I spotted her wielding that blow torch.” More truth. “It might have taken me a little longer to check things out,” his lips twitched as he added, “you know I can be a thick-headed, stubborn jerk.” The smile faded. “She was in my blood. I had to find out the truth, and the more I uncovered, the more I needed to know.”
“I could talk to her aunt and see if she’s heard from Danielle.”
“Her name is Eve and no, you will not speak with her aunt.”
“But she loves you. I’m sure of it.”
He wasn’t so sure.
“And you love her.”
He didn’t answer, there was no need to, the truth clung to him like one of Sylvia’s auras.
“You have to go after her.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t let her just walk away.” Her usual, soft voice pitched high and frantic. “Go after her before it’s too late.”
Quinn withdrew his hand and rubbed his eyes. “Are we talking about me here, or you? As I recall, you didn’t exactly try to track down Ash either.”
Her lips thinned into a straight line. “Because had I found him, I’d have shot him. Why are we even talking about that man? I’ve been done with him for a long time.”
Right. The man was hard-wired into her brain. He knew the feeling. “Okay, you’re done with him.”
“Looks like I’m doomed to make bad choices where men are concerned.” Arianna sighed and said, “I go almost two years without looking at another man and then, wham, along comes Alexander Maldonando.”
“Tough break.”
“Right. He’s cured me for another ten years of being man-less.”
“They’re not all like that.” Who was he now, Dr. Phil?
“Really? I’m not I’m willing to take the chance again, but thanks for the vote of confidence for the male species.”
“Okay, granted, most of us are real jerks, but there are still a few good guys out there.”
“Who aren’t married, gay, or priests?”
“Yes.” They were out there somewhere, a woman just had to dig beneath the layers of arrogance, testosterone, and commitment shyness to find them.
“Look, I didn’t come here to talk about my love life or lack thereof. I came to talk about you and Danielle.”
“Eve,” he corrected.
“Okay, Eve. You should go after her.”
“I can’t.” The room closed in around him, making it harder to suck in oxygen.
“Give me one good reason why?”
He sipped in air, opened his mouth and spat out the words. “She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
That stopped her and she hadn’t even heard the punch line yet. “It’s Maldonando’s.”
“Oh my God.” She wet her lips, once, twice, three times and said again, “Oh my God.”
“I didn’t know.” He floundered back to that day when his world and his future split apart. “I didn’t mean what I said, not the way she took it. I didn’t want her to choose between me and the baby . . . I only wanted to protect her . . . and now she’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry.” Arianna clasped his hand. “Please let me try to make this right, let me talk to her aunt.”
“No.” He shook his head and dragged a hand over his face. “If she believed I’d try to force her to choose, then she doesn’t know me.” And then the sad truth. “We didn’t trust each other. How could it have ever worked?”
Chapter 22
Evie floured the rolling pin and worked it over the dough. Twelve days had passed since the incident, eleven days since Danielle left. Annie was coming over soon to help make Quinn’s pie. What can I do, please what can I do? Guilt plagued her, along with a tearing restlessness that stole her sleep, cleaved her to her brother’s side, to help, to seek forgiveness.
Evie was drawn to Quinn for the same reasons, though she knew neither food nor words would fix what was wrong and yet, it was the least she can do. Surprisingly, it was what she wanted to do. Quinn climbed out of one day and fell into another, weary, disoriented, a shell of his former self. It happened when reality proved too stark, too knowing. Senses shut down and refused to acknowledge what would not be understood. Evie knew this because she’d lived it. Quinn would live it too and he would survive.
The cool afternoon breeze reminded her of fall, the season of camouflage and unveiling. A grand discard. It was this way with life, too. She sprinkled sugar on the apples, poured two tablespoons of lemon over them to keep their whiteness, a trick her mother-in-law had taught her so many years ago. She’d stay a while longer to care for Quinn, perhaps out of duty, but mostly because she wanted to.
Evie didn’t hear the creak of the sliding door or the soft footsteps on the hardwood floor. She heard nothing until a massive hand clamped her mouth and shoved her against the granite counter with a force that buckled her legs.
“Playing house are we?” Pete Muldaney squeezed her neck, choking the breath from her lungs. He laughed when she tried to pry his beefy fingers from her mouth. “Where’s my money?” She squirmed and shook her head. “Where is it?” He loosened his grip just enough to let her speak.
“Please, I’m not Rita.”
“I want it now!” He swung her around and Evie gasped. This Pete Muldaney looked nothing like the bearded, greasy ex-convict who had hunted her down in Maine. The man standing inches from her was clean shaven, his hair trimmed close, revealing a small stud in both ears. He wore a black cotton shirt, olive slacks, and tasseled loafers. His fingernails were buffed. This Pete Muldaney bore no resemblance to the man in Maine, until she looked into his eyes.
“I warned you, Rita, get my money or I’ll slit your throat.” They were such casual words, spoken as though her life or death didn’t matter to him one way or the other. He eased a knife from his back pocket and flipped it open, the sharp blade glinting in the light. “Eighteen years is a long time to wait.”
“I told you, I’m not who you think I am.”
“And I’m not going to kill you either if you don’t pay up.” His long, slow smile wrapped around her. “But don’t bet on it.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Save it. You’re nothing but a damn liar.” He flipped the knife between his hands and inched closer.
She had to create a diversion. “How did you find me?”
“Artists are so damn egotistical.” He laughed. “I followed the painting your friend sent.”
She’d needed that painting, hoped it would answer questions for herself and Quinn but it had led Pete Muldaney to her. “If you’ll just listen, I can prove I’m not Rita Sinclaire.”
“No, sweetheart, you listen. I spent eighteen years locked up while you were breathing free air, my air, and I don’t want to hear another word about who you are or aren’t. We both know you’re Rita.”
“But, I’m not. I told you I bought her identity.”
“Yeah, you told me.” His silver eyes snaked over her. “And I told you, that’s bullshit.”
“No, but you see, I really did. For two thousand dollars. My friend got it for me. She said I looked almost like the real Rita.” Truth spilled out. “It was the only way to disappear completely. She just told me Rita was dead, that’s it.”
He stared at her, his thumb working up and down the blunt side of the knife. “Tell me, Rita, what was so damn bad that you had to disappear? Huh?”
A ma
n like this would not be interested in the tale of an unfulfilled housewife and mother but she had no choice. “I left my husband and two children.” Her voice grew smaller but she forced out the words. “I went to the grocery store one day and never came home.”
“That’s damn cold.” His thin lips pulled into a smile. “And a lie.”
“No, it’s the truth.”
He twisted her arm and ground out, “Where’s that painting that was so important?”
“In the other room.”
“Show me. Move.”
She took small steps, working her way to the spare bedroom and the painting she referred to simply as “Quinn’s Quest”.
“This is it, huh?” Pete Muldaney stared at the painting and snorted. “This is what I have to thank for leading me to you?” He laughed and raised his knife, slashing the canvas, once, twice, three times, over and over, until he’d ripped the painting to unrecognizable strips of color.
“You’re next, Rita.” He flicked the knife near her jaw. “I’ll bet a little slash and gash will get you talking.”
“Please.”
“Yeah, you’ll be saying more than please when I’m finished with you.”
“No!” Quinn stormed through the doorway, charging Pete Muldaney from behind. Muldaney stumbled and the knife slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor. He fell too, with Quinn on top of him. Evie froze, horror gripping her as her son struggled with her would be killer.
Where was the knife? She tried to move, but couldn’t. Muldaney grabbed it and stabbed Quinn in the shoulder. Blood stained her son’s white shirt . . . so much blood . . . No, no . . . not Quinn . . . She opened her mouth to scream . . . and then there was nothing but black.
***
Voices . . . men’s voices . . . low . . . urgent . . . Where was she? On a bed? A couch? She tried to lift her head but the throbbing forced her back down. Quinn.
“Mom? It’s okay.” Annie’s softness filled her ears, but not enough to drown out the men. They were talking about Quinn.
Her son was dead.
“Quinn.” So much grief pouring out of one syllable.
“He’s fine. Everything’s all right. Rest.”
“Quinn.” What kind of mother killed her own son? Annie was only trying to delay the telling, but Evie already knew.
“Michael’s on his way. And I’m right here. Please don’t cry, Mom.” Annie stroked Evie’s hair, desperate, hopeful attempts to calm her.
“Quinn.” His name saturated her brain, coated her tongue, slipped through her lips, half plea, half cry. Her son was dead and she was to blame.
“Quinn.” Annie said his name, too.
“She’s awake?”
The man’s voice sounded so much like Quinn’s. What horrible, wretched torment. Would every man’s voice remind her of her dead son’s?
“She’s been asking for you.” Annie’s voice dipped to barely a whisper. “I think you should tell her.”
“Quinn,” Evie moaned, unable to bear the man’s voice any longer.
“Mom,” Annie said, “open your eyes.”
She shook her head. No, then it would all be real and she’d see that her son was dead.
“Mom?” It was that man again, his voice so like Quinn’s. “Look at me.”
Tears slid down Evie’s face, falling across her cheeks, spilling into her ears, her hair. Now, it would all be real. She forced her eyes open, preparing for the horrible truth. Tears blurred her vision or perhaps it was the searing pain in her head that made it impossible to see the man leaning over her. She squinted to draw him into focus. Black, wavy hair, tanned skin, dear God, what torment, he even looked like her son.
“Mom? I’m here.” The man touched her cheek, grazing his hand along her shoulder.
“Quinn?” She grabbed his hand. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me. I’m right here.”
His left shoulder was wrapped in a bulk of towel and ace bandage, dark patches of blood smeared into the fabric of both. She stroked his cheek, his chin, his mouth, needing to feel the life in him. “Dear God, I thought . . . “
“No.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No,” he murmured again. “I’m fine. I’m just finishing up with Lieutenant Beldoni, then I’ll be right back. Annie’s here.”
Evie clutched his hand. It was warm, hard, alive. “And . . .”
“He’s headed back to prison and this time he won’t be getting out.” Quinn squeezed her hand and said, “Everything’s fine, Mom.”
“Yes,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “everything’s fine.” She started to drift when the voices began again, but this time she knew one of them belonged to Quinn.
“You’re saying your mother has no idea who this man is?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant. You ran a check on Muldaney, you know his background. He’s not a boy scout. My mother just so happens to have the same name as Muldaney’s accomplice and the same birth date.”
“Why isn’t her name Burnes?”
“It is Burnes. It’s always been Burnes. She only chose Rita Sinclaire because it sounded like an artist’s name. No different than a writer using a pseudonym.”
Pause. “There’s been a hell of a lot of trouble coming from this house in the past two weeks. I’m starting to wonder what’s really going on here.”
“That woman over there is my mother. Her name is Evie Burnes.”
“And this Rita Sinclaire?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
Chapter 23
Some days Quinn wondered how he survived so many years without his painting. Painting by painting, the hollowness began to fill the empty center of his soul, from the first frenzied moments of oil touching canvas to now, a more controlled craziness. Evie had gifted him with brushes, canvas, and oils, and helped him transform a spare bedroom into a studio. This was where he spent most nights, mindless of all save the smell and feel of the oils. He’d pushed past the clumsy first efforts of sunset and maple tree to forests topped with virgin snow, and finally, to people. The flow of creativity from brush to canvas increased with each painting, and by the sixth, Quinn’s canvases pulsed with unleashed energy.
How much life could change in three months. The jagged scar on his shoulder had faded to pinkish silver and lately, whole days went by without the memory of driving a knife into Pete Muldaney’s gut.
Evie moved back to Maine in a small bungalow near Kennebunkport. She’d opted not to return to the old place. Time to start fresh, she said. Live forward. The birthday card she sent him last week was the first in eighteen years. It was a picture of a little boy in silhouette, sitting on the edge of a pier, looking at a blood-red sunset topping a lake. He’d set it on the windowsill in his studio, right next to his chair, and several times a day he caught himself glancing at it. She’d signed the card, Love, Mom. The return label; Evie Burnes. Time to start fresh. Live forward.
Annie and Michael were planning to visit her next month and she was coming to Philly for Christmas. And of course, the wedding in the spring. Evie had already agreed to paint a flower garden backdrop for the wedding photos and Annie had roped Quinn into helping out, too. She knew he’d do anything for her, though last month she’d mentioned how she needed to work on the whole pecking order thing because somehow Michael had slipped to second. Again.
He’s going to be my husband, she’d told him. I guess I can’t keep calling you all the time but maybe you can give him a few pointers.
You can call me any time, Annie. I’ll always be here for you.
I know that. Thank you.
I love you, kid.
I love you, too.
She was wearing Evie’s necklace again because it made her feel closer to her. And there hadn’t been a panic attack in six weeks. Maybe it was time to start living forward, like his mother said. He glanced at the birthday card on the sill, emanating a heat much stronger than the fireplace in the corner and for the first time in more years than he could remember, he was lookin
g forward to Christmas.
The growl at his feet reminded him of his current dilemma. Stella, the seven month old black lab mix, chewed on one of his new socks with razor sharp puppy teeth. It was the fourth sock in five days. “Stella! Give!” The dog bound out of reach in a figure eight race around the room. “You little pest, give me that!” Once, twice, three times around with the sock in her mouth. “Forget it. You can have the damn thing.”
Why Annie ever thought he needed company, and a dog no less, was beyond him. Just because he’d become addicted to Chinese takeout and sushi delivery and preferred painting at night instead of hitting the bars, did not mean he needed company. Or wanted it. He was fine with his life. Hadn’t he taken the big jump and opted out of the personal injury scene, traded a penthouse office for cheaper space on High Street where he provided legal counsel for start-up companies and small corporations, a noble gesture that netted him one tenth of his old salary? And hadn’t he hauled Sylvia and her horoscope wielding mouth with him?
He’d even agreed to serve on the board of Catholic Charities of Philadelphia, at the bequest of his sister who cried, No one will do anything for the sake of helping one another anymore. Oh, Quinn, can you? And still, Annie thought he needed more changes. She’d picked up Stella from a client on 64th Street and brought her to him. Nothing but skin covering bones. Flea infested, too. But two and a half months with Quinn and he’d fattened her up made her coat shine.
Stella pounced toward him, rolled at his feet and collapsed in a black ball like she’d been shot. “Crazy damn dog,” Quinn muttered, easing the tattered sock from between her paws. Annie said animals were a good outlet for humans to express emotions they’d otherwise keep hidden. His fingers stilled on Stella’s silky coat. Was that the real reason she’d unloaded this furry bundle at his doorstep? He knew how to express emotion. He could express a hell of a lot of emotion. If he wanted to. He knew exactly what his sister was talking about, or more precisely, whom. Somewhere in the great expanse of the living, breathing universe, she existed. That was what it was all about with Annie, what it was always about; conversations that circled, hovered, started and stalled mid-sentence. It always came back to Eve.
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