The Unforgiven
Echoes from the Past
Book 3
by Irina Shapiro
Copyright
© 2018 by Irina Shapiro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.
All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Notes
Excerpt from The Forsaken
Prologue
Narrow shafts of summer sunshine pierced the leafy canopy and lit the murky green water, which sparkled playfully as it lapped against the shore. The world seemed to stand still, nature awaiting the outcome of the human drama playing out on its barren shore. She stared into the barrel of the pistol, unable to believe it was real and had been there all along, ready to be used by the hand of the person who’d harbored such malice for so long. She’d never seen death up close, but it had been her constant companion these past few years. It was death that had led her to this moment, this impasse. Or had it been life?
She took a shuddering breath and met her enemy’s gaze, hoping she didn’t look as scared as she felt. But she was scared. Terrified, in fact, because everything that had happened had been her fault and she wouldn’t allow the person she loved best in this world to take the fall. Could this really be it? Was her life to be cut short when it had only just begun, when she had finally come to understand what it meant to love and want, not as a child, but as a woman? Would this person who was meant to love and care for her be the instrument of her destruction?
When the pistol wavered for just a moment, she thought the danger might be past, but she was mistaken. She lunged for the gun just as the bullet erupted from the pistol’s toy-sized barrel, the loud crack startling a flock of cranes. She crumpled to the porch, as if in slow motion, as searing pain tore through her chest. She watched in amazement as a bloody flower bloomed on her camisole, the petals unfolding with unnatural speed. She heard the cry of a child, a sharp intake of breath from her executioner, and then the muted cadence of words, spoken harshly and with great purpose. But most of all, she heard her own ragged breathing and the pounding in her veins, loud in her ears as the lifeblood began to drain from her onto the rough boards.
She lay on her back, her gaze fixed on a gossamer shred of cloud that lazily floated across the sun, momentarily shielding her gaze from the glaring sun. Her heartbeat began to slow as she felt a trickle of blood ooze from the side of her mouth and onto her shoulder. She used the last of her strength to reach out and clasp the hand of the one she’d been trying to save, and then let go. The final thought that passed through her muddled mind just before darkness descended was that she’d never been meant to live in the first place because her very existence had been an affront to God.
Chapter 1
April 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
Quinn stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony of her hotel room and was instantly enveloped in the warm embrace of the Louisiana afternoon. Moisture permeated the air, making it feel thick and lush. She’d spent time in hot places before, but this was not the dry, merciless heat of the Middle East or the shimmering haze of the Caribbean. This warmth was fecund and fragrant, and made her feel heavy-limbed and drowsy. It was hard to believe she’d been wearing a winter coat and scarf only that morning when she’d boarded her flight at Heathrow. Both were now stowed in her case, and wouldn’t be needed until she returned to cold, rainy England. She did feel tired. It was around eight o’clock in London, and she’d woken up at an ungodly hour to get to the airport on time. Perhaps she could lie down for a bit.
The cool breath of the room’s air conditioning made a welcome change from the heat outside. Quinn kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the double bed, but her guilty conscience wasn’t about to let her off the hook and allow her to rest. She’d argued with Gabe last night, and the fight weighed heavily on her, making her wish they’d parted on better terms. Gabe had driven her to the airport and helped her with her luggage, but had been cool and distant, even when he kissed her goodbye, still smarting from the night before. He had a right to be cross; Quinn knew that, but she still hoped he’d understand her point of view.
“Quinn, we are getting married next month,” Gabe had fumed, willing her to change her mind about going to New Orleans. “Emma is finally settling into her new routine. Your parents are coming from Spain in just over a fortnight. You have Sylvia and your newfound brothers to deal with, and you’re pregnant. Why must you do this now?” he had demanded. “I promise you, we’ll go together in the summer. I’ll be able to take time off from work and Emma will be on summer holidays, so she can come with us. What’s the bleeding rush?”
But Quinn wouldn’t be deterred. She knew Gabe’s argument made perfect sense, and he had every right to question her sanity, but she had to do this, and it had to be now. She couldn’t get on with her life and plan her future until she put this last piece of the puzzle in its rightful place. She’d found her birth mother after all these years, and now knew the story of her birth and the reason for her abandonment, but somehow, finding Sylvia had generated more questions than answers.
Sylvia wasn’t at all what Quinn had expected or hoped for, nor was her explanation of what had led her to leave her newborn in a church pew foolproof, raising the convoluted question of Quinn’s paternity. Perhaps she would never truly know if Sylvia had been raped by three men, as she claimed, or had been a willing participant in a drunken Christmas Eve romp that had resulted in Quinn’s birth. There had been a fourth candidate as well, a married man Sylvia had enjoyed a brief fling with just before that fateful evening, but he’d proved to be sterile, and had been crossed off the list of possible dads, leaving Quinn with one last candidate, an American—Seth Besson—who had to be responsible for the burden of her strange gift. Quinn’s ability to see into the past and step into the lives of people who were long dead had to come from his family, since it hadn’t come from Sylvia. Quinn needed to put her questions and fears to rest before she welcomed her child into the world, since her baby might be weighed down with the same ability, if it was genetic.
Quinn sighed and turned onto her s
ide, pulling in her knees and curling into a shrimp-like position. She wished Gabe would call. She couldn’t bear that he was angry with her. He knew how important this was to her, but she couldn’t feel good about pursuing her birth father without his blessing. She reached over to the nightstand and checked her mobile. There was a text from her mother, one from her cousin and best friend Jill, and several from Phoebe Russell, commander-in-chief of the upcoming wedding. Gabe’s mother had embraced her role with relish, planning the ceremony and the reception afterward down to every minor detail. Quinn didn’t mind. The only aspect of the wedding planning she’d really enjoyed was choosing her dress. It had to be special, and it had to be unique. She’d visited several bridal boutiques but hadn’t found what she was looking for, until she got a call from Jill.
“Quinn, I got it,” Jill had cried into the phone. “It’s perfect. Exactly what you wanted. Come and see.”
Jill’s shop now carried more new and trendy merchandise, since she couldn’t make a living only from vintage stock, but she still kept a large section of the shop devoted only to vintage pieces, and from time to time she came across a real gem. Jill had been right. The gown was exquisite. It was made of ivory silk and embellished with delicate embroidery picked out in gold and silver thread. The pattern circled the waist and crisscrossed in front before tracing the outline of the deep V-neck and coming down the back, crisscrossing once more before rejoining the embroidery at the waist. The silk fell in delicate folds, giving the gown a Grecian look and conveniently camouflaging Quinn’s tiny belly. The baby would probably be moving by the time she actually got to wear the frock, but for now it was still slumbering peacefully inside her womb, its steady heartbeat on the scan the only proof that it was doing well. Quinn splayed her had on her belly. This was her first pregnancy, and she alternated between delight and uncertainty, devouring pregnancy manuals and reading up on every new symptom as it came up.
“I’m doing this for you,” she whispered. “For both of us.” She hoped that was true. Finding the source of the gift didn’t mean she could do anything to turn it off. It wasn’t a tap or a light switch, and she wouldn’t know for years to come if her child would be able to see into the past like its mother. Quinn hadn’t known about her ability until she was nearly ten. But she had to try. At the very least, finding out would appease her deep curiosity about the origin of this strange legacy.
The mobile trilled just as she was beginning to doze off. Gabe.
“Hello,” Quinn said, unsure what his mood would be like.
“Sorry I didn’t ring earlier. I was stuck in a meeting. Did you get in all right?” Gabe asked, sounding contrite.
“Yes. It’s so warm here,” she complained. “I should have brought lighter clothes.”
“Hopefully, you won’t be there long enough to need them. Quinn, just get this done and come home. I’m really not comfortable with you being there alone.”
“Gabe, we’ve been over this. I’ll meet the man, ask him for a DNA sample, question him about his family history, and leave. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”
“Right. Nothing to worry about,” Gabe repeated.
“You’re practically oozing sarcasm,” Quinn replied with a smile, relieved that he was no longer angry with her.
“Am I? Well, I’m a bit concerned about you walking into some man’s office, announcing to him that you are his long-lost daughter, demanding physical proof, and then interrogating him about his psychic relatives. There are some who might not take kindly to that.”
“You know, you are becoming a real worrywart, Gabriel Russell. I’ve never known you to be so over-protective.”
“I’ve never loved anyone this much before,” he replied, a catch in his voice. “I’m just worried about you and the baby.”
“No need to be. How’s Emma? Is she in bed?”
“I just read her a story, tucked her in with Mr. Rabbit, and snuck out before she had a chance to trick me into reading her something the length of the Iliad. You know how she hates going to sleep. She keeps asking when you’ll be back. She misses you.”
“I miss her too. Tell her we’ll go shopping for her dress as soon as I get back.”
“She can’t wait to be a bridesmaid.”
“I have a more important role for her, but I want it to be a surprise.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Daddy, I can’t sleep,” came a wail over the line. “Read me one more story.”
“Sounds like a call to duty,” Quinn said, smiling. She wanted nothing more than to read Emma a story and then curl up next to Gabe in their bed. She’d put on a brave face for Gabe, but she really was worried about meeting Seth Besson, and she wasn’t entirely sure whose reaction would be more volatile, hers or his.
Chapter 2
The day was muggy and warm, with abundant sunshine bathing everything in a hazy glow. Quinn stepped out of the taxi and stared up at the sign on the indistinct gray building in front of her. The squat and solid office had small windows prudently covered with shades against the sun. Several lorries of varying sizes were parked in the lot adjacent to the building, their cabs empty of drivers. This part of town was more industrial, and not a little seedy. The sign above the door read ‘Besson Trucking LTD.’ The lettering must have been a bright red at some point, but had faded to the color of dried blood, a rusty brown that was beginning to flake in places. Quinn took a deep breath and opened the door.
She stepped into a small reception area with a worn gray industrial carpet and several hardback plastic chairs. An older woman, who seemed to think it was still the sixties, sat behind the desk, her beehive hairstyle vibrating as she typed vigorously. The phone rang and she snatched it up, signaling to Quinn with one pink-tipped finger that she would be with her momentarily. Quinn considered taking a seat, but was too nervous, so she remained standing. She supposed it wasn’t very important for a lorry company to look smart, but she’d expected something a little more upscale. Perhaps Mr. Besson couldn’t afford to renovate, or simply didn’t see the need.
The receptionist finished the call and smiled at Quinn, stretching her frosted pink lips in a genuine smile of welcome. “How can I help?”
“Good morning,” Quinn began. “I have an appointment with Mr. Besson.”
“Oh, right. Of course you do. You’re that nice British lady who called yesterday. Well, go right in, darlin’. Just through there,” she said, indicating the door directly across from her desk. “He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn briefly considered walking out and going straight back to the hotel to collect her things before racing to the airport to catch the first flight to whatever hub would offer her a connection to London. This was mad. She didn’t belong here. What could she possibly hope to gain from meeting this man, who was as far removed from her own culture and background as he could be? She suddenly wished that Gabe were there, and couldn’t recall exactly why she’d been so adamant about doing this alone.
You’ve come all this way, she reminded herself as she took a hesitant step toward the office. Just meet him and find out what you can, then run.
Quinn walked toward the door under the watchful eye of the receptionist. She knocked and a voice from within the office invited her to enter. She sucked in her breath as she pushed open the door, only to exhale it in surprise. The man, or more accurately boy, seated behind the desk couldn’t be the right person. He looked to be about eighteen, and had shaggy dark hair and something resembling a goatee, which he had probably tried to grow to hide some of his adolescent spots.
“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Besson,” Quinn said as she advanced into the office. Her stomach soured with disappointment. It would seem that she’d come halfway around the world in pursuit of the wrong Seth Besson.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’m Brett Besson, the heir apparent. Dad’s out of the office for a few days and I’ve been roped into looking after things here. As you can see, it’s practically a
beehive of activity,” the young man said, dripping sarcasm. “I’m supposed to be on spring break, hanging out with my friends. Instead I’m stuck here with Sandra Dee.”
“Sandra Dee?” Quinn echoed, confused.
“You know, from Grease. Oh, right, you’re from England. You’ve probably never seen it.”
“Sorry, no, but I’ve heard of it, of course.”
“Anyhow, how can I help you? Ms. Allenby, is it?”
“Yes.” Quinn looked around, feeling awkward at being expected to stand in front of the desk like an errant pupil before a headmistress.
“Oh, sorry. Please sit down,” Brett said.
Quinn sat in a leather armchair facing the desk, unsure what to say to the young man. She could hardly explain her reason for being there without telling him what his father had been up to thirty years ago while doing a semester abroad in Scotland. Whatever anger and resentment she felt toward Seth Besson, she had no right to take out her feelings on his unsuspecting son, so she had to be discreet.
“Local or interstate?” Brett asked.
“Sorry, what?”
“What type of trucking are you interesting in?”
“Actually I need to speak to your father regarding a personal matter. When do you expect him back?”
“He’s supposed to be resting till next Monday, but I bet he’ll come prancing in here by Thursday, desperate to ream me out for not doing enough in his absence. What kind of personal matter?” Brett asked, his eyes narrowing as he gave Quinn an appraising stare.
“The kind that I can discuss only with him. He’s resting, you said?” she asked. Seth Besson would be a few years older than Sylvia, so probably still in his forties, or possibly early fifties. “Is he ill?”
“Dad doesn’t want any of his competitors to know, but he’s had gallbladder surgery. He thinks admitting to any type of ailment makes him look weak. Not like he’s got arthritis or cataracts, or something old people get.” Brett shrugged dismissively. “Tell you what. He’s bored out of his mind sitting around the house, recuperating. How about I give him a call and tell him there’s a pretty British lady here to see him. Let’s see what he says.” He gave Quinn a conspiratorial wink and reached for the phone.
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