by Jill Shalvis
Out of patience, she tossed the suitcase hard to the floor and tried again.
No go.
“Dammit!” She kicked it a few times and that’s when it happened.
A buzzing.
From inside her suitcase.
She stared at it in growing horror because it was her electric toothbrush, it had to be, but it sure sounded a whole lot like—
“Your vibrator’s batteries are going to die.”
This from Captain Helpful, who was leaning casually against the doorjamb of the bathroom, looking amused again.
“It’s my toothbrush!” she said. “I swear it.”
“You’re blushing.” He smiled. “Cute.”
Appalled, she tried again to open the suitcase, while it just kept buzzing like her toothbrush was having a seizure. Grinding her back teeth into powder, she kicked the suitcase again for good measure.
The buzzing got louder.
Mick let out a low—and sexy—laugh. Damn him.
Unbelievable. Desperate, she got on top of the suitcase and jumped up and down. This didn’t stop the buzzing but it did burst the thing open, and when she hopped off, her stuff got flung far and wide. Clothes, bathroom stuff, the birth control pills she took to control cramps since she sure as hell wasn’t having any sex . . . everything except the toothbrush.
“Oh my God,” she said, scrambling through it all to find the damn thing—which of course, thank you, laws of Newton—was still buzzing. When she finally wrapped her fingers around it, she lifted it high and blew a strand of hair from her now-sweaty face. “See?” she asked triumphantly. “Not a vibrator.”
Mick, still watching the Quinn Show, smiled. “Smart to pack multipurpose items.”
She pointed at him, not in enough control of herself to speak.
He laughed. “Bad day, huh?”
She blew out a sigh and tossed the toothbrush back into her suitcase. “You have no idea.”
“Try me.”
And maybe because when she looked into his eyes she saw nothing but a genuine curiosity—among other things—she actually said it all out loud. “I had unwelcome news, a fight with my family, a long drive, and I can’t get my phone to work unless I’m hanging out the window.” She paused. “I might be more than a little unhinged.”
“That’s allowed sometimes, you know.”
“Yeah.” Mostly she was hurt on top of hurt, lonely, unnerved, and . . . not herself. Which really wasn’t surprising given that she literally didn’t know who she even was.
“Well, at least the bug’s gone and the sink’s handled.” He pushed off from the doorway and started across the room to leave. “’Night. Oh, and ignore any nighttime creaking.”
“Creaking?” she asked his broad back. “You mean like . . . ghostly creaking?”
He flashed a grin back her way. “I mean the old building creaks as it settles.”
Or that.
“You could always use the toothbrush as a vibrator to help you relax enough to sleep.”
Luckily for him, he shut the door immediately after saying this, so she didn’t get the chance to kill him. She took a deep breath and then took a long hot bath in her bug-less tub. And no, she didn’t use the toothbrush as a vibrator . . . but she thought about it. Instead, she watched some worthless TV, ate the secret stash of chocolate she kept in her purse, and then hit the sack.
There she lay, the endless questions once again swirling around in her head.
Why hadn’t Carolyn said something to her sooner?
How many other secrets had she taken with her to her grave?
Acutely and painfully aware that all of it was more than likely to remain a mystery, she sighed, flipped over, and tried to go to sleep.
It was a long time coming . . .
Chapter 5
Whenever I used to feel powerless, Mom would say to remind myself that a single one of my turds could shut down an entire water park.
—from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”
Psst. Quinn, wake up.”
Quinn stretched, opened her eyes, and then gasped at the sight of Beth sitting crossed-legged at the foot of the bed in a cute white sundress, sipping one of her beloved iced teas. Quinn rubbed her eyes, but her sister—her dead sister—was still there. “I’m dreaming,” she said. “It was the piece of chocolate before bed.”
“Actually, you ate all the pieces of chocolate,” Beth said.
Quinn didn’t take her eyes off Beth, afraid she’d vanish. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Where did you come from?”
“The TARDIS slash wardrobe,” Beth said and gestured over her shoulder at the innocuous piece of furniture. “Nice hair, by the way.”
Quinn reached up and felt her hair, which was definitely not anywhere even near the vicinity of “nice.”
“You haven’t been using that oil treatment I gave you,” Beth chided.
“I know, I haven’t used it since you—”
“Bit the bucket?” Beth nodded sympathetically and drank some more tea. “I hated going out like that. But let’s face it, if it had to be my time, going instantly in a car accident is the way to do it. One minute I was driving, singing along to One Direction—I really miss them, by the way—and the next I was gone.”
“Because you took your eyes off the road to mess with your phone and wrapped yourself around a tree,” Quinn said. Maybe yelled. “And One Direction broke up!”
“Well, that sucks.” Beth’s brown eyes, so different from Quinn’s own deep blue—how had she never questioned that before?—held hers. “But honestly? It was my time, Quinn. And do you know whose time it isn’t? Yours.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Quinn pinched herself. “Ow!” She blinked, but Beth was still there. “If I felt that,” she said slowly, “then I’m not dreaming this, right?”
Beth’s image shimmered as she gave a small smile. “I’ve gotta go. Get over yourself and go get what’s rightfully yours.” She began to fade away, but then came back. “Oh, and also the hot guy!”
And then she was gone.
“Wait!” Quinn cried and leaped forward. She fell off the bed and scrambled to her feet, turning in a circle to search every nook and cranny. But the room was empty. She moved to the wardrobe, took a deep breath, and yanked it open.
Also empty.
Her sister was gone.
And it was morning.
She dropped back to the bed and shoved her hair out of her face. “You’re losing it.”
Her phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She had service? Since when?
“Darling,” her mom said when she’d answered. “Where are you?”
Barely able to hear her, Quinn moved to the window and stuck her head out for better reception. She’d texted both of her parents when she’d arrived last night, but she dutifully repeated herself. “Wildstone.”
“Good God, Quinn.”
“I had to do this.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Soon.” The parking lot was busy, but there was no sign of Mick, the hot maintenance guy. For the best because, well, her hair. “I’ll let you know.”
There was a long pause. “Honey . . . you know we didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know. I’m just confused.”
“Well, come home so you can get unconfused.”
“Soon,” she promised. “I’ve gotta go. Love you, Mom.” And then she disconnected.
A minute later she got a text.
MOM:
Forgot to tell you something! Yesterday at the grocery store, I stood in line with the nicest man. Harvard. Lawyer. I showed him your picture and gave him your number.
QUINN:
Mom, you can’t just give my number out to strangers!
MOM:
HARVARD.
Annoyed and tired, but far too keyed up to go back to bed, Quinn showered—with an eye peeled for bugs—dressed, and headed out.
Downstairs in the main
entry there was a buffet setup. Loosely. There was coffee and a choice of doughnuts. She took two with her to her car.
For her, the good, ol’ US of A had always consisted of Los Angeles, New York, and San Francisco, with nothing in between except a nap at thirty-five thousand feet. She realized that probably made her a city snob, but the truth was, she just didn’t know anything different.
But California’s midcoastal area took her breath away. Endless green rolling hills, lined with gorgeous old oak trees, dotted with ranches scattered far and wide.
Wildstone itself wasn’t much more than a few streets of historic downtown buildings filled with a mix of both old and new shops: an art gallery, a handmade-jewelry store, an ice-cream parlor, a hair salon, a bar and grill, a general store. Several of the storefronts were vacant. She could see that they were trying to lure in tourists, but they had a ways to go.
Since her appointment with Cliff wasn’t for another hour, she took a few side streets and found an old café named Caro’s. It was kind of cute despite the fact that it was located in the middle of absolutely nowhere. But what got her out of the car was her growling tummy. The doughnuts hadn’t really done it for her.
To her dismay, the place was closed.
Damn. Back in her car, she programmed Cliff’s address into the bitchy GPS and ended up parked in front of a small, older house sitting on the edge of town. A discreet plaque read: CLIFFORD PORTER, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Quinn was a little early, but the receptionist was there. A distracted-looking woman in her early twenties wearing a headset, she held up a finger while she glared at her printer—which was blinking but not printing. “Dammit,” she said and slapped it around a little.
It still didn’t print.
“It knows you’re in a hurry,” Quinn said. “They can smell fear.”
“Bastard.” The woman pulled off her headset and sighed. “Sorry, I was in class. Online Psychology. It sucked.” She shut her laptop and shook it off. “Okay. Switching hats from prelaw student to lawyer receptionist now.”
Quinn smiled. “Good morning.”
“Well, if it was a good morning, I’d be on a South Pacific island being massaged by Tom Hardy. But that’s another story. I’m Kelly, how can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Porter,” Quinn said. “I’m—”
“Quinn,” Kelly said, giving her the once-over although her eyes remained warm and friendly. “Nice to meet you. Cliff had to run a quick errand, but make yourself at home in his office, he’ll be right back.”
Cliff’s office was small but neat. The walls were dedicated to pictures, some of them going back decades. One had Quinn stopping in her tracks and leaning in closer. It looked like a recent pic of herself and Cliff—except it couldn’t be, for two reasons. One, he was looking at her with familiarity and so much love it took her breath away. And two, the date on the print was 1996, when Quinn would have been . . . ten.
“It’s your mom,” Cliff said, coming into the office.
Still unable to think of the woman she’d known only as Carolyn as her mother, Quinn turned to face him. “And . . . your dad?” she guessed.
Cliff smiled. “They were close. I took over his law practice when he retired a few years back.”
Quinn stilled. “Oh my God. Are we . . . brother and sister?”
His smile widened. “No. Dad loved your mom though. But then again, most men did.”
Quinn looked at the picture again, honing in on Carolyn’s younger, happier face. “She didn’t love him back?”
Cliff came to her side and eyed the picture as well. “She wasn’t one to be tied down.”
“Just knocked up then?”
Cliff met her gaze. “I take it you’re curious about your father.”
“To say the least. I have less than zero information. Did you know him?”
“Not personally,” Cliff said. “His name is Eric Madden. He’s a professional bull rider, or was until his age caught up with him. He still lives on the circuit, but he’s their traveling chef now. He rarely comes through town anymore, if at all.”
Quinn’s legs felt a little wobbly and she staggered back to a chair and sat heavily. “A chef.”
“Yes.” Cliff poured her a glass of water. “I’m guessing that hits a little close to home. I’m sorry. He was contacted about Carolyn’s death, but he didn’t respond. In any case, I’m very glad you changed your mind about coming to Wildstone to discuss the estate and your inheritance. There are decisions to be made.”
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” she cautioned. “This is a fact-finding mission only.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled out a file. “Here’s Carolyn’s will. Her assets include some property. Everything gets passed to the heirs.”
Quinn’s head jerked up. “Heirs? As in plural?”
“Yes. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He paused and there was a quiet empathy in his gaze. “You have a sister, Quinn, born from the same parents you were. Her name is Tilly. She’s fifteen and I just brought her here; she’s outside, waiting to meet you.”
Quinn stared at him, trying to take in the words through the bomb he’d just dropped. She had a sister.
She’d had a sister.
She’d lost that sister.
And now she had another.
Her head spun in circles and she had absolutely no idea how to land on any of the emotions racing through her at the speed of light. Rising to her feet, she headed to the door.
“Quinn—”
Ignoring Cliff, she strode out into the main room and turned in a slow circle. It was empty.
Kelly burst in the front door, looking breathless. She put a hand to her heart and gulped in air. “That girl can run.” She met Quinn’s gaze. “I’m sorry. Tilly didn’t take to the news of a sister very well. She’s gone.”
I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .
Those four words were a terrifying, horrifying, nightmare-inducing repeat of what she’d been told the night of Beth’s accident, when she’d stood in the ER staring in shock at the doctor.
I’m sorry. She’s gone . . .
“Gone?” Quinn repeated past a clogged throat.
Kelly nodded. “She’s faster than I am. Plus she can climb a tree and I can’t, so—”
“Which tree?”
“What?”
“Which tree did she climb?” Quinn asked with urgency.
“The park at the end of our street has a grove of oaks on the far side of the play set, and one of them has a huge tree house where some of the teens stash stuff and hang out,” Kelly said. “She’s—”
Quinn was out the door.