by Lisa Harris
Oh, if only that were the reason. If only punctuality was all I had to worry about.
Quinn impatiently jabbed the elevator “up” button even though it was already lit, nearly bending back a nail in the process. More than a dozen others waited with her in the small elevator vestibule for one of the four ancient cars to land on level “P.” It smelled of mildew, stale cleaner and faint body odor, and did nothing to help her nerves.
Why is it so hot?
So many people were crowded around—attorneys and clients and victims and family members, all heading upstairs to see justice meted out in its slow, lumbering pace. One lawyer greeted her, then another, speaking her name and saying hello, but she only nodded, unable to vocalize anything in return, afraid one word might push her temperamental stomach over the edge.
The seconds were speeding by. Still no elevator. She glanced at her gold Apple watch.
9:24.
When she looked back up, she saw a shaggy, dark-haired man in jeans, a black T-shirt and grey windbreaker staring at her from where he stood on the far side of the vestibule. There were a dozen people between them, but his gaze seemed trained on her. He glanced away when she caught his eye, something guilty in his expression.
Why is he watching me? Was he what I saw moving in the garage? Was he the shadow in the corner?
But if he was, and he was here now, wouldn’t he have had to come through security shortly after her? Wouldn’t she have seen him enter? Security was just across from the elevators and in full view from where she stood.
Then again, I’ve been so distracted, trying not to be sick. It’s possible I might not have noticed him going through.
9:27.
There was nothing else for it. Sick or not, she couldn’t be late. Tracy Norwich and her promotion depended on it. Giving up on the elevators, she ran for the stairs.
Quinn hurtled through the double doors to courtroom nine with one minute to spare, nearly tackling a female attorney and her client standing just inside the doorway, conversing quietly.
“Sorry,” Quinn mumbled, as she scanned the benches in the gallery for Tracy, a bout of dizziness rocking her.
Tracy Norwich shot up from her seat in the second row, a tsunami of relief visibly rolling over her thin, high-cheekboned face. The thirty-eight-year-old, with her honey-blonde hair and waifish frame, was a direct contrast to Quinn who stood at five-eight, had a mane of thick red hair, and possessed an athletic build she had earned by kayaking every chance she got.
“Quinn!” Tracy called out. Quinn motioned with one hand for her client to lower back down onto the bench as she wove through the packed aisle to join her.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Tracy squeaked, her face as tight as her voice as Quinn dropped into the seat beside her.
There was a twitchiness in Tracy’s manner that evinced her nervousness and Quinn’s tardiness likely hadn’t helped matters. Though her client looked very put together with her perfectly arranged hair and suitably austere grey dress and black heels, the dark circles beneath her eyes bled through the multiple layers of concealer she had painted over them, evidencing her exhaustion. Those eyes narrowed as she appraised Quinn critically. “What’s wrong?”
“What? Nothing. It’s fine. I’m here.” Quinn could hear the breathiness in her own voice as she pulled her briefcase onto her lap and started fiddling with the latches.
“No,” Tracy said. “What’s wrong with you? You’re sweating—you’re practically dripping—and you’re—”
“Quinn.”
Quinn jumped at the deep voice calling her name from somewhere behind her. Jerking her gaze from Tracy, she spun in her seat, scanning the area at the back of the courtroom. No one seemed to be looking at her.
Who called my name?
“Did you hear that?” Quinn asked, her eyes still trained on the back of the room. “Did someone call me?”
“Quinn, seriously, are you all right?” Tracy asked, tugging on Quinn’s arm. “Quinn?”
Quinn rotated forward, her stomach now revolving in nauseating circles. She swallowed hard.
Was the air conditioning broken in here too?
“All rise,” the bailiff called, as Judge Laura Richter emerged from her chambers through a door behind the bench and moved to her seat.
Everyone, including Tracy and Quinn, stood in unison—and suddenly the world plummeted. Quinn’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Tracy to keep from tipping over as the floor wobbled beneath her. She sucked in a ragged breath as Tracy grabbed beneath Quinn’s arm, supporting her weight. As Quinn struggled to right herself, the bailiff was already striding over. He passed through the swinging gate leading into the gallery, leaning in toward the two women.
“Ms. Bello?” he asked. “You all right? You don’t look so good.”
“Bailiff, is there a problem there?” Judge Richter called out as she rose to her feet again.
“Quinn, I don’t think you’re okay,” Tracy said, her face flushed and her voice ripe with worry. “Should you be doing this? Should we ask for—”
Whatever else Tracy said, Quinn couldn’t hear it. Though the woman’s mouth was moving, her voice had evaporated, leaving only the unmistakable sound of the heavy doors at the rear of the courtroom swinging open.
Certain dread filled Quinn as somehow she knew, even before she panned toward the rear of the room in what felt like slow motion, and saw him. The shaggy man from downstairs, the one who had been watching her in the elevator vestibule, was headed straight for her. His black, malevolent eyes were locked on her, his shoulders bearing forward as he reached inside his grey windbreaker and whipped out a gun—
“Gun!” Quinn screamed.
The room erupted in shouting and frantic movements as Quinn wrested the deputy’s sidearm from his holster, pointed it at the man and fired.
Chapter Three
six months later
Quinn stepped back from the living room wall, admiring it with a sense of satisfaction, the wet paint roller still in her hand. “Looks good,” she said, noting again that the light-cream color had done much to brighten the kitchen and living room spaces. These open, combined areas took up most of the first floor of the three-story beach house overlooking the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
The last of the day’s sunlight spilled into the space through the floor-length windows and French doors on the beach side of the house that opened to a porch complete with bed swing and rocking chairs. Ready for a break after two straight hours of painting, Quinn set the roller in the tray and headed outside.
The sea air hit her the moment she stepped onto the porch’s wooden planks, the salty breeze ruffling her hair as she plopped into the first of the white rockers. She looked beyond the sand dunes and seagrass, roped off for protection, to a lone walker on the beach hugging the water’s foamy edge—a good thirty yards from the house even at high tide.
Number Four, Bello Breakers, was the fourth of five nearly identical homes built in a semi-circle on a tract of oceanfront property in the town of Seaglass Cove, Florida. The little unincorporated community lay in the crook of the Big Bend of Florida, just before the state’s panhandle coast turned south, becoming the Florida peninsula.
More than a century ago, Seaglass Cove began as a fishing village. Over the last several decades it had transformed into a quiet resort town occupied year-round by locals and seasonally by snowbirds and spring and summer travelers seeking a more relaxed, noncommercial atmosphere. It was surrounded by several national and state parks. Some were entirely inland, with swamps and freshwater springs; others stretched to the coast and included protected beaches, marshlands and even a large coastal dune lake.
Seaglass Cove also boasted one of the few long stretches of white, sugar-sand public beach in the Big Bend area. All that, combined with extensive fishing opportunities, wildlife-oriented parks and a thriving art and culinary community, made the area an appealing alternative to the rowdy, spring-break coastal towns
to its west, for those seeking something more laid-back.
Decades before, town leaders had the foresight to enact ordinances precluding the construction of anything other than single-family dwellings along Seaglass Cove’s 2000-foot beachfront, avoiding the massive condominium complexes that consumed much of Florida’s Panhandle shores. Bello Breakers sat toward the western end of the beach, perched on a moon-shaped, slightly elevated bluff that jutted out toward the Gulf. The development had been built by Quinn’s father, Nate Bello, through his realty business, Bello Realty, ten years before. The company owned and managed many properties, including all five homes in Bello Breakers. With the exception of Number Four Bello Breakers, the units were leased to both long- and short-term tenants who paid top dollar for the stunning clapboard residences, each painted a different shade of palest pink, green, yellow and lavender.
Number Four Bello Breakers, painted a soothing light blue, was the house Quinn’s mother and father had lived in for the last year, until moving out in early March when they retired to Delray Beach. Quinn took over both the realty business and the house then, and though it wasn’t the more modest two-story house she had grown up in on the north side of town, it already felt like home. For the time being, it was hers and she was grateful for it.
Quinn inhaled, long and deep, filling her lungs with the ocean air. She could swear she actually felt her blood pressure dropping. Nothing did as much for her peace of mind as this—living right here on the Gulf’s edge, with the waves crashing, the sun sparkling on the crystal water by day, the moon dancing on the slippery tide at night. There was something indescribably spiritual and healing about it.
And boy, do I need healing.
A hint of late-day coolness in the air wafted over Quinn and she crossed her arms, warming herself. It was already past seven, and the sun was due to set in about an hour. The sky was turning pink and orange, with faint purple ribbons flaring out across the horizon. A gull squawked and dipped, then soared upward, as Quinn’s stomach growled, reminding her that once again, she had worked straight through dinnertime.
As she mentally reviewed what she had in the fridge that she could throw together for dinner—nothing—her cell rang, and she pulled it out of her pocket, leaving a thin smear of cream-colored paint on the pocket of her old jeans.
She felt her mouth turn down. Once again, she didn’t recognize the number. These unsolicited calls seemed to be coming more often.
Time to re-register on that Do-Not-Call List.
She declined the call as her stomach rumbled a second time. Unless she wanted a bowl of cereal, Pepe’s was, like most nights, her best option. But as it was early May, and the busy summer season hadn’t started yet, he would close up by 7:30.
Better hustle.
Urgency quickening her steps, Quinn headed back inside, speaking to the electronic Riki smart device on the kitchen counter—a foot-high black cylinder with a microphone and speaker—as she passed it.
“Riki, add chicken, steak, and shrimp to the shopping list.” The digital assistant, linked to her online accounts and music apps, repeated the additions back to her in its pleasant, simulated human voice. Quinn had to begin stocking her own protein if she ever wanted to cook for herself, instead of dashing off to Pepe’s nightly. She passed the clock on the stove which read 7:13, and picked up speed.
If she hurried, she could just make it.
Pepe’s Taco Truck was a permanent fixture of an area of Seaglass Cove known as “The Green” located right on Highway 98—the beach highway that ran parallel to the shoreline for much of the Florida Panhandle. The Green was a square, grassy space, half the size of a football field, dotted with towering long-leaf pines and white wood benches. Its north, east and west sides were bordered by streets lined with unique shops, local restaurants and loft condominiums. The southern side, bordered by Highway 98, sat directly across from the Seaglass Cove Beach parking lot and boardwalk leading to the water.
The streets leading away from The Green wound through quiet residential areas packed with homes half occupied by permanent residents, half by rotating snowbirds and vacationers. Many houses incorporated Victorian-esque features, lending a quaint charm to the place furthered by the community’s old-fashioned wrought iron street lamps that popped on when dusk fell.
The Green was the hub of Seaglass Cove’s activities, and in two weeks it would be hopping late into the night once schools were out and families from all over the Southeast descended. Concerts, barbecues and shrimp boils, Saturday farmers markets, and art strolls would be held throughout the high season. In those coming days, Pepe’s Taco Truck—one of four food trucks that would be parked along the edge of The Green all summer—would be serving Oaxaca cheese and Ancho Chile quesadillas, charred tomato salsa burritos, and shrimp nachos right up to ten o’clock at night.
But it wasn’t the summer season yet. Pepe’s was the only truck on The Green and it would definitely close by seven thirty. So even though The Green was less than a half mile from Bello Breakers and Quinn could have easily walked there, tonight she drove, zooming up in her white pickup and swinging into one of the gravel parking spaces along the highway. She darted across the blacktop and dashed to the sliding window of the bright red truck with habanero peppers painted on the side to see the proprietor busy inside cleaning the grill.
“Hey, Miguel,” Quinn called into the window, a bit breathless. “Got time for one more?”
“Hey, Quinn,” he said, turning away from the grill to face her, a wide smile breaking out on his face, his black hair falling to either side of his forehead. He dropped the cloth he was using and stepped to the window. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Finished painting today.”
“Nice.” Miguel was one of the few people Quinn had connected with since moving back. Though plenty of people knew her and of her in Seaglass Cove, she hadn’t gone out of her way to rekindle any of those old relationships. After what happened in Tampa, and her preexisting hometown reputation in Seaglass Cove, the last thing she wanted was to deal with any of the fallout from her checkered past.
Come to think of it, Miguel is one of the few people I interact with at all.
Her lack of social engagement was partly due to the incessant amount of work involved in running the realty company. But mostly her reclusiveness was intentional. She had hurt enough people. She wasn’t ready to risk hurting any more. She could count on one hand the people she regularly spoke to in town: Miguel, Terri Colbert—the woman who managed the realty office—Lena and others at the Hope Community Center where Quinn volunteered, a few at Hope Community Church, and—
“We have skirt steak left,” Miguel said, cutting off Quinn’s internal list-making just as one final name came to mind—one that sparked a hint of heat at her collar.
“Perfect,” she said, digging some cash from her pocket while Miguel prepared her street tacos, her stomach growling again as the scent of tomato, chilies and cheese wafted through the window.
This casual friendship with Miguel wasn’t something she had sought out. It was simply a side product of the fact that cooking wasn’t her thing and planning menus, even less. It was just easier to hop over and grab something from Miguel most nights. Their chatting started when Quinn first stopped by and upon seeing the name “Miguel” on his name tag, asked where the name of the truck—“Pepe”—came from. Turned out, that was Miguel’s grandfather’s nickname. Quinn loved that. All of her grandparents had passed on and she missed them terribly. Family had always been hugely important to her. But now her clan consisted solely of her, her mom and dad, and a few scattered cousins she never heard from anymore.
She watched as Miguel filled a cup with the liquid gold cheese dip she loved, and realized wistfully she would have to start incorporating more exercise into her routine if chips and queso were going to be a staple of her diet. Most weeks, she only managed to get the kayak in the water once, which wasn’t nearly enough. She missed it greatly, and not just because it w
ould keep the inevitable fluffiness around her middle at bay. She needed it for her emotional well-being, and resolved right then and there to find a way to make room for more paddle time.
On the short drive home, the zesty aroma of cilantro and chiles filled her pickup, leaving her mouth watering at the thought of the corn tacos filled with skirt steak, cheese and salsa, and Miguel’s signature black beans and rice. In half a minute she was back at Bello Breakers, punching in the four-digit security code that opened the white picket gate at the entrance. The community wasn’t fenced in, but the gate prevented random drivers from using Bello Breakers Circle and their driveways as an overflow parking lot for the beach or The Green, on days when the public spots were all taken.
She felt a smile crease her face as she drove around the one-way concrete-paver roundabout, with its zoysia grass center and the illuminated stone swordfish fountain gurgling away. Darkness had fallen now, and lights shone from the windows of all five of the Bello Breakers houses. They stood like guards on the semi-circle knoll, facing outward, keeping watch over the sea, set in a staggered fashion that afforded each of them privacy on their porches as well as the best views of the water possible in both directions. Though the houses were all three stories high, the lots themselves were quite narrow, leaving just enough room for a narrow slice of yard between them.
Mrs. Garber, the current lessee of Number Two—the pink house—happened to be in her driveway and waved at Quinn as she passed. The Garbers were a lovely sixty-something couple wrapping up a three-week stay the next day. Quinn made a mental note to stop by in the morning to say goodbye, then pulled into her own drive, which was really nothing more than a two-car-wide parking space at the rear of the house. Grasping her takeout, she walked under the small white wooden portico over the back door, unlocked it and slipped inside. She stopped long enough to kick off her running shoes, sending them rolling across the tan ceramic tile toward the reclaimed wood bench in the entryway, then kept going into the kitchen, intent on grabbing a bottle of blackberry-infused water before heading out to the porch to eat. But just steps from the stainless steel fridge, she froze.
