by Lisa Harris
“I’m not impaired, Investigator,” she said, keeping her voice low and steady. “I am thinking completely clearly. What you’re referring to—the incident in Tampa—that happened after a long period of mixing prescriptions and self-medicating. I’m better now.”
“What about the vodka we found in your trash?”
Quinn breathed in through gritted teeth. “It. Isn’t. Mine.” The mention of the vodka bottle brought another question to mind. “Did you find my prints on the paint can?” Her prints were conveniently in the system, both from when she was admitted to the Florida Bar and when she was arrested in Tampa. It wouldn’t have taken them long to make the match.
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“See! I told you—”
“Actually there were no prints on the can at all.” He eyed her accusingly. “Wiped clean.”
Quinn took his meaning, and raised her eyebrows. “And you think, what, that I wiped my prints off, then threw it in my trash?”
“That’s one explanation.”
“Because that’s what they want you to think!”
“Who’s they?” Fisk asked.
“I don’t know. Whoever is following me. Whoever is setting me up.”
“Again, why would anyone do that?” he pressed.
“Your guess is as good as mine. And I really wish you guys would start trying to guess at another explanation besides it all being me. Maybe I know something I shouldn’t, or have something I shouldn’t, or—here’s a crazy idea—found a dead body that disappeared and won’t let the issue go. Somebody wants me to stop asking questions and all this is designed to make that happen, or make me seem unreliable, or worse, guilty, if I won’t. All this started with that body and—”
The door opened and a young deputy entered, handed Fisk a sheet of paper, and walked out without saying a word.
“What is that?” Quinn asked, nodding at the sheet.
Fisk ignored her question, finished reading the paper, then looked up. “We obtained a warrant for your vehicle and home, Ms. Bello. We found an empty gasoline can and several containers of lighter fluid—all but one used up—in the padlocked storage chest of your pickup truck.”
“Those are not mine.”
“Right. Just like everything else? No, I’m sure someone got a key to the padlock and put them in there,” he said, his tone thick with sarcasm.
Quinn leaned back from the table, crossing her arms. “We’re done here. Am I under arrest or am I free to go?”
“Actually, you are being charged. One count of malicious destruction of property arising out of the damage done to the Sardises’ Mercedes.”
Disbelief surged through Quinn. “Based on what you found in the trash? Which was accessible by anyone?”
“Not just that, no.” Fisk slid an iPad out from his binder and cued up a video, then spun it so Quinn could see.
The video was black-and-white CCTV footage. The view was from on high, giving a wide shot of a parking lot and, farther in the background across Highway 98, almost half of Bello Breakers. It showed the back side of Number Five, Number Four—Quinn’s house—and half of Number Three. The scene was dark, the night lit by the parking lot lights and the street lamps along Bello Breakers Circle. Quinn had a pretty good idea where the footage had come from.
“That’s the parking lot of The Cove Hotel, across the street from my house,” she said, leaning closer to the iPad and squinting. She looked up at Fisk from beneath her lashes. “Where did you get this?”
“The hotel was happy to cooperate. Thought we’d give it a shot and,” he tapped the screen and the video began to play, “we got lucky.”
The time stamp read just after one a.m. on Sunday morning. A single vehicle drove past on the beach highway, its headlights cutting through the dark before moving off-screen. Fisk had obviously queued the video to the relevant point, because only seconds passed before, in the distant background, someone emerged from the side yard between Quinn’s house and Number Five, the house rented by the Sardises. The person appeared to be female, dressed in dark clothes and wearing gloves, with her hair pulled back into a thick ponytail—just the way Quinn’s looked when she wore hers in one. A sickening punch pummeled Quinn. Had she not known better—had she not known she had been in bed at one in the morning and not prowling around outside—she would have thought the person on the screen was her.
“That’s not me,” Quinn protested.
Fisk said nothing.
The figure held something in her hand as she walked over to the Sardises’ driveway and around to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. Though most of the figure’s body was blocked by the car, her movements were clearly that of someone defacing the vehicle with spray paint. After about thirty seconds, she walked over to Quinn’s trash receptacle, tossed the spray can in, then returned the way she came, disappearing into the darkness between the two houses.
“I see you chose to go back into the house from the beach, not the rear entrance. Smart. That way if someone caught sight of you coming and going from the Sardises’ place, you could argue the figure could be anyone coming from the beach. Did you know the hotel has CCTV cameras?”
“That was someone coming from the beach. That was not me!”
He ignored her denial. “Are the cans from your truck clean too, or are we going to find your prints this time? If you talk to me, Quinn, I can help you.”
A cyclone of panic, anger, and confusion swirled within her as she clamped her mouth shut, staring him down.
“Fine,” Fisk muttered and rose, his chair grinding against the tile floor with an ear-piercing screech. He read Quinn her rights in a brisk monotone before detailing the charges against her. “Because the damage to the vehicle exceeds five hundred dollars, the destruction of property offense is a felony. You’re also being charged with misdemeanor trespass. You’ll be processed and allowed to post bail, then, if you want to try to do this the easy way, we can talk and maybe keep the damage you’ve done to yourself to a minimum.”
“And the arson charge? I assume that’s coming?” she asked.
“Getting our ducks in a row,” Fisk answered drolly.
Quinn’s head throbbed, the explosive pressure from earlier continuing to mount. Her hand moved to her temple, rubbing it as she tried to force clarity. She knew she had to get control, think logically, and work the situation if she was going to have any chance of clearing this up. She took a calming breath, reminding herself who she was and what she was trained to do. Then she folded her arms, sat up straight and pierced Fisk with her gaze.
“I’m done talking. I want an attorney. And I want my phone call.”
The booking process was completely humiliating. Not only because it meant she once again found herself on the wrong side of the law, but because it was in Seaglass Cove. Her hometown. The place where she had sought refuge. All the bad things the people in that place had believed about her for years were now being proved true. Again.
Only they aren’t true this time.
She wondered if Ian would stand by her after the mountain of evidence they were uncovering against her. Probably not, she thought wistfully. He’d have to be as crazy as they thought she was to do that.
This arrest also rekindled all the trauma of her experience in Tampa. Frisked, again. Booking photo, again. Fingerprinted, again. Holding cell, again. Phone call to an attorney, again.
This time Quinn didn’t have a law firm at her disposal, so instead she placed a call to a local attorney, one her family had used on multiple real estate transactions. He didn’t do criminal work, but would be able to help her out initially, then connect her with the right person. For now she just wanted someone on her side, advising her through this nightmare. Unfortunately, he wasn’t available, and she left an urgent message with his secretary explaining the situation and asking him to come to the jail as soon as possible.
They put her back in the holding cell after she made her call, and Quinn expected they might leave her t
here for a while to let her stew. But to her surprise, they retrieved her after only fifteen minutes to allow her to post bond. The jail bond schedule set the combined bail at $2,500, which she was able to pay with her credit card, securing her freedom at least for now.
“You sure you don’t want to sit down and talk about this? You confess to the arson and the rest of it, and things will go easier for you,” Fisk said, leaning nonchalantly on the counter while Quinn’s belongings were returned to her—her purse, phone and pepper spray, all logged and inventoried when she had been searched.
Scribbling her name on the electronic pad to acknowledge receipt of her belongings, she tossed them in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Then she turned on Fisk, her face set hard in the same dogged expression she adopted when grilling adversarial witnesses on the stand. “You’re not attempting to question me after I’ve invoked my right to counsel, are you Investigator? Because that would be a clear violation of my Miranda rights and taint any information you might obtain, violating what I assume passes for procedure around here.”
“You’re no longer in custody, so that doesn’t apply as you well know. And I’m just offering you a chance to make things right. Get it off your chest,” he countered. There was something so smug, so satisfied about his expression, it made her want to slap it off him.
“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled. “Well, what I know is that I’m still in the building concluding my custodial hold, and that you just initiated questioning again with a detained person who has invoked her right to counsel. I suggest you stop before I file a complaint with the department for harassment and procedural violations intended to manipulate a confession. I’m leaving, unless I’m now under arrest for arson too?”
Fisk folded his arms in front of him. “Not yet,” he said, but his eyes might as well have added, but that’s coming.
She wrapped him in an icy stare. “You’re going about this the wrong way. The people responsible are going to slip away because you can’t see farther than the nose on your face. If you’d even consider that maybe I’m being set up, you could actually do some good here. Instead, you’re making an innocent person’s life a nightmare.”
Without giving Fisk an opportunity to respond, Quinn strode past him to the exit, so close that their shoulders nearly brushed. She refused to swerve so much as a millimeter, determined that not even her gait was going to suggest she was the slightest bit intimidated or unnerved.
After all, if she was going to live life labeled, branded, and categorized a liar, she might as well earn it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Quinn walked out of the sheriff’s department into the blinding light of the midday sun to see Ian Wolfe leaning against her truck in the parking lot. He sported dark-washed jeans, a loose, white button-down with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and work boots. Combined with the aviator sunglasses and that perfect wavy hair, he looked like he had been ripped straight off a movie screen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she neared him, her heart welling with relief at the sight of him.
“I hear the sheriff’s department is a great place to pick up women in this town,” he answered, removing his sunglasses and stepping away from the truck.
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really?”
“Yep. At least that’s the word down at The Shed.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Seriously, someone came into The Shed talking about a fire, possible arson, and that you’d been brought in for questioning. I thought you might need a little support.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “How in the world are people already talking about this? It literally just happened.”
“I think your receptionist may have called a friend or two. Or ten,” he said.
“Oh, wow.” So much for keeping Kristin on.
“And I’m pretty sure she posted a video online.”
Quinn’s mouth dropped. “You’re kidding.”
Ian’s lips rolled inward as if biting back a retort. He held his phone out and pressed an icon. The footage of Quinn being questioned by Fisk when she first arrived at the office played.
Quinn’s insides melted. “Good grief,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“So what happened in there?” he asked, inclining his head toward the building.
“Short version? They charged me with a felony for the vandalism of the Sardises’ Mercedes and, if they have their way, they’ll be charging me with arson next.”
Incredulity creased every inch of Ian’s face. “Say what, now?”
“You heard me,” she replied.
“I think I’d better hear the long version.”
Ian took her to The Shed, where he set Quinn down at a table in the back office and listened while she rehashed the insane events of the morning. He had the cook prepare two thick roast beef sandwiches on sourdough with hefty tomato slices and fresh lettuce, but the food sat nearly untouched before them. Quinn downed her latte, however, within two minutes of getting it. Now she sipped water through a straw, grinding the top between her teeth as Ian spoke.
“This has gone way too far,” he said, bending his head toward her, as if emphasizing his point. “You really need to secure representation right away to protect yourself.”
“I’ve reached out to the attorney our family has always used,” she said. “Criminal law’s not his thing, but he’ll be able to recommend someone.”
“Whoever this is—the person setting you up—they aren’t messing around. Arson? Someone could’ve been killed.” Concern clouded his dark-grey eyes.
“I don’t think they’re too worried about killing someone. Going by the corpse on my floor, anyway.”
As if by reflex, his hand moved in the direction of hers, but at the last second diverted to wrap around his glass of tea instead. He sniffed and shifted in his seat. “I don’t want you to be next. If the authorities are bent on blaming you and refuse to figure out why you’re being targeted, then you’ve got to get someone on your side that will.”
“The attorney,” she said.
“I was thinking more like a private detective.”
Quinn sighed. “I don’t know if I can afford that.”
“What about your parents? I’m sure—”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not doing this to them again. They had to help out last time when I ran out of cash. Thank goodness they’re off on a European river cruise right now and out of touch. I’ve sworn Terri to secrecy—threatened her with losing her job if she so much as texts them about any of this, but I don’t know if that’ll stop her. She knows I’m bluffing.”
“What about the Seaglass Cove rumor mill?” he asked. “Won’t it reach them?”
“I’ll have to hope Mom and Dad aren’t checking messages regularly. I mean, I know word will get to them eventually. Just hopefully later rather than sooner.” She looked at the time on her phone. It was almost one o’clock. “Look, I know I asked you to go with me at three, but I need to do something to take my mind off of things until I hear back from the lawyer or I’m going to go stir-crazy. Do you think you could leave with me now?”
“Hmm,” he said, eyeing her wryly. “I’ll have to ask the boss. But I think I can swing it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ian sat in the passenger seat of Quinn’s truck, keeping his head forward but cutting his gaze sideways at her while she drove. Her thick red hair was down today, flowing in waves that fell just below her shoulders, the sun glinting off flyaway ends, turning them golden. Her lips—with their bubble-gum color and deep cupid’s bow—fluttered as she ranted about Investigator Fisk and Shane and the arson charges looming as she drove them to their mystery destination. It was incredibly distracting and he worked to stay focused on what she was saying.
Cool air blew through the vents as she talked animatedly, one hand on the wheel while gesturing with the other. She alternated between them, her shapely fingers dancing in space, a gloss with ju
st a hint of palest peach on her nails. She was spirited, that was for sure. Even despite the brokenness he sensed in her and the fear she had to be fighting, she was holding it together. She was scrappy and he admired that. Was drawn to it even.
But she had allowed herself to be vulnerable too, sharing all the ugly details of her past that night at The Shed. He thought he understood why. Theirs was a new friendship and he was one of the few people who seemed to trust her. She wanted them to start off on the sure footing of the truth.
Guilt, like a cold cube of ice, slipped into his stomach. He, on the other hand, had not been as forthcoming that evening. Or the evening after. While she seemingly spared nothing, he continued holding his cards close to his chest. It didn’t seem quite fair, and not for the first time, he felt like he was cheating by not telling her. But the fact was, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.
When she made a hard right turn, pulling into the parking lot of Hope Community Church as he was thinking about cheating, he almost laughed out loud at the irony.
He also couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was God’s way of telling him it was time to spill it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinn maneuvered through the church parking lot, slowing at one point to allow a pedestrian to pass.
“Church?” Ian asked, his eyes scrunching as he turned to look at her.
“Is that a problem?” She was careful to keep her tone curious, not judgmental.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not in the slightest. My faith’s the only thing that got me through—” He cut himself off, his neck turning pink before he recovered. “Well, through life.”
Quinn’s intrigue meter pinged. Ian was definitely holding something back. Once more she wondered what his backstory was. Given his guardedness, it might hold a tale as interesting as hers. If interesting was the right word for it.
“I know the feeling,” she replied, glossing over his clear omission.
