by Lisa Harris
“I actually miss going,” he said. “I just haven’t gotten around to finding a place that fits since I moved down here.”
“Well, you ought to give this place a try,” Quinn said, gesturing at the church building. “I’ve been coming here practically my whole life. Buuuut,” she said, drawing the word out, “that’s not where we’re headed today.” She continued past the church to the parking lot in front of the adjacent building.
“Hope Community Center,” Ian read off the sign posted over its doors. “People say good things about this place.”
“They should. They do amazing work here.” She turned off the engine and swiveled toward him. “Next to kayaking, coming here is the thing that gives me the most perspective. And I could use some of that right now.”
“Who couldn’t?” he quipped.
“Well, then come on,” she said, releasing her seat belt and letting it snap back into place. “There are some people I want you to meet.”
For reasons she couldn’t fathom, nerves fluttered in Quinn’s stomach as she stood in the gym of the Hope Community Center making introductions. “Ian, this is Lena Sharp, the Hope Community Center Director, and her son, Jamie, and daughter, Keisha.” She swallowed hard, hoping the nervousness wasn’t visible on her face.
Keisha, only seven and a bit shy, stood behind Lena, while Jamie, ten years old and quite protective of his mother, thrust his hand out for Ian to shake. Quinn caught the hint of a smile threatening to break out on Ian’s face, but saw that he dampened it, instead adopting a serious expression to match Jamie’s. He obviously wanted the boy to feel he was being taken seriously. It was incredibly endearing.
“Nice to meet you, Jamie. Keisha.” Ian’s eyes flicked to Lena. “And you, Lena. Quinn tells me you’re the best friend she has in Seaglass Cove.”
Lena’s finely groomed eyebrows rose, wrinkling her forehead. “Did she now?”
“Can we go start the cans, Mom?” asked Keisha, tugging on her mother’s shirt.
“Sure, baby, go on,” Lena answered.
Calling out a quick, “Bye, Quinn,” as they went, the children ran to the opposite side of the gym where a dozen tables were positioned in an assembly line. Each one was covered with different foodstuffs—canned food, produce and dry goods. A few adults were bringing more boxes of supplies from the kitchen, either in their arms or on dollies, continuing to add more items to the tables. Jamie and Keisha had moved to a table crowded with assorted canned vegetables and were stacking them by type.
“So explain to me what we’ve got going here,” Ian said.
Lena pointed to a mountain of empty cardboard boxes on the floor beside the first table. “Every week the Hope Center puts together boxes made up of food donations and additional groceries we’ve purchased with monetary donations. Each box holds enough food for a family of five for an entire week.”
“That’s amazing,” Ian said, his eyes roving over the assembly line. “I didn’t realize there was that much need in this town.”
“We don’t only serve Seaglass Cove. People from all over the county with all different kinds of stories come here when they find themselves at a place in life where they need a little help. Some are long-term clients, some just need to get over a hump. Some have lost jobs, some haven’t held a job in years. We’ve got families who have spent every last dime on cancer treatment and veterans who are still struggling years after discharge.”
“How do you work it out? Who gets a box, I mean?”
“We don’t. If someone walks in and says they need one, they get a box. That’s all there is to it,” Lena said, satisfaction shining in her eyes.
Quinn loved to hear Lena gush about this ministry and watch her passion for it overflow onto yet another person. The way it had overflowed onto her. “Everybody, every time,” Quinn said, smiling at Lena.
“Everybody, every time,” Lena echoed, grinning back.
“You know,” Ian piped in, “every week we have extra food at The Shed—produce, baked goods, other stuff—that we aren’t going to use for one reason or another. If you accept donations from restaurants—”
“Oh, we do,” Quinn and Lena answered simultaneously, prompting them both to laugh.
“Then I’d like to help,” Ian said.
“Fantastic,” Lena replied. “Just drop off whatever you have by Monday morning. As you can see, we start setting up around noon and then get the assembly line moving around two. Our clients begin turning up around four o’clock to collect their boxes.”
“Well, starting next week, you can count on The Little Red Shed to help out with those supplies. But for now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I’m all yours. Put me to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ian was surprised at how fast the work was done, and that by three thirty, the boxes were nearly all packed up and ready to be handed out. Quinn was still helping Keisha and Jamie with the last few, making sure they had the same amount of provisions that the first boxes did. She explained that sometimes there had to be substitutions because they would run out of one thing or another. Ian finished moving the completed boxes closer to the door where the Center’s clients would soon be arriving to claim them. He loved that the program chose to use the term ‘client’ to refer to those they were assisting. Charitable aid and preservation of dignity should always go hand in hand.
After stacking the last of the completed boxes in rows, he paused to lean against the wall, taking a swig from a water bottle Lena had given him. He had actually worked up quite a sweat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the beads gathered there. He hadn’t planned on manual labor today, and although his work boots were well-suited to it, the shirt he wore wasn’t. Smears of dirt and dust from carrying and shifting boxes streaked his white button-down, and he was pretty sure that by now he had sweat right through it. He cringed a little. Not exactly the look he was going for. Then again, Quinn was so busy with the kids, she probably hadn’t even noticed.
He felt the corners of his mouth rise as he watched her. She was chasing Keisha now, tickling her when she caught her and laughing, throwing her head back. A warm buzz filled his center. Even now, with all that was hanging over her head, this was how Quinn Bello chose to spend her time. Filling the void of uncertainty by caring for others. By bringing a little girl joy. By refusing to bow to the wave of trouble rushing toward her. That was the kind of woman worth getting to know. The kind of woman worth breaking his rule for.
His gaze stayed on Quinn and Keisha as the little girl grabbed Quinn’s hand and led her to the last table which held pens, crayons, paper, and what looked like folded cards.
“That’s our note table,” Lena said as she came up behind him unannounced. “We write notes of encouragement, scripture, prayers for the client on the card. Sometimes the kids color pictures on them. Every client gets one.”
“That’s really lovely,” Ian said, his gaze swiveling back to Quinn. She was bent over a card now, scribbling something in earnest.
Lena leaned against the wall beside Ian. “Quinn told me what’s been going on,” she said.
“She did?” Ian asked, not exactly sure which recent events Lena was referring to. And whether he was one of them.
“Yep. All the stuff with the sheriff’s department. And the corpse on her floor—something she initially failed to tell me. And now the arson.”
“It’s insane,” Ian remarked disdainfully.
“She said you’re helping her.”
Ian’s eyes flicked to Lena. “I’m trying. I’m not really sure what I can do, though.”
“Well, I don’t either. But what I do know is that you are the first person besides me that Quinn has spent more than fifteen minutes with since she came back to Seaglass Cove.”
Ian forced himself to not look too pleased. “Really?”
“Really. What do you think that means, Ian?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Me either. But,
Ian, I am really, really, hoping that you will stick around to find out.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I want to thank you for taking me to the Center today,” Ian said, rotating in the passenger seat so he was facing Quinn as they sat together in her pickup in the parking lot of The Shed. “I hate that I wasn’t aware of the program sooner.”
“Thanks for going. Not everyone would be that excited about being dragged away from work to do more work,” she said wryly, though she absolutely meant it. He truly seemed to enjoy being a part of what they accomplished that afternoon. And he really worked hard—as evidenced by his rumpled, sweat-stained shirt, and the smears of dirt across his forehead and forearms that he either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t bothered to wipe away. Even his hair was showing signs of exertion with its unruly, curly ends more pronounced than usual, likely unleashed by the umpteen number of times he must have run a hand through it while working.
And he had never looked better.
“Well, I was happy to do it,” he said. “And I hope you’ll ask me again. Or I might just show up uninvited.”
“Well, I might just be okay with that,” she said, the response leaping from her mouth before she could stop it. She felt heat flush her face and prayed it hadn’t turned red.
If it had, Ian didn’t react. “Will you let me know when your lawyer gets in touch, and what he says?”
She nodded.
“I’m not feeling great about you going home alone,” he said, worry simmering in those grey eyes which she was becoming more and more in danger of being lost in. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and hang out? It’s trivia night, so even though we aren’t serving a full dinner menu, I have to be here because we’ll be swamped. Otherwise I’d go with you—”
“I’m fine,” she assured him, and she really was. Strangely enough, she felt more empowered now than ever, certain after the latest events that she wasn’t imagining things. “I’ll lock up the house. And turn on the alarm. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Don’t forget what we talked about. There’s a reason this is happening. Go over everything you can think of and make a list until something jumps out at you. Your lawyer’s going to want that anyway,” he said.
“I will, I promise.”
He reached out, covering her hand with his, sending a jolt of electricity through her. Though her heart was drumming, she kept her breathing in check as he leaned in slightly. “You’ll figure it out. And I’ll do whatever I can to help, Quinn. Okay?”
She nodded, pressing her lips together to avoid saying anything embarrassing as he slipped out of the truck. When he reached the back door to The Shed he glanced back one last time and waved before disappearing inside, triggering Quinn to exhale the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
An hour later, Quinn sat at her kitchen table with her cell phone, laptop and a legal pad. After first making a trip to the grocery store—she wasn’t going to be unprepared the next time Ian came by—she set up shop, determined to stay put until she figured something out.
The family lawyer finally called around six, apologizing for the delay and recommending a well-known criminal lawyer in Tallahassee to represent her, given the small-town runaround she was facing. In his opinion an outsider wouldn’t be swayed by the local sheriff’s department and could exert more pressure on them to take her claims seriously. He had put in a call to the Tallahassee lawyer, but hadn’t heard back yet. He promised to let her know as soon as he did, but to contact him in the meantime if the authorities arrested her again or called her in for questioning. So, at least for the moment, that issue had stalled.
This left her alone in the locked-up, alarmed-up house, planted at the table with a ginger ale and dinner of cheese, Honeycrisp apple slices, and nuts, trying to divine who would do this to her. At the top of the page she had listed a dozen or so clients and defendants who might have a grudge. The clients were those who were unhappy about the outcomes of their cases after losing while being represented by Quinn. The defendants were those Quinn won judgments against—two construction companies, a doctor, a couple of privately held businesses and a few individuals in deadly traffic cases whose property had been seized and sold to pay the judgments owed to her clients. Each of these cases involved amounts well over a million dollars, providing ample motive for a desire for payback.
But staring at the list, Quinn couldn’t shake the sense that this just didn’t feel right. What was happening to her was too complicated a scenario, too involved for someone who just wanted payback. There were easier ways to do that—key her car, trash her house, troll her social media accounts. What was going on in Seaglass Cove felt too sophisticated for mere revenge.
If not for revenge, then why?
The other standard motives for criminal acts were love, hate, money, and concealment. Love didn’t make sense. Its antithesis, hate, didn’t come into play either. Who hated her on a personal level? Not her ex. Simon had been the one to break things off, not her. He didn’t hate her. Other than sending her those stupid flowers, he hadn’t shown signs of caring at all.
But what about Shane Cody? He’s made it pretty clear that he hates me.
The thought left her slightly ashamed. Yes, Shane still had hard feelings over what happened with Annie. But would that incite him to carry out a vendetta like this? He was perfectly positioned to do it, but still, it seemed a gigantic stretch. He was a law enforcement officer, after all, and a good one, as far as she knew.
Nevertheless, she jotted his name down. She wasn’t in a position to rule anyone out at this point. With that in mind, she went ahead and wrote “Annie Cody’s family members” after Shane’s name, the guilt she had carried since that night eighteen years ago weighing heavy on her as she did.
Liar. Thief. Delinquent. User. Loser.
The labels scrolled through her head like a mantra. She pushed them aside and took a sip of ginger ale, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. Unable to come up with any other suspects possibly motivated by love, hate or revenge, she was left with money and concealment.
What monetary gain could there be in someone framing me?
Who would benefit financially if she was crowned a crazy person, unreliable, a drunk or user, convicted and jailed for vandalism and arson.
No one.
She was only the manager of Bello Realty. She didn’t own it or any of the properties. Her going to jail wouldn’t result in any of the property being sold, so acquiring real estate couldn’t be a driving force. She was broke, so there wasn’t any money for someone to get their hands on if she suddenly was out of the picture.
Which left concealment, a motive that would mean all of these steps were being taken to keep something from coming to light. But what?
She tapped the side of her glass, a trickle of sweat dripping down to meet the table’s surface. Looking up from her notes, she watched the distant surf through the windows at the back of the house, white foam crashing over and over, the thunder of it a faint roar behind the closed French doors.
If I assume concealment is the motive, then either I already know something incriminating or damaging to someone’s interests and don’t realize it, or someone is afraid I’ll eventually discover something damaging if I’m allowed to continue on as I am.
But what could I know, or be on the verge of discovering?
How was she supposed to guess what she might know already, but not recognize as a threat to someone? She blew out a frustrated whoosh of breath. It was impossible.
Instead, she tried focusing on the theory that she was positioned to learn something or gain information that someone didn’t want her to have. Which begged the question, how would setting her up protect the information from coming to light?
That was the first easy question she had come across. By discrediting her, by showing her to be a liar, a loose cannon, someone still unreliable and at odds with the law, they could make sure no one took her seriously. So, if and when she finally p
ut two and two together and became aware of the damaging information she was privy to, it wouldn’t matter, because no one would believe her if she tried to expose it.
Of course, the other option was that they were setting her up to create a narrative for eliminating her before she could do any harm. It wouldn’t be a far reach to use everything that was happening to paint her as a depressed, out-of-control woman. Then they could kill her to keep her from talking, and make it look like a suicide. It was a story people would believe, given all she had gone through and was going through now. Tendrils of fear wove through her bones like vines climbing a trellis.
Is that what’s happening? Am I being set up to die for knowing something I don’t even realize I know? And how exactly did I discover, or am I going to discover, this information?
No one had approached her or reached out to her in any way that was out of the norm. There had been no letters, no stop-bys at work, no threats or notes slipped into the mailbox.
But there have been phone calls, a small voice inside reminded her. Phone calls with no one on the other end of the line.
“Those were telemarketers,” she mumbled aloud. “Not espionage.”
But were they? What if there was something to Ian’s suggestion the other night at The Shed that the calls had been someone’s attempts to get a hold of her? Attempts that failed because the caller initially got cold feet when she did answer, and then, once he finally found the courage to try again, she had stopped answering unrecognized numbers.
She put herself in their shoes. If I absolutely had to share information with someone, but had to do it under the radar so it wouldn’t be detected, how would I do it if the person wouldn’t take my calls?
The answer came to her immediately.
Quinn’s fingers flew over her laptop keyboard as she pulled up her accounts on Facebook and Twitter, scanning for instant messages, comments or posts—anything from anyone she didn’t recognize. Anything that seemed remotely suspect. But she wasn’t terribly active on either platform and there was nothing out of the ordinary. She even checked her friend requests—none—and new followers—again, none.
