by Lisa Harris
She slammed back into the chair and ran a hand through her hair.
Okay, not social media. What then? Email?
Her work email account was now frozen, her access terminated based on a warrant executed by Investigator Fisk. But that didn’t apply to her personal email account. How someone she didn’t know would obtain her private email address was a bit of a mystery. She didn’t exactly hand it out. Although that was also true of her cell phone number and, if there was any credence to this theory, the person trying to reach her had somehow managed to get that number.
The more she thought about it, her personal email address and cell number really wouldn’t be that difficult to track down. Her law firm knew them. People she had socialized with back in Tampa had them. They were listed on forms she would have filled out in various places: the gym, rewards programs, her bar association personal profile, court records, doctor and dentist records, mailing lists…
They’re out there to find if someone is desperate enough.
She opened her inbox and started scanning. She went back a whole month, but found nothing. The same was true for the spam folder. She even opened the trash which held over a thousand emails she had discarded for one reason or another. She scrolled back through a full month of those too, stopping to read them in their entirety whenever she came across one from a sender she didn’t recognize—a notice for an upcoming legal seminar, an ad for a clothing line, and the like. But nothing looked suspicious.
After twenty minutes, she leaned back in the chair, absentmindedly chewing on a nail. Maybe this theory was a dead end. Maybe no one was trying to reach her. Her eyes drifted aimlessly over the kitchen space as she thought it through. No texts, no email, no snail mail either. Just a couple of bills and flyers. No notes. No strange…envelopes…
Quinn’s eyes dropped to the flowers in the trash can. The ones sent by Simon. Simon, who had only ever once sent her flowers, and that had been three years ago at the beginning of their relationship. Simon, who had broken off that relationship in very clear, final terms.
With the hesitant gait of a detonation specialist approaching a suspected bomb, Quinn moved to the trash can and gingerly pulled out the bouquet. The roses were turning brown where they had been smushed, as were the hydrangea blooms. The envelope sat in the greenery where she had shoved it before tossing out the whole thing. Quinn withdrew it and pulled out the card.
Quinn, I still love you.
Please don’t give up on me, Peaches.
I miss our walks, reading together in the
morning over coffee, our everything.
Please call me.
A shockwave rolled through her. Something definitely wasn’t right. Simon had never called her Peaches once in their entire relationship. And walks together? Reading over coffee? Nonexistent.
Someone else had sent this. Sent it as Simon to disguise whoever they were and whatever their true motives were, in case someone other than Quinn intercepted it. But the sender would have known she would realize it wasn’t actually from Simon as soon as she read it. They were likely counting on it. And on her deciphering the deeper meaning behind the words.
But this is just a bunch of nonsense.
Was “Peaches” a clue? She didn’t keep any peaches in the house, or any fruit for that matter thanks to her terrible shopping habits.
Or maybe the reference to walking? But walking where? She didn’t have a walking pattern except up and down the beach, which didn’t suggest anything helpful.
She considered the line about “reading together over coffee.” Given their schedules, she and Simon had rarely seen each other before noon. In Tampa her mornings had been spent on her balcony, just like they were here on her porch—alone, coffee in hand, reading her devotion…
Possibility ripped through her like lightning and in seconds she was out the back door, racing to the rocking chair where she sat nearly every morning, reading her devotion book, Hope For Each Day, by Billy Graham, and the side table where she kept it.
Holding the book by its spine, Quinn used her thumb to flip through the pages—until they stopped on their own on the passage for October 11. Tucked tightly in between the pages, crammed as close to the spine as possible and taped in place, was a thin, two-inch silver key, and with it, a folded note, on the outside of which was written:
DO NOT GO INSIDE
DO NOT READ THIS ALOUD
THEY ARE LISTENING
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Quinn lowered herself into a rocking chair, keeping the book in her lap. Her head shot up as she scanned the beach. No one seemed to be watching. But according to this warning, someone was listening.
Her heart thrumming like an engine, she unfolded the handwritten note.
* * *
Dear Quinn,
I don’t have much space to explain. You are in danger. I have a plan, and I slipped in when you stepped out. I’m waiting here for you to come back home so I can explain in person, but in case that does not go well, I’ve planted this for you to find later. I’ve been watching you for several days and know your routine. I’m sure you’ll find it. But I had to tuck it toward the back so it wouldn’t be noticeable, and just in case you miss it, I’ve arranged for the flowers to come tomorrow as a secondary precaution. I know it sounds crazy, but given their resources, this is the only way.
The people coming after you are more dangerous than you can imagine. Do not underestimate them. If they’ve found me, it’s only a matter of time before they start in on you.
This key is to a private mailbox at The Mailbox Office in Columbus, GA. All the answers are there.
I’m sorry if we didn’t get to meet. And I’m sorry for the role I played in hurting you. My hope is that you can stop this before anyone else gets hurt. Because I promise you they will stop at nothing to make sure their secrets stay secret.
Your house is likely bugged. Your phone and car tracked. Leave everything and go as soon as you find this. Take the contents of the box to the FBI as soon as you collect it.
I’m sorry.
* * *
The note was unsigned. Quinn looked up again, her gaze darting from side to side up and down the beach. There was no one on the boardwalk, and the few people on the sand still didn’t seem to be paying her any attention.
She looked back at the note, her heart skipping a beat. She sucked in a breath waiting for the rhythm to reestablish, which it did with a disturbing, out-of-time thump.
This was behind all the craziness happening to her. This note and the key in her hand would literally unlock the secrets behind the mayhem. For reasons she couldn’t possibly fathom, whoever left these needed her to have them so badly, needed her to retrieve whatever was in that mailbox so desperately, that he had apparently died trying to make that happen.
She had no idea why. But she was going to find out.
Quinn emerged from the brush along the south side of Highway 98, a mile east from her house and about one hundred yards from The Little Red Shed. It was only a twenty-minute walk from her house to this point, not exactly strenuous, but dodging between houses and trudging through the sand dunes had left her huffing. After checking for anyone tailing her and seeing no one, she ran across Highway 98 to the north side and kept going.
Her plan was to approach The Little Red Shed from the rear, in case anyone was watching. She had left her phone and truck at home, so that if they were being tracked—as the author of the note suggested—it would appear she was still there. But she couldn’t be sure someone wasn’t keeping surveillance on her house from the beach side. If they saw her go, she hoped by now she had lost them in the growing dark.
She went one block farther north into a neighborhood, then cut over, stopping when she finally reached a spot she thought would be directly behind The Shed’s property. After cutting through yards and over more than one fence, she finally saw the lights of The Shed and turned on the speed.
It was nearly eight thirty now. Thankfully, the ar
ea behind The Shed was blanketed in deep shadow, its garden and walking paths lit only by the strings of lights wrapped around trees and bushes. Quinn could only pray that it would be enough to keep her hidden.
She sprinted to the back door to The Shed’s kitchen, coming up on it so fast that she had to catch herself with outstretched palms to keep from slamming into it. She had to knock three times before Ian finally opened the door, his brow furrowed, his face alight with concern.
“Quinn? What are you—”
“Lock it behind me, okay?” Quinn asked, stepping past him, then whirling around as he complied. He turned to face her, his expression grim.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, a dark shade to his voice.
She held his gaze. “Everything, Ian. Everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The journey from Seaglass Cove to Columbus was a four-hour trip over primarily state and U.S. highways, which despite being mostly four-lane roads, still passed through some long, undeveloped stretches of backcountry. Quinn and Ian had left The Shed in his Jeep right around nine p.m., after she frantically explained just enough of the situation for him to understand that she needed to go as soon as possible.
“I can’t ask you to go with me,” she had said, inches from him in the walk-in storage unit where they had gone for privacy, “but I need to borrow your truck. And your cell. According to this,” she held up the note, “they may have bugged and tracked mine.” She had shivered then and he quickly pulled her into him, rubbing his hands up and down her arms for warmth. The gesture was more comforting than he could have known, and it took everything for her not to crumple into his embrace at that moment. But breaking down was not an option. No matter how much she wanted to, or how much she believed he would carry the load for her if she let him. This was her problem, not his.
But he wasn’t having it. Which is why, instead, he drove them both away from The Shed in his Jeep, headed for Columbus. Quinn put up a bit of a fight about it, but not much. The truth was, she wanted him along.
She spent most of the first hour explaining what she discovered and how she had discovered it, as Ian peppered her with questions. The more she talked, the more idiotic she felt over the fact that the answer had been in her house the whole time.
“It’s been sitting in my house for days. Days! I can’t believe I just threw the flowers in the trash without reading the card. I knew something was off. It isn’t like him to send flowers, but I’m just so…so…done with him. I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say.”
“You can’t beat yourself up over that. You didn’t know. And if I’m honest, I think it’s pretty great you just dumped them in the trash.” Though he was staring straight ahead into the darkness before them, Quinn could sense he was appraising her in his peripheral vision, waiting for her reaction.
“You do?” she asked, nervous anticipation running down her spine.
He nodded. “You’re done with him and you know it. That’s so much better than pining away for someone. Makes it easier to move on with your life.”
“Well,” she hedged, “it isn’t all Simon’s fault. I hurt him by creating a horrible situation, even though he took it badly.”
“Any guy that wouldn’t stand by you given what you were going through at the time isn’t worthy of you. So, I’ll say again, I’m glad you’re done with him.”
She turned fully in her seat now, staring at him, feeling her admiration slip onto her face in the form of a smile. “You’re big on loyalty, aren’t you?”
He turned briefly to face her. In the glow of the dashboard she could see the line of thick, dark lashes along his eyelids. “Aren’t you?” he said, his voice taking on that low, meaningful quality he had used the other night. He looked back at the road, his hands seeming to grip the wheel more tightly.
“Absolutely,” Quinn answered, a palpable pull reaching straight from her center, drawing her to him—as if willing her to jump across the console and into his arms. Instead, she resolutely twisted forward in her seat and forced a change of subject. “So what do you think is in the mailbox?”
He sucked in a loud breath, releasing it slowly. She cut her eyes at him to find him glancing over at her again, his eyes narrowed in amused vexation before they returned to the road. He wagged his head almost imperceptibly, then started chiming in with his theories.
They spent another twenty minutes bouncing ideas around, trying to make sense of the note and why its author would choose to handle things in this bizarre way. Was it because of a murder? Or murders? Embezzlement? Secrets that would ruin someone? The possibilities were endless, but right now it was all speculation. “We’re wasting our time,” Quinn finally conceded. “Without more to go on, we’re shooting in the dark.”
“Look, why don’t you get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got another two hours to go until we get to Columbus.”
“No, you should sleep,” she argued. “I can take a turn driving.”
“At this rate, we’ll make it by one. I’ll park somewhere and sleep then. The mailbox place doesn’t open until eight, right?”
This idea didn’t sit well with her. “Doesn’t seem fair that you do all the driving.”
“I’m a cop. Or at least I used to be. I’m used to working the night shift.”
“Is that what you used to do? Work the night shift?” she asked, quickly snatching up the breadcrumb of his past he had dropped, likely an inadvertent slip on his part.
He rolled his lips inward and she could tell he was debating whether to elaborate. “How about you stop wasting good sleep time and crawl in the back seat,” he said.
Decided against sharing, then, she thought, disappointment pricking her gut. When will he finally feel comfortable trusting me with whatever he’s holding back? Is he afraid it’ll change my opinion of him?
As she unbuckled and dropped into the back seat, re-buckling before lying down, she couldn’t imagine Ian Wolfe telling her anything that would make her think less of him.
After all, whatever his story was, the man in the car with her now was a good one. Whatever his story, she knew what it was like to need a fresh start. If he needed one, she would be the first to offer it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Almost forty minutes had passed since Quinn crawled in the back, and Ian could hear her snoring gently.
Good. She needs the rest, he thought.
Now near midnight, traffic was sparse, headlights in the opposite direction only cutting the blackness sporadically as he rolled along in the quiet. He kept the radio off. He liked the silence. Made it easier to think.
And there was a lot to think about.
He still hadn’t told her. A knot twisted in his stomach at the thought of it and the chance he passed up earlier, when she asked about his shifts on the job. It was the perfect opening to finally lay his past bare. But instead he watched it go by like the lines on the highway and kept his mouth shut.
Of course, she never would have asked about it had he not brought it up, and he mentally kicked himself for that. It wasn’t like him to slip up, and it was a sure sign he was letting his guard down with Quinn.
But was that a good thing or a bad one?
Ever since he left that world behind, he had maintained a strict silence about his work on the force and the events that haunted him, finding it easier to pretend that nothing had happened at all. Easier to just start over from scratch, which led to his rule about not dating for now. Dating meant complications. It meant having to explain.
But Quinn Bello had come along and changed everything. Not only was he considering breaking his rule, he was also making the kind of mistakes he hadn’t made even once since arriving in Seaglass Cove. Almost as if, deep down, he wanted her to know.
But the risk is so high.
If she knew, she might just walk away from him.
Or she might feel a kinship. If anyone would understand, it would be her.
He adjusted the rearview mirror downward, all
owing him to see her beautiful face in the muted colors of night—slender nose, long eyelashes brushed toward her cheekbones, lips parted slightly—and her red hair piled around her, a devastating contrast against her fair skin. He exhaled a tight breath and returned the mirror to its proper position.
The bottom line was, he would never be able to guess ahead of time how she would react if he came clean. And until he came clean…well…she would never really know him.
It boiled down to this: Was being truly known by her something he wanted badly enough to risk losing her altogether?
Chapter Thirty
Quinn propped her head up on one elbow, digging it into the cushion of the back seat. She lay on her side as she watched Ian sleeping in the driver’s seat. It was nearly six thirty, and she woke ten minutes earlier to find he had parked the Jeep in a Costco parking lot somewhere in Columbus. She wasn’t sure exactly where, as she didn’t have her phone on her—she had left it in her house—and Ian’s was clutched tightly in his right hand. But a billboard for “Prime Plumbers, the best in Columbus,” at least clued her in to the fact that they had reached their destination.
She frowned, feeling guilty. He could have slept in the cargo area. There was plenty of room back there, but he chose to sleep sitting up in the driver’s seat. On guard.
Probably something to do with his police instincts. Remaining in a position to act quickly if needed.
“Thank you, Lord, for him,” she whispered, acutely aware that having Ian come into her life when he did was more of a blessing than she initially realized. He had plunged into the thick of this with her without a second thought, refusing to let her tackle it alone. She could have done it alone if she was forced to, but she was so glad that wasn’t the case. Gratitude welled up, wetness brimming along her lower lids.
