Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  “I still owe you an apol—”

  “It’s not as if we’re engaged. Or going steady. Or even, God forbid, dating.”

  “We could be.” He tilted her head so that she could see into his eyes. See his willingness to commit to her. Peer into his soul. “We’ll have to work at the trust-thing.”

  “Let’s go slow.” She ran the tip of her little fingernail between his eyebrows. “Three crises may be all the tests we can handle for the next few days.”

  Knowing better than to pull her closer, he said, “And my crisis calls. I need to get to the office.”

  She stared. “Did you just say you’re going to the office?”

  Desire to repeat the magic of last night sucked him into a vortex, tempting him to forget Tony. He could stay with Quinn. Celebrate Thanksgiving. Close the wounds from Brittany.

  “If I don’t review Tony’s records,” he said quietly, “I won’t be ready when we meet tonight.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  He laughed. “What a sweet talker.”

  “What about a quickie?” She propped herself up on one elbow and of course the sheet slipped off baring her rosy breasts. “I’m ready. Right now.”

  He placed the sheet over her shoulder and said words he’d never imagined speaking under torture. “My heart wouldn’t be in it. There’re hundreds of pages I have to digest...”

  An emotion he couldn’t read flickered on her face, then faded. She smiled and leaned in closer, their foreheads touching. “Could you use some help?”

  “Thanks, but you’ve got forty people showing up—”

  “Forty-two if you’ll come.” Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him, eyes wide open and soft.

  Since he wasn’t a saint, he kissed her back, feeling closer to her than he’d ever felt to a woman. When he pulled back, she was smiling again.

  “Seeing the lights. Eating great food. Doing something normal—putting Tony in the back of your mind for a couple of hours—might be a strategy that keeps you from going crazy.”

  “Waiting until nine o’clock for Tony to show up probably will have me gibbering,” he said, still not sure if he could function at a party. “First, I’ll need that brain transplant.”

  “Brain transplants are my specialty. Having you there might keep me from going crazier.”

  His eyes softened. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

  “In the spirit of full disclosure—”

  A long, insistent peal from the doorbell interrupted.

  “Probably a neighbor who doesn’t know the password to my intercom.” He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his jeans from the middle of the floor, hopped on one foot to pull them over his legs and hobbled into the hall.

  “Maybe we can do that dance at The Bash.”

  “Count on it,” he called, remembering Tony dancing at the last Christmas party.

  ****

  The deep, smoky under notes in the woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. Quinn froze on the bottom step but couldn’t pick up the words from the family room. Was the woman crying?

  Intent on eavesdropping, Quinn failed to pick up the silence of cat feet behind her. Floyd’s tail brushed her bare leg on his charge to the kitchen. She yelped and grabbed the bannister.

  Conversation in the family room stopped. Pierce appeared in the hall. His brows formed a V and his eyes narrowed.

  Not happy to see me. Heart pounding, Quinn met his unblinking gaze.

  “You’d better come in.” He sounded as if the words burned his mouth.

  Her heart stuttered. “What’s wrong? Is there news about Tony?”

  “Come in.” His rigid, uncoordinated gait scared Quinn more than his stiff face and blank eyes.

  “What’s going on?” She became aware he kept both his hands at his sides as they retraced his steps to the family room.

  “Hello, Quinn.” The last woman Quinn ever wanted to see sat in the middle of the sofa. Her dark eyes were huge, her milky skin translucent, her long black hair a controlled mass of gleaming waves.

  Tears become her, Quinn realized, standing straighter, trying to control the slo-mo memories slicing and dicing her brain. She said, “It’s been awhile.”

  Brittany nodded. “Four years. But you look good.”

  “Thanks.” Hyper-aware of her bed-head, Quinn locked her jaw. Damn. Why couldn’t she be standing there in her Thanksgiving dress—bronze velvet, low scooped back, full skirt—a dress fit for Cinderella?

  Pierce broke the silence. “Brittany’s here about Tony.”

  “I see.” A lie, but Quinn wasn’t about to ask for details.

  “Since my divorce three years ago, we’ve gotten...close.” Brittany touched a small, oval, diamond-encrusted sapphire pendant. “He’s really been there for me.”

  “Your necklace is exquisite.” Quinn thought she sounded reasonably polite for someone whose brain was as dull as an eggplant. “Did Tony give it to you?”

  A tentative, shy little girl nod. “He knows how to pick up my spirits.”

  Worried she’d gag, Quinn shot Pierce a raised brow. Five million dollars should pick up anyone’s spirits.

  “I can’t believe he’s missing.” Brittany focused on Pierce, her big eyes brimming with tears. “We talked yesterday morning after my plane was delayed out of O’Hare. We talked again at noon.”

  “By phone?” Quinn asked, wanting to get the facts.

  “He texted me twice after that. At one and two-thirty.”

  “Where was he?” Quinn glanced at Pierce. They knew where he wasn’t at two-thirty. At home.

  Brittany shook her head. “I assumed he was at work. He talked about tying up loose ends so we could enjoy the long weekend.”

  “Did he meet you at the airport?” Pierce asked.

  “He’d ordered a limo. I expected him to meet me at The Plaza Marriott. I got there at six.” Tears deepened her voice. “Champagne and roses and chocolates, a spectacular view...but no Tony. No messages. No reply to my texts or calls.”

  “He called me at 7:18.” Pierce spoke as if his lungs were collapsing. “He didn’t say anything about meeting you.”

  Brittany shrugged—like a woman exhausted by her troubles—except every hair lay in place and every lash was mascaraed perfectly despite tears gliding down her cheeks. “No surprise, right? How’d he sound?”

  “Like he was stressed.”

  “No surprise, right? He’s wanted to tell you about us for a long time.”

  “He had other things on his mind.”

  Quinn felt the pull of Pierce’s pain, took a step—a second behind Brittany. Quinn withdrew, assaulted by old memories of Brittany and Pierce glued to each other.

  “C’mon. Sit.” Brittany took his hand, led him to the sofa, sat down, then pulled him down next to her, holding his hand, squeezing it, patting it.

  Dizzy, Quinn felt invisible. Pain squeezed her heart.

  Surprisingly, Pierce broke away from Brittany’s comfort before she appeared ready to retreat. He said, “Quinn and I have to leave, but we can drop you at the Marriott. Tony might show up there looking for you.”

  “What time will you come back?” Brittany spoke in the hesitant, scared voice of a five-year-old being left alone in a spooky house.

  None of your business.

  Heat seared Quinn’s scalp. She said, “You may remember I throw a Thanksgiving party at the office every year. We may still be going strong past nine or ten.”

  “Tony made dinner reservations for us at seven. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll probably order room service.”

  Damn.

  Quinn saw Brittany’s wistful tone push several of Pierce’s guilt buttons and wanted to shake him.

  Instead she said, “If he doesn’t call you or show up by five, you can always come to my party. Cab over whenever you want. I’ll ask a guest to take you back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful.” Brittany spoke to Pierce. She reiterated a variation of her
gratitude at least six times between his house and the Marriott.

  Quinn was in favor of dropping their passenger in the circle drive, but no one asked her opinion. Ever the gentleman, Pierce left the engine running with the heat on high while he escorted the distraught Brittany to the elevator.

  The snow had stopped overnight. A golden sun hung in a cloudless, acrylic blue sky. Short rays bounced off the ice-encrusted landscape, but at the edge of Quinn’s mind, blackness hovered.

  Ten minutes crawled by, giving her ample time to rewrite several versions of her mental movie.

  No matter the beginning and the middle, each rewrite ended with her finding Pierce and Brittany in her hotel bed.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Quinn saw Pierce emerging from the hotel, she started singing, “Over the river and through the snow.”

  He climbed behind the wheel. She continued singing. She would not give him the satisfaction of asking why he needed fifteen minutes to walk a hundred feet to the elevators. Or ask how much he’d told Brittany.

  “You want my balls in a vise or my head on a platter?” He pulled away from the curb without glancing behind him.

  Despite his king-of-the-road driving ’tude, the white Mercedes SUV gave her a sense of safety she missed in the Corvette. So if he was trying to rattle her, he was about to meet with miserable failure. She ignored his stupid question and his reckless disregard.

  “Brittany looks great, doesn’t she?” He sped down the salted streets, clean and dry for the thousands of revelers arriving later for The Plaza Lighting Ceremony. “She’s really worried about Tony.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brittany’s worried about Brittany.

  “Any guesses why Tony didn’t tell me about their relationship?” Foot on the accelerator, Pierce sailed through a yellow light. “You think he felt I’d disapprove—since she and I have a history?”

  “Duuh.” Face burning, Quinn whipped around to face him. “Why would your history with Brittany bother Tony? Maybe he doesn’t mind going to bed with your former lover. You are his mentor...someone to look up to. Someone to admire. Someone...”

  Her breathing sounded as if a Sumo wrestler sat on her chest.

  “She’s nothing to me.” Pierce kept his eyes on the road but took his hand off the wheel and reached for her. “I can’t explain why I was an idiot.”

  “I can. You’re terrified by the big C. You—” She shook her head angrily, but managed not to jerk away from him like a melodrama diva. “Let’s stick with the plan. We’ll pick up my party clothes, go back to the office and check Tony’s records under a magnifying glass. Feel free to skip The Bash.”

  “I’m not your father, Quinn. I’m not going anywhere without you.” The sympathy in the glance he shot her almost undid her.

  Almost. She looked out the window and pressed her back against the seat. Mentioning Daddy was unfair. Below the belt. Cruel. She retreated to the place she’d gone after finding Pierce and Brittany half-dressed in her office and found the cool, distant voice she’d perfected.

  “You can wait in the driveway. I have all my stuff ready. “

  “Take your time.”

  “Like you took with Brittany?” Before he came to a full stop, she opened her door, jumped out of the car and punched the remote.

  She jogged inside, closing the garage door behind her without checking if he’d followed. Okay, call her childish. Petty. Bitchy. Sue her. He was arrogant. Baiting her with Brittany. But worse, far worse—he opened wounds she’d exposed to only one other person. Her lungs released a quavery sigh. She fumbled at the kitchen door’s lock. Dropped the key. Picked it up. Rammed it home. The ache Pierce’s tactlessness had brought to the surface hammered her heart.

  Sunshine spilled through the window over the sink. Her pink and lavender African violets, rows of oversized cookbooks, antique wall plates from her mother—all looked normal and inviting. A white envelope propped in the middle of the green pine table sent her hammering heart through the top of her head. Her full name, Sarah Quinn Alexander was typed in caps on the expensive, white linen envelope.

  Her scalp tingled with sweat. In her peripheral vision, the walls shrank, bringing the basement door closer. It’s locked, she thought. It’s always locked.

  Like the door into the garage? Her throat closed. Was someone else in the house? Her skin tried to crawl off her arms. She strained to pick up a smell or an awareness of menace in the morning quiet.

  She forced her trembling legs to carry her to the family room. No place to hide in there. In her mind’s eye she saw the foyer. Coats and umbrellas and boots and fuzzy slippers filled the closet she kept meaning to clean. Upstairs...

  Dry-mouthed, she imagined climbing the stairs to her bedroom. Scenes from Psycho—a movie she’d never been able to watch from beginning to end—flashed in quick, subliminal bursts. Her breath caught. She backtracked to the kitchen. Picking up a snake held more appeal than picking up the envelope, but she grabbed it and stepped into the garage.

  No way she was going up those stairs. Not alone. Not until she’d read the contents of the envelope. Alone. Without Pierce offering his opinions.

  The dank odor of clay failed to mask the cold sweat oozing from pores she never knew she had. She flipped on the two-hundred-watt bulb over her potter’s wheel, exploding bright memories of nights spent working her pots. Calmed, she slid a knife under the envelope’s flap.

  Four typed lines seemed to leap off the single half sheet of white, watermarked paper. Nausea coated her throat. She swallowed, but couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t understand. The message made no sense. She read the lines again, out loud, word by word:

  Carter Quinn Alexander is alive and well.

  He has a new family he loves dearly.

  He never loved you, Sarah Quinn.

  Ever.

  The letters swam together, blurred, cleared and cha-chaaed in a meaningless rhythm of gibberish. She blinked, shook her head, looked in the distance. The shovel she’d used two nights ago stood in the corner. No ghost of her father hovered there. No voice groaned her name. No slasher charged out of the shadows, yelling at her in a crazy woman’s voice. The silence was broken only by the rattle in her chest.

  Several quick inhales evened the cadence of her breathing. Oxygen fed her overheated brain. She stared at the envelope and loosed the fury coiled in her belly.

  Dammit, no one had to jump out and scare her. She was doing a damned good job of teetering on the cusp of melodrama all by herself. What a wuss. The wonder was she hadn’t peed her pants. Or tripped over her paralyzed feet, hit her head and—

  Her cell phone rang. Her lungs seized again. All at once adrenaline jolted through her, making her ready for flight or fight. It’s only the phone.

  Her fingers closed around the phone in her pocket. She’d check the LED. If she recognized the caller, she’d answer. If not, she wouldn’t. And if she didn’t answer, the phone wouldn’t detonate a bomb planted inside the house.

  Only in the movies. The second ring chimed. She removed the phone, read the LED and retraced her steps toward the kitchen door.

  “There a problem?” Pierce asked in a composed tone laced with sarcasm.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” She passed through the kitchen and family room and foyer with the phone to her ear. She stuffed the note in her pocket and climbed the stairs, looking up—in case a wannabe Mrs. Bates came flying at her intent on mayhem. She reached the top step without an appearance by Mrs. Bates or anyone.

  “Pop the trunk for me, okay?”

  Five minutes later, Quinn insisted on loading her clothes bags and makeup case into the trunk. Pierce sputtered a few curses, shook his head, slid under the wheel and barely waited till she closed her door to back out of the driveway. They drove past the golf course. An elderly man, dressed in bright yellow pants with a green-plaid jacket, stood on the snow-covered fifteenth green. He took aim, raised his club and sent an orange ball arcing toward the sun. The golfer trudged across the cou
rse, and his single-mindedness focused Quinn.

  Daddy might be alive. He might even have a new family. But she absolutely refused to accept he’d never loved her.

  Sitting on his lap. Listening to him read her favorite bedtime story for the fifth time. Playing catch with him in the park. Kissing his smooth, citrus-scented cheek after he’d shaved. A storehouse of memories—vivid, real and verified by her mother over the years—made the last statement in the note a monstrous lie.

  “The elephant riding between us could blow up any minute,” Pierce said, slowing. “Talking will make you feel better.”

  “Men and their fix-it mentality.”

  “Okay, talking will make me feel better.” He tapped the brakes and made a right turn onto Country Club Lane, populated with sprawling Tudors set in spacious front yards as pristine as a Hallmark card. He drove to the dead end, stopped, killed the engine. “You have to know I don’t have feelings for Brittany. I sure didn’t tell her about meeting Tony tonight. Or his confession.”

  “Brittany’s a topic for another time. Right now, I want to know if you ever told Tony about my father.”

  To his credit, Pierce didn’t miss a beat. He met and held her gaze. “Nope.”

  No undertones of anger or defensiveness or curiosity. Typical Pierce.

  “Want to offer any ideas into how he might know more than the bare facts—since I never told him?” Her full name was a matter of public record.

  “Who besides you and your family knows more than the bare facts?”

  “No one.” Her jaw ached from the death clench on her molars.

  “Any chance Michael confided in his best bud?”

  “None.” Anticipating the question failed to stop a rush of hot anger from discharging. “And if he had, how could Rex get in my house?”

  “Someone broke in your house?”

  “No. The inside door to the kitchen was locked. No signs of forced entry. But someone left me a note...and my vote is Tony.”

  Pierce stared at her as if she’d dropped out of the sky. “When’d you give Tony a key?”

  “Maybe he copied yours. The one I gave you...”