Bastard, you didn’t have the balls to stick it out and help me through this . . .
But I know, deep down, that I’d also made it impossible for Trey to stay. Quinn changed everything. Clearly she wasn’t done yet.
Yellow buses pulled into the school parking lot, exhaust fumes puffing white clouds into the air as they waited for their loads. Temperatures were dropping fast, the sun already dipping behind the peaks. Jeb parked his bike behind a row of mountain ash red with berries. From here he could watch the school entrance without being seen. He cut the engine but kept his helmet on.
He should leave, head out to the Wolf River Valley, check out his old home and set up before nightfall, but he was incapable, knowing Quinn was still in that building, possibly in trouble. She’d drawn blood. There would be consequences, possibly even police.
Seeing his child snap like that had left a quivering, uneasy feeling inside him. Was her violent temper shaped by blood or by circumstance? How differently might he himself have turned out under different circumstances? With these thoughts came something new—a paternal guilt, the weight of responsibility. He knew what it was to be an outsider in this very school. He felt he was to blame for Quinn’s circumstance now. And it sharpened his determination to prove his innocence, because he could not allow his daughter to think for one moment she was the product of violence, of rape, the child of a murderer. To be ostracized and bullied for it. He knew all too well that once a kid began to assume a label, it could become impossible to shake.
The buzzer sounded and the double doors bashed open, kids spilling out with screeches and laughter and yells and backpacks and hair flying in the wind. Cars and parents came, went. The school buses filled and left.
An old beater of a blue Ford truck drew into the parking lot, a young woman with striking red hair behind the wheel, someone Jeb didn’t recognize. She waited in her truck, engine running. The grounds grew quiet, cars left. No sign of Quinn. The woman finally cut her engine, got out of her truck, and made for the entrance. Her flame-red hair hung almost to her waist. She wore jeans, a down vest, hiking boots. She entered the school.
Another twenty minutes passed before the redhead exited. She stood for a moment outside, looking a little lost. Then she moved into a protected corner and called someone on her cell phone. She gave a visible sigh of frustration when she got no answer. She texted instead, then paced, checking her watch, glancing at the school doors. She stopped suddenly and answered her phone.
Turning her back, she bent her head, talking. After she killed the call, she raked her hand through her thick mane of hair and cast another glance at the doors. She then left in her old truck.
Another hour ticked by. It grew colder, the light turning a soft lilac. Daylight would be four minutes shorter each day now as the earth tilted farther away from the sun.
Teachers started to leave, the parking lot growing emptier.
As the light dimmed even further, wind gusted harder, fed by mountain downdrafts as chillier alpine air sank to the valley. Leaves clattered across the paving. A police cruiser pulled into the grounds and drew up out front. A uniformed cop climbed out, female. She slammed her vehicle door closed, adjusted her gun belt, went into the school.
So, they’d called the police. Most likely because of him. His jaw tightened.
Jeb had broken his resolve to not engage his daughter. It had taken only the spark of those blonde bullies to ignite him, and now he’d brought trouble for her. The last thing he needed was for any link to be drawn between Quinn and himself. Not until he’d proved his innocence.
Not until he’d found out why those four guys had lied for each other and perjured themselves in court.
Not until he’d learned the truth.
A few more minutes ticked by as darkness seemed to crawl out from cool crevices. Jeb was grateful for his gloves, his helmet. A flock of geese flew high in a V. Honking. Lonely travelers crying as they departed for warmer climes.
Suddenly the school doors opened again. A woman with blonde hair came out with two of the blonde girls in tow. One of the girls was holding a wad of tissue to her nose. The other was crying. Moments later they were followed by a balding man and a slender brunette, each holding onto a blonde child of their own. The man and the woman talked with heads bent together, then they ushered their charges toward an Escalade and a pumpkin-yellow Hummer, respectively.
The Hummer and Escalade left.
Two minutes later the female cop exited the school. She paused as the doors swung slowly shut behind her. Jeb’s pulse quickened and he eased back on his seat as the cop briefly scanned the parking lot before walking over the grass toward the hill that sloped down to the ball fields and bleachers.
She stopped at the edge of the hill where the teacher had stared after him, and she peered toward the trees where he’d been standing earlier. Briskly, she turned and strode back to her cruiser. Jeb had no doubt she was going to drive round there, take a look, canvass people in the neighborhood, asking about a tall dark stranger in a leather jacket, a man who’d come onto school property, touched the girls.
Tension whispered through him. The clock had started ticking. Game on. He hadn’t intended it to start this way, or so soon.
The cop drove off the property, turned right, and headed down to the subdivision that led round the back of the ball fields. Silence descended, apart from the halyard and hooks chinking against the metal flagpole, the intermittent snap of the flag. Jeb glanced at his watch. Almost four p.m., getting dark. But Quinn was still in there.
The sound of an approaching engine suddenly reached him. A gray Dodge Ram wheeled sharply into the parking lot, tires squeaking as the driver pulled up onto the curb right outside the school entrance in the no-parking zone.
The driver’s door swung open and long, boot-clad legs extended, followed by stockinged thighs, short skirt. The woman’s chestnut-brown hair lifted in a wild tangle as the wind caught it. Electricity shot through Jeb.
Rachel.
He froze, heart hammering as he watched her reach into the back of the truck cab. She grabbed a down jacket. Yanking it over her sweater, she kicked the truck door closed behind her and hurried toward the school as she stuffed her keys into her jacket pocket. She had a slight limp. The crash, he thought. It had left her permanently, slightly, disabled. He tried to swallow, pulse racing. Mouth dry as bone.
Pushing through the doors with both hands, Rachel disappeared into the school.
He’d read about her accident in the papers. She’d been coming into the finish when she hit a rise at a bad angle, hurtling off balance into the air. She’d landed on hard-packed ice, spinning down the slope in a wild kaleidoscope of skis and poles. The edge of one ski had caught the orange race fencing, torquing one leg away from the rest of her body. She had come to a stop, blood running dark red against the white snow, the world watching in horrified silence as she lay unmoving, paramedics racing to reach her and bring a helicopter in.
A rush of high-voltage adrenaline charged through Jeb as he stared at the doors that had swallowed her. His reaction was so powerful, so visceral, it made him shake. This was the woman he dreamed about nightly. The woman who’d been his closest friend. The only woman he’d ever loved, still loved. And could now never have. Yet she was caring for his child. She was going inside there to do battle for Quinn. The irony struck hard.
There was no way in hell he could leave the parking lot now. He had to see Rachel come out, with Quinn. He had to see them both again.
CHAPTER 5
I march Quinn briskly back to the truck as I stuff the piece of paper with the girls’ parents’ names and phone numbers into my pocket. It’s not even five p.m. and already darkness has fallen, temperatures hovering around freezing. The school parking lot lights have come on, a dull orange. Leaves scatter and swirl at our feet.
Quinn keeps her head cast down, shoulders hunc
hed, mouth set in a tight line. I sat with the principal and the school counselor for almost an hour, trying to get Quinn to explain why she laid into those girls, but she refuses to speak. My heart is hammering.
I open the passenger door for her, but Quinn stands obstinately glaring at her boots, clutching her backpack so tightly against her stomach you’d swear her world depends on it.
“Quinn, c’mon. Please, get in. It’s cold.”
My niece refuses to budge.
An osprey swoops somewhere in the darkness overhead, wings whop whopping as it hunts something under the orange lights. I go still, and a chill suddenly crawls down my spine. I feel as if I’m being watched. With my hand holding the door open for Quinn, I peer into the surrounding darkness. It moves with shadows and rustles in the wind, but I can’t see anything. Just a few cars, a van, no one around. Probably a bear, I think. But the uneasiness lingers.
Quinn suddenly looks up at me, as if sensing my fear.
“Quinn,” I say more gently. “Please?”
The child climbs in and I slam the door, going round to the driver’s side. I get in, start the engine. My hands are trembling. It’s not from cold. I’m fraught with worry, anxiety, over Quinn. Guilt. She’s tried me these past six months and I’m not winning. I don’t know how to do this. Especially now.
Thank God there was no more physical damage than a bloodied nose. The school nurse attended to that. I’ll have to call the parents tonight and apologize. So far there’s been no word about charges, although the police were called in. I’m worried about how this will play out. But what’s really eating me is the news that a man with black hair came onto the school property and broke up the fight. One of the girls claimed the man also followed Quinn into the woods before the fight.
Levi’s words snake through my mind as I turn up the heater.
He’d be a fool; he’d have to have a death wish. What could he possibly want here?
I inhale deeply. Jeb doesn’t know about his child. He can’t know. How could he? The only other person who knows is Trey, and he’s vowed to keep it that way.
As I wait for the truck to warm, I try again. “Why won’t you tell me the reason you hit Missy?”
Silence.
Frustration bites. I concentrate on keeping my voice level. “It would really help to know what upset you like that, because then we can deal with it—”
“They’re bitches,” she snaps suddenly.
I count to twenty, then say, calmly, “So they said something that provoked you, something that made you mad?”
Quinn glowers in sullen silence at some arbitrary spot on the glove compartment.
“Look,” I soften my voice, “I really do want to help you. Please tell me what went down on that field, because if those girls said something hurtful, that’s bullying, and we can’t just pretend it never happened. It’ll only fester.”
My niece turns her face abruptly away and stares out the window. Her knuckles are white and tight over the backpack on her lap.
I suck in a deep breath. Take it easy. She’s had a rough time. One wrong move now could send everything backward . . .
“Okay, maybe we can talk about it over dinner. Let’s get some takeout. What would you like?”
She remains mute. The heel of her Blundstone begins to kick at the base of the seat.
“Pizza?”
Silence.
“Fried chicken?”
“Not hungry.”
I decide to let this ride, just a little. Maybe Quinn will be more receptive later tonight. Or tomorrow. It’s the start of Thanksgiving break—there’ll be no school for a week. Perhaps I could take time off work to just be with Quinn, do something special. A trip maybe. Conflict tightens in me. It’s a tricky time to be away from the paper with all the potential advertising contracts in the works, with the winter season and big turkey sales ramping up. Banrock is also going to be breathing down my neck now that he owns almost half my company.
That deeper, darker fear snakes through me again—a dark-haired stranger on school grounds. Jeb out of prison . . .
“That man who stopped the fight,” I say. “Have you seen him before? Or was today the first time?”
She keeps her head turned away. The kicking grows louder, more rhythmic.
Tension knifes deeper. “The teachers described him as having black hair and wearing a black leather jacket. They said he was crouched down, talking to you, but as soon as they approached, he hurried away and disappeared into the trees.”
The kicking of her Blundstone boot intensifies. The sound hammers inside my skull.
“Missy and Abigail told Mrs. Davenport he followed you to the store earlier, and that you returned with a bag of candy. Is that true? What did he say to you?” I hate the pitch entering my voice.
The interior of the truck cab is warming. I wait a few more moments mostly because I don’t know what the hell to do. The more I think about it, the more I worry it could be Jeb.
“Did you talk to him on the way to the store?”
Silence.
“Tell me, Quinn!”
She spins round, her eyes flashing. “They’re bitches! They’re all liars! He hasn’t been following me—he was just walking past the school when it happened. He’s not a bad man!”
Perspiration prickles over my brow. I take a deep, slow breath. “Did he buy you the candy, then? Did he ask you questions?”
“So what if he did? No one does anything nice for me. He’s a nice man.”
“Did he ask where you live?”
Silence, heavy and dark, boils back up around her like an invisible cloud.
I reach forward and ram the truck into gear, reminding myself she’s lost her parents in a horrific fire. She’s been uprooted and forced to live with a young aunt she doesn’t even know that well. New town, new school. New friends. Ripped out of her life. Floundering.
We both are.
And suddenly I feel so alone, so unequipped. None of my peers have kids this age. Trey is gone. I have the big house, a business I don’t fully understand yet. I miss Sophia and Peter. I miss my dad. The overall sense of loss is deep, a chasm in my heart. What have I done to bring this all down at once?
Triage, I think. Quinn has to come first right now. Above my business. Above my financial worries. My niece is teetering on the edge of a dangerous place, and my number one goal must be to keep her safe. If it means taking a holiday, even leaving Snowy Creek for a few weeks with Quinn, I’ll take out a loan to do it.
I drive through the parking lot and up toward the exit. But as my headlights pan across a white van, I catch a gleam of chrome behind it. A bike. Something about it makes me glance up into my rearview mirror as I approach the parking lot exit. Wind gusts and shadows move, but I can’t see anything from this angle. I turn left onto the road. For a moment it looked as though there was a man in a helmet on the bike. Perhaps it was a trick of light.
As I approach the intersection on the highway, the lights turn red. I bring the truck to a stop. While I wait, I try once more with Quinn. “I really wish you’d tell my why you hit those girls.”
“I told you!” she yells. Her ferocity startles me. “They’re bitches. Liars . . .” Tears, fat, start to roll fast and furious down her pale cheeks and she starts to shake violently.
The lights turn green. Instead of turning north on the highway, I quickly drive through the intersection and pull up onto a curb under the branches of an old oak. I reach out, wrap my arms around Quinn, draw her shaking little body against mine. And I just hold her tight. My chest aches with Quinn’s pain. My head hurts. I stroke her hair. Soft under my palm. I remember her as a day-old baby in my arms.
Another memory flashes through me, of being in Jeb’s arms. Wrapped in his protective care. Pain twists through my stomach. Ever since that day in Guthrie’s office six months ago,
Jeb and Quinn have become intertwined in my mind. I can’t separate one from the other yet.
How could I have been so wrong about him? How on earth am I going to do this? I swallow against the tightness in my throat. I need help. I need to take her back to see the therapist.
“They’re liars,” she sobs softly into my jacket. “They’re horrible, horrible liars. I hate them all.” Her slender body judders as another wave of sobs wracks her body. “It’s just not true.”
“What’s not true, Quinnie?” I whisper, stroking her hair. “You mean what they said about the man following you?”
“They said I was a bastard,” she mumbles into my jacket. “They said I was adopted.”
A dull roar begins to sound in my head. “They said . . . what?”
“They said Mom and Dad weren’t my real parents.”
My heart begins to jackhammer.
“It’s not true,” Quinn says. Then, sensing the sudden stiffness in my body, she turns her face slowly up to me, tears shining on her cheeks, her lip quivering. “I am not adopted.”
I swallow. Panic crashes through me. Sophia wanted Quinn’s paternity kept secret, but I wish with all my heart they’d at least told her she’d been adopted. Quinn’s features change as she watches my face, feels my mushrooming tension.
“I . . . I’m not . . . am I?”
Oh, God, Sophia, wherever you are, please, give me a sign, help me . . . what do I say now? Why did you leave telling Quinnie about her adoption to me?
Trust.
I need Quinn’s trust. Break that now, and I could lose my niece forever. But is this the time to tell the truth? Won’t it hurt more now than later? I have to say something—those girls have cracked this open, and I won’t be able to get this genie fully back in the bottle.
“Rachel?” Quinn’s voice quavers now, thin, pleading.
The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) Page 6
