The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel)

by Loreth Anne White

  Time stretches. The roar in my head grows louder. Whatever I say now will shape things to come, perhaps forever, between Quinn and me.

  “Am I?” Quinn’s voice is now shrill, laced with desperation.

  Inhaling deeply, I say, “Quinnie, your mother and father loved you more than anything in this world. They were your parents in every way, but you’re special because you have other parents as well, birth parents.” Oh, God, this is coming out wrong.

  “I . . . I don’t understand.” A glittering wildness enters her eyes. But there’s no turning back. I take her cold little hands in mine.

  “Your mother and father tried for a very long time to have biological children of their own, for years and years. They were desperate to have a baby, a family. But when the doctors said it wasn’t possible, they decided to adopt. And then, out of the blue, you came along. You entered Sophia and Peter’s lives and you were ready for them to take care of you. They brought you home when you were just a day old, a tiny newborn right out of hospital.” My voice catches on a surge of emotion. I lean forward, move a strand of hair from her eyes.

  “I was there the day they brought you home. I saw the smiles on their faces; it was the happiest day of their lives. You were theirs—ours—to love forever.” My eyes burn as I try to hold it together. “They wanted a baby, Quinnie, and you found them.”

  She’s grown dead still. I’m not even sure she’s breathing. Worry cuts through me. I cup the side of her face. “They were your mom and dad, Quinn. I am your family.”

  A shudder runs through her body. Her face goes white, her mouth tighter. Her fists are balled. I don’t know how to do this; there is no manual. I physically ache with need for my sister to be here, to help, to whisper some assurance in my ear. “They were going to tell you when you were a little older,” I offer, but my voice is faltering now. “They just didn’t get a chance.”

  She springs backward suddenly, shoving me away, and she swings her backpack at my face. The buckle smacks across my eye. “You’re lying too! It’s all lies! You’re a bitch, too!” she shrieks. She pops open her seat belt and lunges for the door handle.

  “Quinn! Wait!” I grab her arm, fear galloping through me. She glowers at my hand on her arm, eyes fierce. I can feel her limbs trembling. She’s fighting herself. Fighting this knowledge, hitting back at it, trying to make it go away. The fabric of her psyche, her belief in who she is, her very foundations are shattering around her.

  I swallow and loosen my grip slightly, fearful that if Quinn gets out of this truck now, she’ll bolt blindly into the dark. The surrounding wilderness is a dangerous and cold place to get lost, especially at night. I’ve volunteered enough hours with Rescue One to know this firsthand. I know how many never come home.

  “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you very, very much. I loved your mother with all my heart, too. And Peter. We are family. Quinnie MacLean, that’s you. We belong—” My voice chokes. “I hate what happened to your parents as much as you do. It’s a terrible, terrible thing. But you and me, we’re all that’s left. We need to be here for each other. I’m scared as hell, too. Terrified, really, because I don’t know how to be a good guardian. But I am here for you—I’ll always be here. I promise you that. And one other thing I promise is that I’ll try my best, my hardest. But I need your help.”

  The rawness in my voice reaches something inside Quinn. Her eyes lift slowly.

  “I don’t know how to do this either,” I say. “But we’re going to try, together, okay? Because if you beat me up along with the rest of the world and run away, where are you going to go on your own? If Mrs. Davenport kicks you out of school for violence, what are we going to do then? Where will we go then?”

  A siren wails down the highway, winding away into the mountains.

  “It sucks,” I whisper. “I know that. But we’ll deal with it. Baby steps. Each day we’ll just aim to get through. Then one day, maybe it’ll all be a little bit easier. Like a sunny break after a terrible storm.”

  There’s a long silence.

  A single headlight flares suddenly in my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me. I turn and look out the back window. A bike has pulled off the road about a hundred yards back. The headlight is cut.

  I think of the bike at the school. Disquiet whispers through me.

  “I want to go home,” she says, her voice soft, small. “I want my mom.”

  “I know.” I gather her into my arms again and an indescribable sensation washes through me as I hold her against my breast. A ferocity. A feeling that I will do anything for this child now. Anything. I will keep her safe. I will make her happy. “We’ll find a way,” I whisper against her hair. “Together we’ll put those girls in their place, okay? But we’re going to do it in a smart way. We can’t physically beat away all the bad things. Violence is not the answer.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Ice shoots through me. I pull back.

  “Who?”

  Her gaze holds mine.

  “You mean . . . that man?”

  Silence.

  Fury, fear, chases through me. I turn in my seat and glare at the bike in the dark shadows.

  “He’s not a bad man.”

  “How do you know?” Urgency nips my voice.

  Something flickers in Quinn’s eyes, and in that instant, without a quiver of a doubt, I know it’s Jeb. He’s here. He followed and spoke to Quinn. He’s on that bike out there. It was him waiting outside the school.

  “Did he ask you where you live?” My words are clipped.

  Silence.

  “Did he?”

  “Yes!” she spat. Her only tool is anger, and she’s grabbing it back, wielding it again. “He asked if you were married. I told him your stupid boyfriend dumped you.”

  I can’t breathe. “Does he have a motorbike?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Does he have a tattoo, on his neck? A fish?”

  Quinn turns her head sharply away.

  I lurch forward, put the truck in gear, hit the gas, and squeal back into the road. Wrenching the wheel hard, I pull a U-turn across the boulevard, almost clipping a parked sedan on the opposite side. My tires squeal. My hands are tight on the wheel as I drive too fast, my heart thudding overtime, perspiration breaking out on my lip.

  “Put your seat belt on,” I snap as I remember she took it off.

  “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

  “Police station.”

  She swings round in her seat to face me. “No! You can’t, please—he’s not a bad man.”

  “And how do you know that? Because he bought you candy? Because he smiled nicely at you? There are some very bad people in this world who know just how to get at little girls.” My voice is shaking. “You might think he’s safe. Men like him can make you feel they’re your friend. They can make you feel comfortable, happy. But they’re dangerous. They’re predators. You have to understand this. Terrible, terrible things can happen.”

  “He’s not dangerous,” she sobbed. “He’s read my favorite book. He helped me when those girls took my candy.”

  I wheel sharply into the public safety building parking lot, tires bouncing as I hit the edge of the curb. I come to a stop, sit for a while, engine running, watching in the rearview mirror, heart pounding, sweat prickling over my torso. But there’s no bike. There’s nothing in the street save for the odd car. Maybe I imagined a man on the bike in the school lot. Maybe I imagined we were being followed. I’m seeing Jeb in every damned shadow because I’m paranoid now that he’s out. I drag my hands over my hair. My imagination is becoming my worst enemy.

  The police station is attached to the fire hall at the back. Beside it is the Rescue One base. The light is on in Adam LeFleur’s office, a yellow glow spilling out into the cold night. He’s working at his desk. His large form
is comforting. It’s going to be okay.

  We’re all here for you, you know that . . .

  I can do this. I can handle this. If Jeb is back and looking for trouble, Adam will move heaven and earth to lock him back up, for good this time. I unbuckle my seat belt.

  “Come,” I say to Quinn as I open my door.

  Quinn presses herself deeper into the car seat, clutching her backpack over her tummy again. “I’m not going in there with you.”

  “Quinn—”

  “You can’t make me. I’ll bite you. I’ll kick you—I’ll scream.” She refuses to look at me. Her mouth is set in a sullen pout.

  I glance at the police station. Frustration swells inside me. Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial the station number. The call clicks directly to voice mail, which gives the detachment office hours. I curse to myself. Short of dialing 9-1-1, I’m not going to get through by phone.

  I open my door. Standing next to my truck, I yell up to the lighted window where I can see Adam bent over his desk. “Adam! Can you hear me?”

  No response. He can’t hear a thing through the double glazing. I look around—no one in sight. All is quiet.”

  “Okay,” I say, bending back into the truck. “You stay here. But I’m going to lock you in the truck.”

  She remains mute, chin stubbornly jutted forward.

  “I’ll be just inside that window over there,” I say, pointing to Adam’s office. “The police will be able to see you from there, okay?”

  Nothing.

  Quickly I shrug out of my down jacket. “Here, put this over you so you stay warm.”

  She doesn’t take it so I leave my jacket on the driver’s seat beside her. I set the child safety lock, close and lock the doors. My truck locking system is faulty—if I activate the child locks, even the passenger side door can’t be opened from the inside. Quinn will not be able to open the doors for anyone. Locking her inside fills me with guilt, but I’m desperate; I don’t know what else to do. I can’t wrestle her into the police station, and I can’t risk her bolting into the night.

  I hurry along the path, telling myself I’ll just be a minute, and the cops are right here.

  CHAPTER 6

  Quinn hugged her backpack tight over her tummy. She desperately wanted to not believe Rachel. She wanted to hate Rachel. Make her go away. Make all the horrible things of the past six months disappear. She wanted her mom and dad back. She felt like a sock was stuck in her throat and those stupid tears were coming again.

  She kicked her boot heel against the base of the truck seat, trying to stop the tears. But still they burned the backs of her eyes. She drew Rachel’s jacket over her, up to her nose. It was fluffy and warm and smelled softly of her aunt’s perfume. There was blood on it from when Quinn had bashed her above the eyes with the backpack. She banged her boot harder as she turned to watch her aunt run lightly along the path and up the concrete steps to the police station entrance.

  Above the building a Canadian flag waved in the wind. White police cruisers and SUVs with red and blue stripes down the sides were parked in the lot in neatly angled rows. Beyond the building, high up above the waving flag, the dark shape of Bear Mountain rose up like a dark blot against the sky. Quinn could see warm yellow lights glowing from the Thunderbird Lodge restaurant and the gondola station near the top. Far above even the peaks, northern lights waved like greenish and yellow curtains, making the glaciers glow ghostly white.

  As she waited, the truck windows began to fog up. Quinn pulled her aunt’s jacket tighter. The street was empty and dark, leaves blowing along the paving.

  They were all liars. She was not going to believe them. She just was not.

  Quinn balled her fist and rubbed a little hole into the mist on her window. That’s when she saw it, a black bike gleaming, the rider with a dark helmet and jacket, watching her from across the street, his exhaust puffing white smoke.

  Her heart jumped. It was him. She was sure of it.

  Excitement rippled through her. She rubbed the hole bigger and leaned forward, peering through it.

  The man. Her shadow.

  She wasn’t afraid of him.

  She liked him—he made her feel special, as if she had a guardian angel. Maybe her mother had sent him down from heaven to protect her, like in that book she’d read where angels were dark and handsome with tattoos and they watched over girls like her who’d been left all alone in the world.

  Stupid Missy Sedgefield and Abigail Winters and the others spouting their bitch mouths off about seeing him following her through the woods, snitching about him buying her candy. The bike faded into soft focus as Quinn’s breath caused mist to re-form over the window. She quickly balled her hand and scrubbed another circle into the mist. He was still there.

  Our secret, ’kay . . .

  Quinn felt bad for getting into the fight now. It had forced him out of the shadows to help her, and they’d all seen him. Now her aunt was tattling in the police station. Rachel was going to scare him away. Missy had told Principal Davenport about his black hair and black leather jacket. But they hadn’t seen the tattoo that curved down the side of his neck. Quinn was pretty sure about that. By the time the man had crouched down to speak to her, the girls were running toward the school. It was a coho salmon tattoo. She knew because her dad had been a fisheries expert and he’d had carvings and Indian drawings of coho. He’d told her that the jaws and teeth of the male fish grew hooked and aggressive like that when they turned up into the rivers to spawn.

  The girls had told Principal Davenport he was scary.

  But he wasn’t. His eyes were the deepest blue and he had the best smile ever. And now Rachel and the police might scare him away. Quinn rubbed another hole into the mist. He was still there, watching. She felt a warm little clutch in her heart. It was her job to keep his secret. A friend. A secret friend.

  Our secret, ’kay . . .

  A young female officer with a mop of dark, loose curls opens a door beside the reception counter fronted with bulletproof glass. Her name tag says Constable Pirello. Her gaze flicks over me but her expression is inscrutable. Typical cop.

  “Come this way.” She leads me into a bull pen of sorts with metal desks behind dividers. The walls and carpets are in tones of soft gray. There is only one other police officer at his desk at this time. The other desks sit empty.

  “Would you like to take a seat; can I get you some water? Can you tell me what happened?” She’s looking at my face.

  My hand goes to my brow and my fingers come away sticky with blood from where Quinn hit me. With shock I realize I must look like a mugging victim. I’m covered head to toe in gray glacial dust, my hair is a snarled mess, and my face is bleeding.

  “It’s nothing,” I say, looking at the blood on my hand. “I came down the mountain on the back of an ATV in a hurry to get to the school. My niece was having some . . . trouble.”

  Her left brow rises slightly and the woman appraises me with big violet eyes.

  “I was at the gondola launch,” I explain. “I must’ve bumped my head. I’m fine, really. I’d like to speak to Adam.”

  “You mean Deputy Chief Constable LeFleur?”

  She has a French accent, I realize.

  “We’re old friends. I know he’s here, I saw him in the window.”

  Something flickers through her gaze. She pulls out a chair next to the closest desk. “Please, wait here.”

  I remain standing as Officer Pirello strides down the hall. She manages to pull off the heavy gun belt and bulletproof vest look, her swagger somehow sexy, overly confident. I dislike her on the spot.

  Adam comes down the hall with her. Pirello talks quietly to him as they walk. He looks up and starts slightly at the sight of me.

  “Rach.” He comes forward quickly. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “ATV ride. Bump
ed my head. Adam, can we have a word in private?”

  He hesitates, glances at Pirello. “Is this is about the elementary school incident, with your niece?”

  I inhale deeply. “Partly . . . yes.”

  “This is Constable Annie Pirello,” Adam says. “She recently joined us from Montreal. She’s the one who took the call from the school. I think it’s best she hears anything you might have to say.”

  Pirello regards me again with those big violet eyes and expressionless features. Self-conscious and suddenly irritated, I clear my throat and glance toward his office at the end of the hall. A part of my mind has started to backpedal.

  “Fine,” I say. “I was wondering if . . . any of the parents are pressing charges, or anything? I don’t know what usually happens with something like this.”

  “No charges at this point,” Pirello offers. She has a cute little gap between her front teeth, which also manages to make her look oddly sexy. For some reason this just galls me further.

  I use my sleeve to dab at the blood on my brow. “Did the girls say why the fight happened?”

  “None of them wanted to talk.” Pirello’s eyes hold mine, as if she’s waiting for something else to drop, for me to tip my hand, give her further information. My palms grow damp.

  “I understand there was a man who came onto the school grounds and broke up the fight,” I say crisply.

  Pirello nods, not giving anything away herself.

  “The girls apparently told the principal that this man was watching my niece during lunch hour, down on the ball fields. Did Mrs. Davenport tell you that?”

  “She did.”

  Irritation spikes. “And she also told you that he followed her to the Alpine Market, where he bought her candy?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So what exactly happened?” I demand of Pirello. “Did you find out who he is? What he wants?”

  “We have a general description from the girls and two of the teachers, but your niece would not confirm their version of events. If she has something to add, perhaps she would like to—”