Shelter for Quinn

by Susan Stoker

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, Emmy.”

  “Night, John.”

  Chapter Ten

  “What the fuck?” Driftwood exclaimed the next morning when he walked Quinn out to the driveway.

  The word repent was scratched into the hood of his truck.

  “This is why I want to clear out my garage,” Driftwood seethed as he fished his phone out of his pocket.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Quint Axton. He works for the San Antonio Police Department.”

  “Do you need to use my car today?” Quinn asked.

  It was sweet of her to offer, but he didn’t care about his truck. “Thanks, Emmy. I’m good. This isn’t an emergency, so it might take a while for someone to get free to come out here to take the report, but I don’t have any plans for this morning.”

  Looking around, Quinn asked, “Was your truck the only one vandalized?”

  “Don’t know,” Driftwood said. “But I’m sure whoever comes out to take the report will check around to make sure.”

  “I swear I’ve seen the word repent more in the last few weeks than any other time in my life. What exactly should we repent for? Do you think someone knows what we did last night?”

  Driftwood hated the way she looked so worried. What they’d done was beautiful. He didn’t want her to feel anything but content when she remembered the night they’d shared.

  “This wasn’t random,” he said quietly. “Especially after everything else that’s been going on.”

  “I’m beginning to think that too,” Quinn admitted.

  “The fliers, the protesters, and now this? Someone’s harassing you for some reason—and it’s got to stop.”

  “But who?”

  Driftwood sighed. “I don’t know. Willard? He always seems to pop up in the same places you are.”

  “I hate this,” Quinn whispered.

  Driftwood opened his mouth to reassure her when someone picked up on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Quint? This is John Trettle. Driftwood. I need some assistance.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. But my truck was vandalized last night. It was parked in my driveway and the word repent was scratched into the hood sometime between six o’clock last night and now.”

  “You got something you need to confess?” Quint joked.

  “Not funny, man.”

  “Sorry. You’re right. I’ll see what I can do about getting out there as soon as I can. You working today?”

  “No. Just got off a forty-eight.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a yell when I’m on my way.”

  “I’m going to take Quinn to work, will that be all right?”

  “Yeah. It’ll probably be an hour or so before I can make it out there.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yup. Oh, and Driftwood?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m assuming you’ll be taking her car. Don’t touch yours. Just in case.”

  “Gotcha. Later.”

  “Later.”

  Driftwood hung up, put his phone back in his pocket, and turned to face Quinn. She had her hair down, as usual, but unlike over breakfast, when she’d had her head up and was completely relaxed, now her shoulders were hunched and she looked uneasy.

  “There is nothing wrong with what we did last night. It was beautiful, and I’ve got nothing I need to repent for. Neither do you. Got it?”

  She let out a huge sigh. “Yeah. You’re going to take me to work?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. I told you that you could use my car.”

  That wasn’t why he wanted to take her to work, but he didn’t correct her. Driftwood was uneasy. He wasn’t a hugely religious man. He believed in God and in Heaven and Hell, but was uncomfortable with the fire-and-brimstone stuff that a lot of people in the south believed and participated in.

  But vandalism was going above and beyond when it came to trying to preach the word of God. Fliers and demonstrations were one thing. Carving shit into people’s vehicles was something different altogether. Maybe it was kids being kids. Maybe it was nothing more than an overzealous member of a congregation. But for some reason, Driftwood couldn’t get the face of Quinn’s neighbor, Willard, out of his mind.

  The man had a lot going on in his head. He hadn’t ever said anything aloud, that Driftwood could remember, but his eyes spoke volumes.

  “Have you seen your neighbor lately?” Driftwood asked Quinn.

  “No. I’ve been over here a lot and when I have been at my apartment, I’ve just parked and, after checking my mail, gone straight upstairs.”

  “And he hasn’t been around?”

  She shrugged. “Not that I’ve noticed. Do you really think he did this? How would he know where you live? Oh my God…do you think he followed me? Should we call the police?”

  “Shhhh,” he soothed her. “I just called them, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Try not to worry. I’ll talk to Quint and we’ll see what we can figure out.”

  “Do you have cameras? You know, those things you can hook up to your phone that let you know if someone walks by?”

  “Unfortunately, no. This is a good neighborhood. I’ve never felt the need for them.”

  Quinn raised her eyebrows and stared at him.

  He laughed. “Right. I’ll order a set today.”

  “I’m sorry about your truck.”

  “It’s just a vehicle. My insurance will pay for the damages.”

  “Still.”

  “Come on, you need to get to work.”

  “You want to drive?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “It’ll be easier for you to drop me off if we don’t have to switch places when we get there.”

  “I don’t mind if you drive, Quinn,” Driftwood told her. “I’m not the kind of man who always has to drive if we’re going somewhere.”

  “I know. But I always feel safe with you behind the wheel.”

  “Okay, Emmy. Get in. Let’s get you to work.”

  “Okay.”

  Two hours later, Driftwood ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

  “I found religious fliers at just about all of your neighbors’ houses,” Quint told him. “I don’t think you were targeted specifically.”

  Driftwood wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t have the expertise that Quint did. But without concrete proof and not wanting to sound paranoid, he decided to keep quiet…for now. He also made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Quinn, just in case.

  “Then why was my truck the only one tagged?” Driftwood asked.

  Quint hesitated. “Is that your bedroom?” he asked, lifting his chin and indicating a window at the front of the house.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Were your curtains open last night?”

  Driftwood looked to his bedroom window then back to Quint. “Not wide open, as you can see, but yeah, cracked open just like that.”

  “Maybe some overzealous parishioner was walking around hanging out their fliers and feeling holier than though and they got a glimpse of…you know…and decided to leave you a special note.”

  The thought of someone watching him and Quinn making love made Driftwood’s blood run cold. “Seriously?”

  Quint shrugged. “I don’t know. Without cameras or any other kind of evidence, there’s no way we’ll be able to find out who did this or why. I checked for fingerprints, but there weren’t any usable ones. This is basically a dead case before it even goes anywhere. My best advice is to get that garage cleaned out so you can put both your vehicles inside next time. Oh, and…make sure your curtains are shut all the way.” He grinned.

  “Fuck,” Driftwood muttered. “Fine. I can get a copy of the police report to send to my insurance, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll type it up this afternoon and email you a copy.”


  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I appreciate you coming out this morning.”

  Quint shrugged. “It’s my job. And even if it wasn’t, I’d drop everything for my friends from Station 7.”

  Driftwood held out his hand and Quint shook it. “Later.”

  “Later.”

  After Quint had driven away, Driftwood turned and studied his house for a moment. He’d been joking when he’d told Quinn about ordering security cameras, but it wasn’t a bad idea. He could put one above the garage, one at his front door, one around back, and maybe even one on the side of the house. He wasn’t sure if he bought Quint’s theory about what had happened, but at this point, they didn’t have any proof that anything more sinister was going on.

  The other thing he needed to do today was go to the store and buy a new set of curtains. The ones he had now weren’t wide enough. He might even buy blackout jobbies. If someone had spied on him and Quinn in bed together, he would do whatever it took to make sure they didn’t get a second chance.

  But he wasn’t going to tell Quinn about Quint’s theory. He wanted her to feel comfortable in his home. He wanted it to be a safe haven for her, and it wasn’t going to be so if she thought someone was peeking in through their windows.

  Shaking his head and taking a deep breath, Driftwood headed into the garage. He had a lot of work to do before it was time to go pick Quinn up from work.

  “What’s the surprise?” Quinn asked for the hundredth time as John drove her home that afternoon.

  “Wait and see,” he said for the hundredth time as well.

  “I’m not good at surprises,” Quinn grumbled. “Probably because I never had any growing up. Other kids always got fun surprises, but not me.”

  “Then that just means I need to give you more of them,” John said.

  “No! I wasn’t fishing. I really don’t like them,” Quinn was quick to say. “I can’t stand the suspense.”

  John chuckled. “This one isn’t super exciting. But now that I know I need to train you to like them, I’ll see what I can do in the future.”

  Quinn groaned and put her head in her hand. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  John grabbed her hand, kissed it, then held it in his own for the rest of the drive to his house. “I know you need to get back to your apartment to pick up more clothes and stuff, but I wanted to show you what I’ve been busy with all day.”

  He clicked the garage door opener on the visor she hadn’t noticed before now, and Quinn stared in disbelief as both doors rose to reveal a pristine garage.

  “What… Where’d all your stuff go?”

  “Some is in the attic, some I hauled off to the dump. I also made a few runs to Goodwill. I’d been using my garage as a sort of dumping ground for stuff I didn’t want to deal with. But I didn’t want to wait even one more day to get your car secured…so if I didn’t need it immediately, off it went.”

  Quinn turned to look at John in shock. “But that was your stuff.”

  He shrugged. “Junk,” he corrected.

  “But…it was your stuff,” she repeated.

  He looked over at her and tilted his head. “Talk to me,” he ordered.

  Quinn took a deep breath and tried to organize her thoughts. She decided to tell him something she’d never told anyone else. “I was in this foster home once. The adults were okay, but I guess knowing what I know now, I’d say they were hoarders. They had a garage, but it was full. There was a shed in the backyard, also stuffed full of boxes and other odds and ends. My room was small, and I only had a twin bed, but it was okay because it was mine. They had two biological children who had their own rooms too.

  “One day, I came home from school and they’d started putting some of the crap that had been in the living room into my bedroom. I tried to complain, but was told I was lucky they even took me in. I knew they were right, so I shut up about it. Every day, more and more stuff got moved into my room, until the night they finally told me that I was going back. That they needed my room for storage.”

  “Goddamn assholes,” John murmured.

  “They got rid of me because they needed my space to put their stuff,” she said. “Their things were more important than a nine-year-old kid who needed a family to give a damn about her.” She looked at him briefly, blinking back tears. “I didn’t realize how much that incident affected me until just now. It’s stuck with me all these years. That I wasn’t important enough to have my own space in their home.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “But you just cleaned out your garage so I could park my car in there. So I could be safe.”

  “Look at me,” John said.

  Slowly, Quinn brought her eyes back to his.

  He brought his hands up to her face and wiped her tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. “You are more important to me than anything else. I would gladly give up every damn thing I own if it means getting to keep you in my life and keeping you safe.”

  Quinn shook her head. “Do you really mean that?”

  “I do. I don’t care if my house burns down with everything in it, as long as you’re not in it. I don’t care if someone steals my truck, as long as you’re okay. And I definitely had no problem giving away a bunch of shit I never used to make room in my garage for your car, and to make you safer in the process. Okay?”

  Quinn nodded. John’s words and actions went a long way toward making those long-ago memories of being less important than a bunch of junk lose some of their grip. John wanted her to move in. He’d given away some of his things just to make room for her. It felt good. Very good.

  Chapter Eleven

  It hadn’t been a good day, so when Quinn’s phone rang while she was eating lunch and she saw that it was John, she was more than happy to answer. He had today and tomorrow off, and it was great to have him home. She’d found that, over the last two weeks, she really did miss him when he was gone. She’d been so used to being alone for so long, even after only two weeks of living with John, she knew she’d have a hard time going back to her solitary life if things didn’t work out between them.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. How’s work going?”

  It was shitty, but instead of inflicting her bad mood on her boyfriend, Quinn merely said, “It’s going.”

  “Hey, I was talking to Taco this morning, and he invited us over for dinner.”

  Quinn’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. No occasion really, but he told me that Jen’s feeling left out. I told him it was just because she was new to the group, but she argued that you were new, and you weren’t being excluded from get-togethers and things.”

  “Did you tell him that’s because I already knew Sophie? That I’ve basically been hanging out with you guys for months?” she asked a little petulantly.

  “Of course. But she’s trying, and Taco thinks Jen might be more comfortable hanging out with just a few people at a time rather than everyone all together.”

  “Just us?” Quinn asked.

  “No. Beth and Sledge are coming too.”

  “So you said yes?” she asked with a bit more heat than she meant to.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d mind. Is it a problem?”

  Sighing, Quinn closed her eyes. She was on the verge of tears. The morning had sucked, plain and simple. She’d stopped to get gas and the card reader on the pump hadn’t worked, which was annoying. So she’d gone in to pay and the clerk refused to meet her eye. It was obvious she was uncomfortable with Quinn’s birthmark. Then at a stoplight, she’d looked over at the man driving the car next to hers and saw him staring.

  When she was passing the entrance to the hospital to get to the Burn Center, she almost ran into a woman coming out. The stranger had taken one look at her and backed up as if Quinn had cooties or something. And to top it all off, the research she’d been doing had been contaminated, and two weeks’ worth had to be trashed and she had to start all over.

  So John telling he
r they were going over to Taco’s apartment to have dinner wasn’t sitting well. “I just…I’m tired,” she said somewhat lamely.

  “Apparently, Jen’s already over at his place preparing,” John said quietly. “She really is trying, Emmy, and I know if the roles were reversed, Taco would do what he could to make you feel comfortable and to try to help you fit in.”

  Quinn swallowed hard. She didn’t like the guilt trip John was putting on her, but he was right. Having dinner wasn’t the end of the world. It wouldn’t kill her. “I know. And it’s fine. Do we need to bring anything?”

  “Probably. You want to pick something up on your way home? It doesn’t have to be fancy. Maybe a potato salad or something?”

  Resisting the urge to sigh once more, Quinn merely said, “Sure.” She didn’t know why he couldn’t go to the store while she was at work. He was the one with the day off, and he was the one who wanted to go have dinner in the first place.

  “Cool. You’ll be home around five-thirty, right?”

  Hating the mood she was in and how resentful she was feeling, Quinn forced herself to lighten her tone and said, “Yeah. I should be as long as there isn’t any traffic.”

  “Great. I told Taco we’d be there around six.”

  Knowing she needed to get off the phone before she said something she’d regret, Quinn said, “I gotta go.”

  “Okay. See you later, Emmy.”

  Usually she loved the nickname, but today it just irritated her. Then again, just about everything irritated her at the moment. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Quinn didn’t get to leave work until five-fifteen that afternoon because she had to finish up the project she was working on. Starting over was costing her both time and research money. She had no idea what had happened to the other skin samples she’d been working with, but she’d had to take brand-new samples and start from scratch.

  Sophie and the others hadn’t blamed her, even though it was obvious they were as irritated as she was about the setback.

  And now she was late leaving, which meant she’d be late getting back to John’s house, especially since she still had to stop and get the stupid potato salad. And since John had told Taco they’d be there at six, she’d have no time to freshen up before they left. She’d barely have time to change.