I’m pretty sure she knows Jack isn’t my cousin. For one thing, there’s the complete lack of a resemblance. More damning, I suppose, is the fact that I’d never mentioned him until he needed a place to stay last spring, and since then he’s bought me a dog and has come up for several midweek visits.
So what do they think is going on? I suspect it’s more than the obvious. Emma and Owen never question my unplanned “vacations.” Nor do they question my ability to buy hot tubs and gazebos despite being intimately acquainted with the lodge’s tight cash flow. When our teenage helper, Sammi, vanished last year, and I was suddenly taking off with my newly rediscovered cousin John, they didn’t question that, either.
They don’t suspect the truth. I’m sure of that. As understanding as they are, the truth goes beyond what I think they could comprehend or accept. They probably figure I’m another type of vigilante, like a detective, and that Jack is a private eye I met on my investigations. Whatever the case, they like him coming around. As Emma said the last time, “He makes you as happy as that damned dog does.” Which, I suppose, is true, though I doubted Jack would appreciate the comparison.
As Emma and I talked business I saw a figure pass by the screen door and into the kitchen.
“I think a guest is awake,” I said.
“Then they can help themselves to coffee and buns, which are all laid out.” Emma pegged a dishcloth on the line. “They asked for breakfast at ten, and I’m not serving it earlier.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The door opened a minute later. It was Jack, changed and shaven, balancing two plates with cinnamon buns on two mugs of coffee.
Emma didn’t attempt to exchange more than the most basic pleasantries with him. A lifetime with Owen had taught her that some people don’t go for that sort of thing. But Jack made the effort, asking about her hip and making sure she was okay with him staying.
“Well, I’d have appreciated it if someone called me last night to be sure I had a big enough breakfast planned. But that’s not your fault. If there aren’t enough eggs, someone can go without.”
“She means you,” I whispered to Scout.
“No, I do not.”
As the dog jumped off the chair, Emma waved at Jack’s plates. “Don’t feed her any of those. It’s not on her diet.”
“Hope she means the dog,” Jack said as he handed me a bun and coffee.
“She does. We’re trying to stop Owen from feeding scraps to Scout. If he does it, she can’t understand why guests won’t. She’s snatched a few buns, which lands her in the doghouse. Literally.”
“Ah.” He turned to sit in the chair Scout had vacated.
“Don’t! It’s wet,” I said. “We went in for a swim.”
He shook his head, clearly refraining from commenting on the sanity of October lake dips.
“Let’s go down to the dock,” I said. “The sun’s better there and the chairs are clean.”
We sat in silence, enjoying the view and the coffee.
Still gazing out at the water, I said, “I’d like that journal.”
He sipped his coffee. “You’re happy to be home. Enjoy it.”
“Because I sure as hell won’t enjoy what’s in that journal. I know that, Jack. But it’s research. There are other girls in there. Maybe other Amys. If I can give their families closure, I want that.”
“I know. And we will. But earlier? Said I could hold a chit. Stop you from doing something.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Too bad. Taking you up on it. I won’t keep this from you, Nadia. But I want to read it first.” He held my gaze. “You keep saying you owe me. This is what I want. The only thing I want.”
What could I say to that?
CHAPTER 14
As we drank our coffee, my cell phone rang. I was still carrying around my work one, in case Paul needed to contact me for anything about the failed Wilde hit.
When I looked at the screen, I must have reacted, because Jack said, “Quinn?”
I nodded.
A pause. Then, “Gonna have to talk to him, Nadia.”
I definitely tensed at that.
“You have to,” he said. “He’ll read about Aldrich. Have questions. Especially since you were away from the lodge when it happened.”
“Shit. I wasn’t even thinking about Aldrich. You’re right. I should have . . .” I shook it off and checked the voice mail.
“It’s me,” Quinn’s voice said. “There’s something in the news. I’m sure you know, but . . . Call me.” A pause. “Please. This is important.”
Jack watched my face as I clicked off. “Do it now,” he said. “Get it over with.”
I nodded, and phoned Quinn back as Jack took his coffee mug and headed toward the house.
On the second ring, Quinn answered with, “Hey.” Scrambled number or not, he knew who it was. The second I heard that familiar “hey,” something in me jumped, and something in me cracked, and I wanted to hang up, because it was just too hard. I might blame him for not contacting me since the breakup, but the truth was that when I made those calls myself, a part of me—an increasingly big part—had been praying he wouldn’t answer. If he did, I’d only have to hear his voice, and I’d say anything, do anything, to put things right, and yet I knew that even if I managed to piece us back together, we’d only end up here again.
“Dee?” he said when I didn’t reply.
“I’m sorry.”
A pause from his end now. I’m sure he was trying to figure out what I was sorry for. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed on.
“When I heard who died,” I said. “I should have called.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I just found out and I’m still reeling. I didn’t think about you seeing it until Jack mentioned it and—”
“You’re with Jack?”
I winced. “Long story. A business thing. Anyway, you’re right. I should have called and notified you about Aldrich, and I’m sorry about that.”
“Notifying me, Dee? How about simply talking to me.”
Now I bristled. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to get through this call with my temper in check. Instead, I heard myself saying, “And why exactly would I do that? You’ve made it quite clear that any personal contact is not welcome.”
I expected him to bristle back, to snarl and snap, as he had that last time. But he only sighed and said, “Not for something like this, obviously.”
“Then I apologize,” I said, with zero apology in my voice. “I wasn’t aware there were exceptions.”
I braced for a retort but got only silence. Then I waited for the hang-up click.
“I was an ass,” he said after a long minute.
No, don’t say that. Goddamn you, Quinn, don’t say that. Snap at me. Snarl at me. Hang up on me. That makes it easier.
“We need to talk,” he said, “and I know this isn’t the time. Let’s start over. I heard who died. How are you holding up?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“But it’s what you have to know, right? I’m not being a bitch, Quinn. I’m just . . . I’d like to stick to that.”
“Business.”
“Right.”
“Because you have Jack there for support.”
I wanted to bristle at that, too, and part of me did, but the image it conjured up was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help sputtering a laugh.
“Yes,” I said. “Jack came running to let me cry on his shoulder, because that’s so Jack.”
“All right.” A pause. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I just . . . He pissed me off. He calls me because there’s an issue with you, gets me worried, and then refuses to tell me what it is. Being an asshole. Typical.”