Jack didn't sleep on the rest of the drive. He sat there, quietly gazing out the windshield, until we pulled off the regional highway and onto the back roads.
"Almost six," he said. "Think you can slip in?"
He meant we should try to make it look as if we'd gotten back hours ago. Like I said, it was unlikely anyone would compare the timelines of my arrival and Aldrich's suicide, but it was better to establish an alibi.
"I can certainly try. The problem will be Scout. She sleeps in my room and as soon as I get upstairs, she'll go nuts."
"I'll get her. Bring her down." He paused. "Think she remembers me?"
"You were up a few months ago. She's a little scatterbrained, but she's a smart dog. And she's not big enough to rip your face off yet." I pulled into the drive. "I'll park in the rear lot so-- Shit! The rental car. Drew Aldrich is about to be found dead in Cleveland, and I come home in a rental with plates from--"
"New York. Got a car with New York plates."
"Which I never even noticed. Okay. If you can take my bag up and toss it in my room, I'll head off for a morning jog. You grab a room and some rest."
He started getting out of the car.
"Oh," I said. "Since you'll be resting, I'll have time to read. Why don't you give me that journal--"
"Later."
CHAPTER 13
I was waiting at the boathouse, changed into my jogging outfit, when Jack brought Scout out. I could hear her whining as she pranced about, being remarkably restrained for a six-month-old puppy. Then she caught a whiff of me on the breeze.
By the time Jack reached me, I was on my ass, gasping for breath as I struggled to get out from under sixty pounds of very excited German shepherd.
"Think she missed you," Jack said.
"No kid--" I made a face as I got an unexpected mouthful of puppy tongue. "Blech. Just a warning--don't attempt to talk when you're on her level unless you like French-kissing dogs."
A soft chuckle. I gave Scout a hug as she whined and danced, then I pushed to my feet.
"Also, if she jumps up, knee her back down. Please. I know it's cute, but in a few months, it won't be and we're really trying to break her of that."
"Yeah. Getting big."
"And she has barely begun to grow into her ears and paws, which means she's got a lot left to go. Apparently, white shepherds get even bigger than black-and-tans."
"Huh."
"You didn't know that when you bought her, did you?"
He shrugged. "Bigger dog. Better protection."
"No, bigger dog means my bedroom is getting smaller by the day."
"You talked about getting out of there. Building a proper cabin. Got lots of property. Shouldn't have the smallest room anyway." He looked at Scout, who was zooming back and forth now. "We'll talk about it. Go jog. Need the exercise. Work it off."
"Me or her?"
"Both," he said and waved us on our way before heading toward the lodge.
I went for a ten-kilometer jog, which took me through the town of White Rock. Usually, on a weekend, I'll bypass it. When the weather is still decent, everyone's up and about early--kids on bikes, folks walking their dogs, homeowners working on their yards. If you're a local who doesn't get into town more than once or twice a week, and you try jogging through, you're guaranteed to get stopped a half dozen times. Today, though, I wanted to be seen. Establishing my alibi a little more.
I didn't overdo it. For most who tried to stop me, I just waved and smiled. I did pause for a couple--Benny Durant from the real estate office, who had questions about land near the lodge, and Rick Hargrave from the liquor store, telling me he might close shop early in case I needed more beer for my nightly bonfire.
By the time we got back to the lodge, we'd worked up a lather, so we took a dip in the lake. In mid-October, it's nearly ready for a skin of ice. Refreshing, to say the least.
As I walked up to the lodge, I caught the familiar scents of cinnamon buns and wet grass and wetter dog, and I listened to a woodpecker in the treetops and a clatter in the boathouse, as Owen came out, fishing pole in hand. I waved. He waved back as if it was any other morning and I'd never left. I watched his slightly stooped, white-haired figure trudge down the path to the lake.
I was home. I was me again. Not Dee, part-time Mafia hitman. Not thirteen-year-old Nadia, the girl who'd lost her cousin. Now I was Nadia Stafford, lodge owner. I could say that's the real me, but no, it's just the most comfortable part. It doesn't exist without the others. Still, this is my favorite part of myself and every time I find it, waiting here, it's like rediscovering a forgotten treasure.
As I neared the porch, Emma came out, her dyed red hair nearly blinding in the morning sun. Scout took off with a happy yelp. Emma saw her coming and zipped behind the door faster than you'd think possible for anyone on a hip-replacement waiting list.
"Don't you two come in here like that," she called through the screen. "Wait right where you are. I'll grab towels."
I climbed onto the porch as she disappeared into the lodge. I tried the door but found it latched. As I slumped into a Muskoka chair, Scout seconded my sigh and took the one beside me. When Emma came out, she sighed herself as she looked at us.
"Are you trying to give me extra work?" she said. "Getting mud all over that chair?"
"Scout? Down."
"I didn't mean her." Emma tossed us towels. "What are you doing back? You better not have cut your vacation short. I told you we weren't busy. They changed the forecast, but we still had one cancellation."
I finished towel-drying my hair and started on Scout. "I stopped by to see John yesterday." That was the name she knew Jack by--ironic now that I knew it was his real one. "We got to talking about those ATVs he fixed, and I mentioned the snowmobiles. He offered to come up for the weekend and check them out."
"Oh, he did, did he?"
"Is that a problem?"
She gave a small, self-satisfied smile. "Not at all. Your cousin is welcome here anytime he likes."
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."
"He couldn't tell you my problem without--"
"Yeah, yeah. Security concerns. Which conveniently left me hanging, while he swooped in to--" Quinn bit off the sentence and swore. "And that's not why I called, either. Let's start again."
"I didn't do it. I know it seems suspicious. You get a call about a problem with me, I'm on the road, and the next thing you hear, a certain someone is dead, but it's a coincidence." Mostly. "I was dealing with another job, a state away, and he committed suicide. I got my ass home, just in case there were questions. So far, nothing, but I suppose it's just hitting the wire."
"Yeah. He had some warrants out, under aliases. Not exactly on our most-wanted list, but . . . I had something set up. To ping me if his name popped on our system. It did about an hour ago. His body was just found."
"Good."
"But you already knew."
Shit.
"It's a long story," I said. "I can only tell you that I absolutely didn't do it. Jack, either. I'll tell you the rest when I can."
"And when will that be?"
Silence.
"I'd like to see you, Dee."
"I--"
"If you're in any trouble, I can help. You know that."
"I'm not in any trouble."
"I'd still like to see you."
Silence.
"All right," he said, and I could tell he was struggling to restrain himself. "When can I talk to you again?"
"I'm not sure we should--"
"Goddamn it, Dee. I fucked up. I know that. But I miss you. I miss talking to you. Hell, I miss e-mailing you. I know you tried to reach out. I know I ignored you. I was being an ass. I can be. You know that. I would like to see you, but I can tell that's out of the question, so I'd like to talk."
"I--"
"Monday morning. That's forty-eight hours from now. I'll call or you can call, and you can tell me what happened with that suicide, if you want to, but we'll talk then. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
He exhaled. "Good. Thank you. We'll talk Monday."
The conversation left me confused. Confused about what Quinn wanted and, even more, confused about what I wanted. I had only to hear his voice to know that I wasn't over him. But the relationship was over, for me, because I knew that was the right decision. I cared about him too much to selfishly hold on, if that meant holding him back from what he really wanted--a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs.
After breakfast, Jack left with Owen to check on those snowmobiles. I headed out to shoot and clear my head. The lod
ge has a gun range, which is actually what sold me on the property. And, if I was being honest, it's what nearly sent me into bankruptcy, bumping the price far higher than I could really afford. As amenities go, it's not exactly a basketball court. I paid to have it, I paid to stock it, and I paid to run it, all because I wanted it. It was the kind of thing I'd dreamed about the way others might dream of horses or a private golf course. It's probably the only time in my life that I'd treated myself to any kind of luxury, and I don't regret it.
Today I stuck to the indoor range. I have a strip of land for distance, but even though guests are warned to avoid that edge of the property, I get nervous when it's all first-timers, as we had today. And as my bout with Jack in the woods had showed, short-range practice is always helpful.
I left Scout with Emma. She prefers the outdoor range as well, being not so keen on the sound--or smell--of gunfire in enclosed quarters.
I stayed out there for two hours. By the last thirty minutes, admittedly, I was stalling as I waited for Jack. I'd asked Emma to tell him where I'd gone, and I expected he'd join me. But he didn't. So I finished up, cleaned up, and headed up.
I was halfway back to the lodge when the smell of Jack's cigarettes wafted over. I pinpointed the direction and smiled. He was sitting at our old place, the log where we'd talk when he'd first started coming around. That's also where he'd invited me to join the hunt for a hitman-turned-serial-killer.
It'd been so different then. Jack had been different. The mysterious mentor. The guy I'd only ever seen under cover of night. I remember when he picked me up at the airport for that job. He'd been in his biker disguise, and I'd commented on his aging techniques. And then I saw him later without any disguise, and realized it hadn't been makeup. Ouch. But that says a lot about how little I'd known of him--I couldn't even have guessed at his age from our conversations. They'd all been about me. With each passing conversation since then, I'd learned a little more about him. Now I'd learned a lot about him, and while it was hardly his whole life story, it felt monumental.
Some things don't change, though. Jack was back at our log, smoking a cigarette. Doing it there, not from nostalgia, but because it was a secluded place and I didn't allow smoking on the property.