Nicola put the last piece of toast into her mouth and took her wallet out of her purse. “Maybe it’s just because I’m older,” she said. “But I feel like you young kids would be a lot healthier—a lot happier—if you spent less time wallowing in sorrow over things that are inevitable.”
“What does that mean?”
“Parents are human beings. Human beings screw things up. It’s inevitable. Your situation isn’t special or dire or even all that unusual.”
He swallowed hard. “Maybe I didn’t explain it properly.”
“You explained it fine,” she said. “But I’m guessing you’re no perfect prince either, and as far as you and your mother are concerned, it’s a wash at best.”
Quentin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no idea what to say to that.
“You want my advice?”
“I suppose?”
“Get over it. Your mother did the best she could. Be grateful to her that you made it into adulthood alive, instead of blaming her for all the troubles you’ve brought on yourself.”
“That’s... that’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
She tapped at Quentin’s facedown phone. “When you get a chance, play back that recording you thought you were being so sneaky about. Take a listen to how harshyousounded talking about your dead mother. Then we can talk.”
Quentin stared at her. She dropped a twenty on the table and started to stand up. “This ought to cover me,” she said, and he found himself thinking about how much her voice reminded him of Renee’s—Renee on the Mother’s Day tape, honeyed and calm, telling her daughter how much she meant to her.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he said.
“I’m not angry, Quentin.” She gave him a warm smile. “But you certainly are.”
He looked at her.I am.He was angry almost all the time, though it was only recently that he was having trouble keeping it buried.
Nicola eased back in her seat. “Quentin?”
“Yes?”
“Did you tell the police everything?”
His eyes widened. His face flushed. For a few seconds, he felt as though he were in the midst of a nightmare. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you tell them everything about where you were the night the Blooms were shot?” She leaned against the table, her eyes beaming into his own. “Did you tell them what you saw? What you heard? What you did?”
He could feel the color draining from his face. Was this why she looked familiar? Had she crossed paths with him at the Blooms’? “How do you know where I was?” he said. “Have you been following me?”
She gave him a tight smile and stood up, her purse clasped in her arms. “I was actually just kidding,” she said.
Quentin looked up at her face, the fear creeping into her eyes.You wanted to confess. And you nearly did.Quentin grabbed his phone off the table. He checked the screen and slipped it into his pocket, trying to think of something, anything to say that was moderately reassuring. “It isn’t like that, Ms. Crane,” he said quietly. “It isn’t what you think.” But no one heard him say it. She was already out the door.
Fifteen
Quentin
ONCE QUENTIN WASback in his car, he took a few deep breaths.There’s a story here, he told himself.Focus on the story.
He listened to the earlier part of his and Nicola’s conversation, scribbling down every name and phrase that might help in following up on Renee’s time in the foster home. Then he called Summer and read all his scribblings aloud to her:Brittlebush, Arizona. 1978. Bill (or William) Grumley. Nicola Crane. C-R-A-N-E. But that could be a married name. Renee White.
“You got some rest,” Summer said.
“A little.”
“You want to doClosureagain.”
