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two years and twenty-five days missing
chapter 61
quinn
Quinn’s bender lasts six days. A record, even for her.
She gets thrown out of the pub when she’s so drunk she literally can’t stand up. The kid behind the bar manhandles her into the street, shoves her AA chip in her face and tells her to sort out her shit. So she stops by the off-licence on her way home and buys a case of Jack Daniel’s.
Shit sorted.
She only sobers up when she’s burned her way through all six bottles of whiskey, and there’s no alcohol left in the house. She’s even drunk the shitty peppermint schnapps she found in the cupboard under the sink when she moved into her flat two years ago, after her stint in Washington ended.
From the minty stains on her shirt, she’s guessing she threw up on herself at some point. She’s been wearing the same clothes for almost a week; even she can smell the stink coming off her. She needs to clean herself up or they won’t let her back in the off-licence.
She strips off and gets into the shower, steadying herself against the tiles with her good hand as the cold water sluices off her back. Her stomach is practically concave, because she hasn’t eaten in nearly a week. Food absorbs alcohol, which makes it an inefficient way to get drunk.
When she’s drunk, she gets maudlin. When she’s maudlin, she rings Marnie, who pities her enough to take the calls, even though it’s been two years since they broke up. Quinn figures she’ll have some damage limitation to do while she’s sober enough to be coherent so, after she’s pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of clean jeans, she searches her apartment for her phone.
The battery’s dead, of course. She plugs in her charger and gives it a minute for her recent calls and texts to load, then scrolls through them, squinting to read through the cracked screen. No drunk-and-dial calls to Marnie, thank fuck. Her battery must’ve died before she had the chance.
But there’s a voicemail from Alexa Martini, left six days ago.
She should delete it. That woman’s brought her nothing but trouble. If she opens the door again, she’ll fall back down the rabbit hole. She’ll lose her job.
She’s not going to delete it. Of course she’s not going to delete it.
She plays the message.I’ve found her. I know where she is. I’m looking at her house right now. If you want your damn story, Quinn, call me back.
Jesus fuck.
It’s been six days. If Lottie Martini has been found andshe’s missed it, she’ll slit her fucking wrists.
Quinn grabs her computer and fires it up, her hangover dissipating as adrenaline completes the job the cold shower started. But a search for Lottie’s name reveals no fresh developments in the Martini story since Alexa yanked the emergency brake on the Tube three weeks ago. There’s nothing new on AP or Reuters, nothing anywhere.
Her heart rate returns to normal. Alexa Martini is either crazy or trying to fuck with her head. She should never have let herself sober up. She needs a drink.
But she clicks on the INN website, just to be sure.
Christ on the fucking cross.
She can’t believe what she’s reading. Just when she thought the Lottie Martini case couldn’t get any more twisted.
Quinn hits speed dial on her phone.
