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chapter 34
quinn
Quinn loiters in the corridor outside the classroom, waiting for the meeting to start before going in. She doesn’t want to attract attention, although it’s difficult to fly under the radar when you sport a black – and diamanté, thank you, Marnie – eye patch. She waits until a woman telling her story in the centre of the circle breaks down into noisy sobs and, under cover of the distraction, slips into a chair at the back of the room.
She checks her phone surreptitiously as she sits down. Nothing yet.
The sobbing woman subsides into gentle weeping and the man sitting next to her puts his arm around her and helplessly pats her back. Another woman in the circle, younger, thinner, takes over, her voice so quiet it’s hard to hear.
Quinn wonders impatiently how long this is going to go on. She’s on a deadline here. As far as she’s concerned, group therapy is right up there with all the other woo-woo bullshit like crystal healing and sound baths. If you’re starving and you go and sit in a room with other people who’re also starving and talk about how hungry you all are, it doesn’t make you want to chew your own shoe leather any less.
She shifts uncomfortably. It’s like these chairs are made for six-year-olds. She’s had trouble with her spine ever since theIED, and without the cushion of at least half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, she’s in a fair degree of pain.
Her phone vibrates, and her pulse quickens, but it’s just a routine news alert from the Associated Press:Family marks second anniversary of Lottie Martini’s disappearance.
Quinn doesn’t get the big obsession with anniversaries and milestones, particularly negative ones like this. She’s never even bothered to celebrate her birthday, taking her lead from her parents, who managed to forget both her seventhandeighth, at which point she stopped trying to remember it, too.
She scrolls through the AP story. They’re playing it safe, keeping their coverage neutral.Friends and neighbors say prayers as the Lottie Foundation refreshes the public’s memory with new appeals and a documentary, blah, blah.
Probably smart, all things considered. The public mood towards Alexa Martini rapidly swung back in her favour after the Florida police officially named the tattooed man from the video as their main suspect. Alexa still has her haters, but most people are cautiously sympathetic these days, viewing her as an inadequate, rather than wicked, parent. With the main suspect on the run, and the child still missing, the story has largely fallen off the front pages.
Quinn knows she should just let it go, too. INN’s editor made it crystal clear she’s not to go anywhere near Alexa Martini. But she can’t leave it alone. She’s like one of those grizzled cops, obsessing over the one case they never managed to solve.
She might not have wanted the story when she was first saddled with it, but being pulled off it has driven her crazy. She was stuck in Syria when news of the video broke and had to watch one of the kids from the Washington Bureau churn out uncritical regurgitations of police press releases, instead of investigating the real story.
Even if the man with the compass tattoo is guilty – a bigif,since no one can prove if the child in the video is Lottie – it still doesn’t make Alexa Martini innocent. The man was herfriend. They could be working together. Why has no one ever dug into that?
Because everyone wanted to close the case, that’s why. Far easier for all concerned to pin the blame on a man whose guilt is unlikely to be tested in court. The police were happy, because they could check the box markedsolved, even if they hadn’t actually caught their man. The mayor of St Pete wasveryhappy, because the kidnapper was British, not local. And the social media mob was happy, because their poster girl for working mothers was exonerated. Everyone wins. Except Lottie, of course, but no one seriously thought the poor kid was still alive, anyway.
Yet Quinn just can’t stop picking the scab.
You’re letting your ego get in the way, Marnie said, after months of listening to her conspiracy theories.This isn’t about finding out what happened to Lottie; it’s about you being taken off the story. If you’re so keen to know where she is, why don’t you quit bitching and do something about it?
So she got herself transferred back to London, where she had access to the right sources, and pursued the Martini story in her own time.
She’s cashed in every favour she’s ever had with her contacts, legit and otherwise. Her diplomatic sources have a pretty good idea the man’s in Dubai, though they haven’t been able to find him. Even if she tracks him down, there’s no extradition treaty with the UAE. But she has to talk to him. She has toknow.
She’s rewatched her interview with Alexa Martini so many times now, she’s memorised it: each frame of footage, every micro-expression that flits across the woman’s face. And she’sstillnot sure if she’s lying.
Quinn is so engrossed in her phone, she’s startled whenshe’s addressed by name. She glances up to find everyone in the room looking at her.
‘Quinn? Would you like to share?’ asks Leo, who’s leading group this week.
Crap.
‘I’m not really feeling it today,’ Quinn says.
‘Six months,’ her sponsor says. ‘It’s an achievement, Quinn. Take a moment to feel proud of yourself.’
Six months of sobriety. There’s only one way she wants to celebrate, but that would defeat the object of being here.
She goes up to collect her chip, feeling like a fraud as she returns to her seat. Unlike everyone else here, she has no intention of staying sober. She misses her old friend Jack too much. But she’s going to stay clean long enough to solve the mystery of what happened to Lottie Martini, or fucking die in the attempt.
As Leo brings the AA meeting to a close, Quinn’s phone finally beeps with the message she’s been waiting for. She skips the Serenity Prayer, ignoring Leo’s look of disapproval, and heads straight from the school to the café on the corner, where Danny is waiting.
‘How was it?’ he asks, as she pulls out a chair.
She brandishes her chip. ‘Six months sober.’
