“Mercy,” Meg says with a compassionate twist of her lips. “That sounds awful.”
We get to the truck, and I open Meg’s door. “Social services intervened, but healing from that kind of upbringing…it’s an uphill battle. I don’t think she ever got over it.” And me refusing to join her crusade certainly didn’t help.
Resting on her crutches, Meg exhales a slow sigh. “I don’t remember reading about a cult.”
“Her story wasn’t in the news.”
“Why not?” She hands me her crutches and I tuck them behind the seat.
“To protect her, I guess? She was fourteen, separated from her family, learning how to navigate a totally different world…” I always suspected there was more, but it wasn’t like I was looking for answers. And at the time, I was about to become a father, a husband, and start a new career.
“You’re probably right.” Her eyes meet mine. “What happened to the cult?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t care.
I lift Meg into the seat, then carefully shut her door. If only I could shut the door easily on my memories.
“Knowing all of that about her makes her death even more sad,” Meg says when I climb behind the wheel.
“It does.” I pull out of my parking stall and cruise to the exit.
Meg leans her head toward her open window to squint into the breeze.
I focus on the drive, grounding my senses in the thrum of my engine beneath me, the cool air on my face, and the quiet.
But I’m jerked back to reality when I pull up to Meg’s with my phone buzzing. It’s not a number in my saved contacts, but thescreen flashes with a “maybe Annaleise Bell” across the top thanks to how often she’s been blowing up my phone lately.
That’s what her pointed look was all about outside the station.
“Annaleise is calling you?” Meg asks, frowning.
“She’s a bloodhound.”
Meg’s eyes sparkle with a curious gleam. “It’s for a story? About what?”
I silence the phone and tuck it into my pocket on my way out of the truck. “I don’t know.” I have yet to talk to Annaleise, so it’s the truth. Just not all of it.
Because I have a pretty good idea what she’s uncovered. But she’s not going to get any help from me.
Chapter Sixteen
I takeanother sip of my perfectly chilled vinho verde and scan the menu while Quinn wraps up her story about a team of rowdy Alaska fishermen who kept her on her toes for every minute of their flight to Seattle yesterday.
“We cut them off but it just made them sing louder,” she says with a sigh, then refocuses on the menu. “What looks good?”
A soft breeze rises up from the sea, bringing the thick scent of salt and sunscreen. After my return to work last week, I probably should have gone home to rest instead of saying yes to meeting Quinn in Portugal, but I reasoned that I could rest just as well rest on a beach towel in Ericeira. And I’m glad I came. It’s refreshing to be away, and to spend time with Quinn.
“Squid? Or maybe the sea bass.” I set my menu aside.
A pair of tanned, lithe young women in wetsuits with surf boards under their arms saunter past, bantering in Portuguese.
“We should take surf lessons tomorrow,” Quinn says, watching them with a wistful look in her eye.
“You go ahead.”
Compassion fills her gaze. “Is your leg still bothering you?”
“I’m trying not to overdo it.” It’s still a little bit tender and the bruising isn’t all the way gone yet. Even though I know not to let Russel’s insensitive comment drive my actions, I have yet to reclaim the skirt or dress option of my uniform. Maybe after this next rotation—a grueling four-day Alaska loop.
