“Fish and chips for me,” Quinn says, setting her menu aside. “It won’t be as good as that seaside pub we found in Suffolk, but when in Portugal…” She gives a dramatic shrug that makes me laugh.
A waitress leads two men past our table. They’re mid-thirties, dressed in that effortless way European men have mastered: dark jeans, button down shirts that manage to look freshly pressed no matter the time of day, aviator sunglasses, and that perfectly curated day-old scruff. One of them gives Quinn a slow glance, his lips quirking in approval. They get seated on the other side of the patio, but I can sense their lingering gazes.
“I’m a little behind on the latest from our favorite Finn River reporter,” Quinn says, drawing me back to our conversation. “Have police made any headway with that woman’s death?”
Annaleise’s most recent headline flashes in my mind.CULT VICTIM PERISHES IN ARSON FIRE.
I sip my wine. “It’s not official, but she was definitely involved with drugs.” Nothing about dealing, so maybe that was still just a rumor?
“So she went to that abandoned house to get high?”
“Looks that way.”
“Given what Annaleise dug up, I feel really bad for her,” Quinn says.
Trina Guthrie was raised in a cult and suffered years of trauma from several of its members. At fourteen, she escaped, then bounced from family to family in the foster care system. As an adult, reading between the lines Annaleise wrote with careful tact, it seemed trouble was never very far from Trina’s life. It’s likethat second chance she fought for at fourteen never quite came true.
Linden’s words bounce around in my mind.Healing from that kind of upbringing…it’s an uphill battle.If Trina’s story never made the papers, how does he know so much about it?
“If only someone had gone looking for her…found her before…” I say, meeting Quinn’s sad gaze.
Before the fire.
With a grimace, Quinn sets her menu aside. “Have they found her friend Stacy yet?”
I shake my head. Annaleise is convinced Stacy left town, though she doesn’t knowwhy.
Is that why she called Linden? She thinks he might have the answer?I know her story.Why do I feel like there’s more?
“The police wanted to know why Russel and I divorced,” I say.
“That’s rather obtuse, isn’t it?” She puts her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”
I told them he lied to me, kept secrets from me, and resisted my decision to split.It’s not what you thinkspilled from his lips like a broken record.
The waitress arrives to take our orders and a busboy swoops in to refresh our waters, then we’re back to enjoying the afternoon sunshine and the patio’s sweeping view of the Algarve’s prettiest beach.
“What’s the latest with the party?” Quinn asks.
I take another sip of wine. “Everything is done. I finished the slide show and did a test run. The guest count is locked in. Catering is set.”
“No more surprises from Darienne?”
I shake my head. “And it’s too late even if she tried.”
She gives me a sly grin. “Now that your sexy single dad neighbor is going as your fake date, I’m extra sorry I can’t be there.”
My breath locks up in my chest, but I force down a sip of mywine. “You’re going to be too busy kicking ass on Mont Blanc to be sorry.”
Her eyes light up. “I’ve never trained so hard in my life.”
“I want a picture of you on the summit the minute you get back to basecamp.”
She toasts me with her beer. “And you are sending me a full report of the party.”
Think you can keep your hands to yourself if I dust off my suit?
Can I? That might be a tall order considering my out-of-control thoughts. Though I tried to ignore Linden, those final days I was at home, so was he, working on projects, going for long swims, playing basketball beneath the afternoon sun with no shirt.
