Mystery Child

“Convenient,” Quinn muttered, but she felt exactly like what Agent Spellings had implied she was—tricked, duped, used.

“The trip had been scheduled for months, Quinn. As a matter of fact, your sister’s husband was supposed to leave yesterday morning. His flight was delayed, then canceled. He booked a second flight out late last night. I’m sure your sister wasn’t anticipating him coming home so soon and discovering what she’d stolen.”

“Has it occurred to you that she took what she did, because she was terrified, and she needed a way to start a new life?”

“Even if that was true—” and based on the way Agent Spellings looked when she said it, she didn’t think it was “—there’s no reasonable or acceptable excuse for committing a crime. I’m sure you know that, Quinn.”

She did, but she didn’t think Agent Spellings expected a response, so she kept her mouth shut.

“Like I said,” Agent Spellings continued, “you’re not in any kind of trouble. We know you were doing a favor for your sister, and we know that you had no idea the child you were transporting wasn’t hers. If you’d opened the envelope your sister gave you, you might have realized that before you traveled six hundred miles.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope, slid it toward Quinn. “This is Kendal Grace Anderson’s birth certificate. The original.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage, the official document sitting in front of her all the evidence she needed that Tabitha had had no business taking Jubilee anywhere.

“Your sister lied to you, Quinn. Jubilee was never her child. I’m sorry about that, but you can help us find out how Tabitha ended up with someone else’s child, and you can help us figure out how this document got into her hands.”

“And help send my sister to prison, right? That’s what you’re asking me to do,” she said, the words tasting like dust on her tongue.

“If your sister kidnapped a child, then she’s sent herself to prison.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t feel guilty about helping us with the investigation. Mr. Anderson has every right to know whether or not Jubilee is his. If she is, he has every right to know how she ended up in your sister’s custody.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. I gave one of the responding police officers Tabitha’s cell phone number. I told him where Tabitha said she was going.”

“Florida, right?”

“Yes.”

“She told you she booked a flight?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve checked the airports. She didn’t have a ticket.”

Another lie. They were piling up, and there was nothing Quinn could do but accept it. “I wish I had more information. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“If you think of anything else, let me know. If she contacts you, I need to know immediately. We’re trying to trace her cell phone.”

“Okay.”

“Sit tight,” Agent Spelling said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She walked out of the room, and Quinn was left alone, the soft tick of a clock and the quiet murmur of voices background music to the wild thumping of her heart.

She had been lied to.

She’d believed the lie.

She could toss in the towel, admit that her sister was a kidnapper, a thief, a con artist, and maybe those things really were true. But Tabitha had been terrified. There’d been no doubt about that. She’d been bruised, too. A faded black eye, a healing cut on her lip.

Quinn should have called the police the minute Tabitha told her that her husband and caused the marks, but Tabitha had begged her not to. Too dangerous. Her husband was too well connected. He knew people in high places.

Had it all been a lie to cover Tabitha’s crimes?

Given Tabitha’s history, it was an easy thing to believe, but Quinn didn’t believe it.

She’d seen terror in her sister’s eyes.

She couldn’t discount it. She wouldn’t.

Family first. That’s what her mother had taught Quinn. Always. Husband, kids. They’d all been a priority to Alison McConnell. Everyone first. Alison last. The stress of that had made Alison age well before she should have.

Quinn grabbed the cup of coffee her brother had poured an hour ago, surprised by the direction of her thoughts. Her mother had been gone for a decade. Her death had been the catalyst that had spurred Quinn to get her teaching degree. That had always been Alison’s dream—to teach children, but she’d put it on hold to marry and raise her children. Quinn had loved her mother for that. Her father? She’d tried.

She took a sip of cold coffee, wiped a splotch of condensation from the mug. She knew what her mother would want her to do, would expect her to do. Go back to Echo Lake, retrace her steps, try to figure out where Tabitha had gone. Alison would want Quinn to find out the truth about her sister, and then she’d want her to help her sister make things right.

Because Quinn had always been the sibling who followed the rules, did things the right way, tried to make everyone happy. She’d do it again this time. She owed her mother—for all the love she’d given her, for the money she’d set aside in a savings account for Quinn’s college. She owed her for teaching her the value of faith and the importance of love, because if Quinn had only had her father as an example, she’d have learned that people were there to be used, that family was there as a cover for criminal activity.

Even if she hadn’t owed her mother, she’d have gone looking for Tabitha. She needed to know the truth, and she needed to know her sister was safe.

She carried the coffee to the sink and poured it out. She needed to get her Jeep, get her purse, head back home.

“Everything okay in here?” a man said, the voice so unexpected she jumped, whirling toward the doorway.

Malone stood on the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space, the scar on his face deep red-purple.

“You scared a year off my life.”

“Sorry,” he said easily.

“It wouldn’t matter so much if I hadn’t already had ten years scared off back in the woods.”

“Sorry about that, too.” He had the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. Not quite black, but close. And he didn’t smile. Not even a hint of it.

“You probably saved my life, so I guess an apology isn’t necessary.”

He nodded, his gaze dropping from her face to the bright pink t-shirt she’d chosen for the trip. Dozens of little hand prints were splattered across it in various colors. A Christmas gift from last year’s kindergarten class. On anyone else, it would have been fine, but it made Quinn look even younger than she already did.

“I’m a teacher,” she said, tugging her sweatshirt closed, her cheeks hot.

“I know.”

“The kids gave me this shirt last year.”

“No explanation necessary.”

“I wasn’t explaining.”

“Actually,” he said, something that might have been humor gleaming in his eyes, “you were.”