Free Pieces of You by Mary Campisi Page A

will.”
    “With a bottle of Dom Perignon . My treat.”
    “Damn right it is.”
    They both laughed as he opened the door, but the laughter fizzled when they spotted the woman standing on the other side. Before the woman could speak, Quinn turned to Annie and said, “I’ll call you later.” He addressed the woman next, his voice tight, his expression closed. “You’re early.”
    The woman merely nodded, her gaze shifting back to Annie who looked past the short, bleached hair, beyond the supple yet aging skin, the trim figure, the smart olive suit. All she saw were the eyes. Silver-blue. Bottomless. Quinn’s eyes.
    ***
    “My God.”
    “Annie, I can explain.”
    “You knew.” She dragged her eyes from the woman and settled them on her brother. “You knew.”
    “He just found out the other day, Annalise.”
    Her voice was deeper than Annie remembered, huskier. From smoke? Drink? Annie had carried that voice with her for years, praying to keep the inflection fresh, true, open for recall upon a second’s notice, and all that time, she’d been wrong? She started to crumble inside, cell to cell, organ to organ, disintegrating into dust and hopelessness. She didn’t even realize she was crying until Quinn pulled her into his arms, swiped his fingers across her cheek, and murmured, “Please, don’t cry.” He guided her into the office, his arm still around her. Annie glanced behind to make sure the woman was still there, that it hadn’t all been a dream.
    Sylvia’s words jabbed her brain. The past will meet the present . . . secrets will be revealed . . . beware.
    Quinn settled her in a chair, motioned for the woman to sit, and then pulled out a glass decanter. He poured three drinks, handed one to Annie, another to the woman, and downed the third in one swift gulp. “She showed up three days ago.”
    The whiskey burned Annie’s throat. She coughed twice. “When were you going to tell me?”
    “I was meeting with her today to figure out the best way to handle it. I didn’t want to just spring it on you.”
    “I guess I saved you both a meeting.” Annie took another sip of whiskey, glad for the burn this time. It meant she was alive. She turned to the woman who had been her mother and voiced the question she’d carried inside for so long, “What happened?”
    The woman set her empty glass on the edge of Quinn’s desk, her pale gaze shifting from Annie to Quinn, back to Annie. “I . . . this is very difficult.” She cleared her throat, clasped her hands together and began again. “I don’t expect you to understand or forgive me for what happened, but the least I can do is explain what I was thinking, what my life was like back then.”
    “You left us, didn’t you?” Annie blurted out.
    “I . . . had no choice.”
    The room shifted. The world outside continued with the normal sound and motion of rush hour, but inside these four walls, time stopped.
    “Of course, you didn’t have a choice,” Quinn said, throwing his hands up in the air. “Not after what happened to you. My God, you’re lucky to be alive.”
    Their mother and Quinn locked gazes, the briefest exchange of something Annie didn’t understand. “What are you talking about? What happened?” A sinking feeling settled over Annie, threatening to pull her under.
    “I’ll tell the story,” Quinn said. “It’ll be easier that way, won’t it?” He waited for their mother’s nod, and continued, “She went for a drive that day, no destination in particular, just to get away for a little while. She ran out of gas along Route 58 and started walking. A trucker picked her up and promised to take her to a pay phone.” Quinn stopped, his voice dipping. “But he didn’t. He abused her and beat her so badly she suffered a concussion. The shock was so great she blocked out everything that happened. Post traumatic shock syndrome. She told me the other day there are still huge chunks of time that are blank, and it’s doubtful she’ll ever