straightened her sweater and stood up. "I have absolutely no idea why that happened," she announced.
Oh, yes; definitely miffed. Quinn refrained from reminding her that she was the one who had trumped his kiss with one that had left them both senseless. He said with a shrug, "I assume you have to beat men off with a stick every day."
Her response to that was a wry smile, but he could see that her humor had improved. "C'mon," she told him, taking his hands in hers and pulling him up from the sofa. "I promised you a surprise."
"And, boy, I got one."
"Not that, dope." She began pulling him toward the bedroom, the bedroom that used to be his.
Flirt, imp, femme fatale —she was all of those and yet none of those. Completely bemused now, Quinn let her drag him along. One thought, and one thought only, possessed him: If I can just channel all that energy of hers into sex, somewhere safe ...
"Surprise!" she cried, gesturing toward a three-board bench at the foot of the bed.
He stared at the bench in a state of amazement. There, polished to sunshine brightness, was arrayed every trophy and citation he'd ever won. His father had cherished them until their nighttime flight out of Keepsake, and Olivia apparently had appointed herself keeper of the flame. Quinn hadn't thought about the awards in seventeen years. Now, here they all were, lined up like golden ghosts to mock his thwarted ambitions:
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
CHAMPION DEBATE TEAM
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
FOR HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT IN MATH
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
DISTINGUISHED ACHIEVEMENT, LATIN STUDIES
"Pretty impressive," she said, beaming.
"Uh-huh."
Quinn picked up the biggest trophy, an ungainly, gaudy tribute to his prowess in Latin, of all things. He'd taken the course as an extracurricular activity because he thought it would help him in law school. But that was before he became disillusioned with the concept of due process.
He put the trophy back down and glanced at Olivia, who was standing alongside him with a proud look on her face, her arms folded across her chest in a self-satisfied way that he remembered well.
"So," he said, turning his back on the bench, the bed, and her. "Wanna have those sandwiches now?"
Chapter 6
"Exhu m e her? Are you insane?"
Quinn Leary sat in Chief Vickers's office with thighs apart, his fingertips making contact across the divide there. His broad shoulders hulked forward in a relaxed, almost insolent way as he contemplated the dumbfounded police chief. Quinn wasn't exactly enjoying the encounter, but he wasn't exactly in pain.
"It seems like the obvious solution. They say my father murdered Alison because she was carrying his baby and had threatened to tell the Bennetts. I say that's horseshit. A DNA test ought to settle the matter once and for all."
He reached into his pocket and came up with a plastic film canister that he tossed on the police chief's desk. "Here. A snip of my father's hair. I can tell you where to find more," he said dryly, "if you need to verify that it's his. The sooner we resolve this, the better. I plan to stay in Keepsake awhile, and—let's face it—you can't afford too many more episodes like those trashed trophies. Sooner or later, someone is going to get hurt."
Vickers barely glanced at the container. "Who told you about the trophy case? We're not letting that out."
Quinn shrugged. "It's a small town."
Someone had broke n into Keepsake High and spray- painted all the football trophies in the trophy case. Worse, they'd smashed in a l l the team photos, many of them signed. Quinn had heard it from Mrs. Dewsbury, who had heard it from the janitor's sister—but Vickers didn't need to know that.
The chief rocked back in his chair. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "What do you really want, Quinn? Why are you here?"
Quinn nodded at the container sitting on the desk blotter. "I told you: to clear my father's name."
"What difference does it make? He's
Oh, yes; definitely miffed. Quinn refrained from reminding her that she was the one who had trumped his kiss with one that had left them both senseless. He said with a shrug, "I assume you have to beat men off with a stick every day."
Her response to that was a wry smile, but he could see that her humor had improved. "C'mon," she told him, taking his hands in hers and pulling him up from the sofa. "I promised you a surprise."
"And, boy, I got one."
"Not that, dope." She began pulling him toward the bedroom, the bedroom that used to be his.
Flirt, imp, femme fatale —she was all of those and yet none of those. Completely bemused now, Quinn let her drag him along. One thought, and one thought only, possessed him: If I can just channel all that energy of hers into sex, somewhere safe ...
"Surprise!" she cried, gesturing toward a three-board bench at the foot of the bed.
He stared at the bench in a state of amazement. There, polished to sunshine brightness, was arrayed every trophy and citation he'd ever won. His father had cherished them until their nighttime flight out of Keepsake, and Olivia apparently had appointed herself keeper of the flame. Quinn hadn't thought about the awards in seventeen years. Now, here they all were, lined up like golden ghosts to mock his thwarted ambitions:
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
CHAMPION DEBATE TEAM
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
FOR HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT IN MATH
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
DISTINGUISHED ACHIEVEMENT, LATIN STUDIES
"Pretty impressive," she said, beaming.
"Uh-huh."
Quinn picked up the biggest trophy, an ungainly, gaudy tribute to his prowess in Latin, of all things. He'd taken the course as an extracurricular activity because he thought it would help him in law school. But that was before he became disillusioned with the concept of due process.
He put the trophy back down and glanced at Olivia, who was standing alongside him with a proud look on her face, her arms folded across her chest in a self-satisfied way that he remembered well.
"So," he said, turning his back on the bench, the bed, and her. "Wanna have those sandwiches now?"
Chapter 6
"Exhu m e her? Are you insane?"
Quinn Leary sat in Chief Vickers's office with thighs apart, his fingertips making contact across the divide there. His broad shoulders hulked forward in a relaxed, almost insolent way as he contemplated the dumbfounded police chief. Quinn wasn't exactly enjoying the encounter, but he wasn't exactly in pain.
"It seems like the obvious solution. They say my father murdered Alison because she was carrying his baby and had threatened to tell the Bennetts. I say that's horseshit. A DNA test ought to settle the matter once and for all."
He reached into his pocket and came up with a plastic film canister that he tossed on the police chief's desk. "Here. A snip of my father's hair. I can tell you where to find more," he said dryly, "if you need to verify that it's his. The sooner we resolve this, the better. I plan to stay in Keepsake awhile, and—let's face it—you can't afford too many more episodes like those trashed trophies. Sooner or later, someone is going to get hurt."
Vickers barely glanced at the container. "Who told you about the trophy case? We're not letting that out."
Quinn shrugged. "It's a small town."
Someone had broke n into Keepsake High and spray- painted all the football trophies in the trophy case. Worse, they'd smashed in a l l the team photos, many of them signed. Quinn had heard it from Mrs. Dewsbury, who had heard it from the janitor's sister—but Vickers didn't need to know that.
The chief rocked back in his chair. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "What do you really want, Quinn? Why are you here?"
Quinn nodded at the container sitting on the desk blotter. "I told you: to clear my father's name."
"What difference does it make? He's
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