To Kill a Mocking Girl Read online

  “You know that’s not true,” Quinn hoarse-whispered.

  “We understand you’ve been through a lot,” her mother chimed in. “We would like to be here for you, if you’ll let us.”

  A chorus of voices piped in, agreeing with Adele Caine.

  “You all can believe Quinn’s little saint act, but trust me when I tell you it’s all a bunch of crap. She’s jealous. She’s so consumed by it that she lashed out and hurt the most important person to me.” Her fury sliced through Quinn. “It had to be you—just admit it. You killed her. You killed my sister!”

  “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too.”

  Quinn pushed the sarcastic thought aside, trying to imagine how she’d react if someone she couldn’t stand had found her brother dead in the middle of a park. She swallowed, the thought too horrible to let sink in. She glanced around, noticing Trina’s parents weren’t with her. “Listen, are you here on your own? Would you like to sit with us?” she asked. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself. I want to find her killer as much as you do.”

  “Uh no, I will never sit near you, Quinn. The only place I want to see you sit is in jail for the rest of your life, and I’m not going to rest until that happens.” She glanced around before her gaze locked over Quinn’s shoulder, and she muttered, “That figures.” Then she met Quinn’s eye and said, “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  Trina sidestepped out of her aisle, looking like she was ready to burst out crying, almost breaking into a run out of the high school auditorium/church. Quinn started to go after her, but someone from behind wove his arm around her waist and pulled her back to a hard-muscled front.

  “Let her go. Give her time to cool off,” the deep voice said. “Just know you did everything right just now.”

  She turned around, her gaze traveling north: inky black hair. Pale gray eyes. Broad frame in a blue chambray button-down shirt. No tie. It took her brain a minute to catch up with what her eyes were taking in.

  “Aiden?”

  He was holding her in his arms. “That’s me.”

  “But what are you doing here? You never come to church.”

  It was true. The last time he had set foot in any house of God was when he and Bash had attended their friend’s wedding at Temple Rodef Shalom, a reform synagogue in Falls Church. His mother was a lapsed Catholic, and his father was an atheist.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘never’—just not in the last thirty-one years,” he said, giving her a wink and, unfortunately, letting her go. “Move over already. I’m blocking the way for everyone.”

  Quinn spun her head around, only to see her entire family leaning forward, watching the two of them. Smiling bright and wide, looking like the Muppets.

  “You heard the man: Scoot,” she said, imploring them with her gaze to keep cool.

  The Caines moved down a seat and, to their credit, kept their yappers shut.

  Guess miracles do happen every day.

  Pastor Johnny checked his microphone. “Everyone please take a seat. And let’s pray for Trina and the Pemberley family.”

  Sister Daria and the other church musicians started playing “Awake, My Soul and With the Sun.” It was one of Quinn’s favorites.

  She whispered. “Okay, for real now: Why are you here?”

  Aiden’s mouth was close to her ear, tickling the tiny hairs. “I have something for you.” He reached into his back pocket, handing her a small, wrapped package.

  “What is it?”

  He let out a soft chuckle. “Open it and find out.”

  She took it from him, her heart beating into her throat as she ripped the newspaper wrapping. Quinn smiled because he had inadvertently used the Modern Love essay section of The New York Times.

  “Not the usual gift wrap,” he whispered.

  “Oh please, you didn’t need to get me anything at all.”

  As she peeled back the paper, she gasped: it was her phone! Also inside was a tiny, ivory square card that read:

  You’re in the clear. I never had a doubt. Love, Aiden

  “I wish I had showed a couple of minutes before I did. Maybe I could’ve said something to Trina, helped calm her down.”

  She nodded. She heard him—technically. But all she kept thinking was: Love, Aiden. He wrote “Love, Aiden.”

  Quinn wanted to allow the glorious, silken liquid of those words to seep in and feed the seeds of hope that lay dormant, but she resisted. She wouldn’t be a fool for far-fetched optimism again.

  “So, I’m no longer a suspect?”

  “You were never a suspect,” he corrected.

  “Then I’m no longer a person of interest?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “Regarding the murder investigation? Not really. I mean, we’re still waiting for the forensics on your clothes and shoes, but that’s just a formality. Consider yourself in the clear.”

  “Will everybody please rise,” the pastor instructed. Everyone stood up, but the two of them stayed put while the parishioners sang.

  Aiden went on. “I can’t share details of the investigation, but I could at least share this piece of news with you straightaway.”

  She turned the phone on its side, making sure the sound was off. “You could have easily dropped this off. You didn’t have to come over here, in front of everyone.”

  His eyes gentled. “That’s exactly why I had to come. Time to put all the gossip to rest.”

  Pastor Johnny motioned for the congregation to sit. Quinn glanced around, noticing even more smiles amid furtive glances.

  “Anyone who knows you already knew the truth,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Sometimes people just don’t know what to say.”

  Quinn knew the feeling, because she didn’t know what to say either. Between Trina confronting her and having her detective crush hand-deliver the good news, all the events had set off a deluge of emotions within her.

  She somehow made it through the rest of the service, long enough to hear the pastor’s sermon on the importance of avoiding idle gossip, quoting Ephesians 4:29 and James 1:26. At one point their eyes locked, and she felt as if he was speaking right to her, saying he had her back. It felt almost as good as having Aiden come down to church just to give her the good news. His presence was proof of her innocence, as everyone’s gazes told her.

  After Holy Communion, he concluded the service. Everyone around them buzzed with well wishes and heartfelt hugs. Perhaps because she was no longer a person of interest to the police, she could now see everyone and everything clearly. Her mental filter had taken her many convoluted thoughts and sifted through the emotional sediment until a clean feeling had finally washed her soul to say, “These are your people, and they believe in you.”

  Her father shook Aiden’s hand. “Good to see you, Detective.”

  “Likewise. I had to give Quinn the good news in person.”

  Her dad nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “You being here, sitting next to my daughter, made a big statement, one I won’t forget.”

  “Here, here,” her auntie said. “I think such chivalrous acts call for one of my fresh baskets. You like tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella with basil?”

  Aiden’s eyes darted to Quinn before answering. “Who doesn’t?”

  Aunt Johanna clapped. “That’s what I say too! I grow the basil and tomatoes in my garden. I’ll throw in some cukes and okra too, but you’re going to need to fry the okra. Only way they taste decent.”

  Her aunt Johanna had been born and raised one hundred ninety miles south, in Suffolk, Virginia. And she was a southern gal through and through, including having a killer recipe for fried okra. Although she’d say it was her homemade fried chicken and biscuits that besotted Uncle Jerry. They’d met at a dance while he was stationed at Langley Air Force Base in Hampton. He always liked to say her beauty and wit caught his attention, but it was her cooking that sealed the deal.

  “It’s true, son,” her uncle said, adjusting his spectacles the same
way her dad often did. Quinn never could decide if those kind of shared trait was a product of nature or nurture. “Best damn fried okra in all of Virginia, if you ask me. Her secret is putting beer in the—”

  She swatted his upper arm with the back of her hand. “Jerome Reginald Caine! You will not share my culinary secrets with the free world! My mama and meemaw would roll in their graves if those leaked outside the family.”

  “Such family treasures would be lost on me anyhow, Doc,” Aiden piped in. “I cook just well enough to stay alive and somewhat healthy.”

  Her mama and auntie’s faces brightened. “Well then, Quinn should come over to your house sometimes and make you a batch,” her auntie went on, the gleam in her eyes hard to miss. “As a treat, of course. She also makes some tasty fried pickle chips.”

  Quinn could feel the blood rush to her cheeks. “They’ll throw in a couple of camels and some goats to sweeten the dowry price if you act now,” she mumbled. Fortunately, no one seemed to hear her.

  Uncle Jerry had lost patience. “Let’s get a move on now. The Nats game starts in thirty minutes, and I plan on eating an array of food not recommended by the CDC, the FDA, or my own personal physician. And I’ll be doing all of this from my chair. At home.”

  “Quite right,” her father chimed in. “Quinn, I know you were planning on accompanying us when we took all the food we made over to the Pemberleys’, but considering what happened earlier, I think it’s best just your mother and I go.”

  She couldn’t argue with that logic. She wanted to offer her condolences to the family, but not at the price of upsetting Trina more. She might be a piece of work, but she was a piece of work who had just lost her other half—literally.

  “Yes, go home, honey.” Her mom stroked her daughter’s hair. “Take RBG for a walk. Get some fresh air in your lungs.”

  “I can drive her,” Aiden offered, his hands in his pockets as he rocked onto the heels of his shoes.

  “That would be lovely.” Adele gave Quinn a knowing smile. Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, only wishing the earth would crumble fast and swallow her whole. Could her mama be any more obvious?

  “Hey, family!” Sister Daria headed their way, still holding onto her acoustic guitar. “Aiden, it’s good to see you. When I saw you sitting with Quinn, I thought I was hallucinating for a second.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t get too excited. My attendance today isn’t the start of a new faith streak. I just came over to give your cousin back her phone.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you.” She kept her expression free of the same nonsense the rest of her family was sporting.

  Thank you, cousin, for not prolonging the awkward.

  But Sister Daria wasn’t done. “You know, Quinn and I usually grab brunch after services, but I can’t today. Maybe you two could go instead?”

  Annnnd scratch that last thought about her being the “cool” one of the family.

  “Oh, don’t feel obligated to say yes,” Quinn rushed to say. “I know how swamped you are with the investigation and all.”

  “Normally, I’d be happy to, but I’m due back at the station before noon. But as I said, I’ll drive you home.”

  Even though Quinn was wiped, the idea of going home just then sounded depressing. “You know what? Just drop me off at the bookstore. I want to get to work.”

  Her dad’s brows furrowed. “Are you sure? I’ve got Sarah covering for us today.”

  Sarah Katz was a longtime Prose & Scones staffer, having worked at the store before the Caines bought it from the original owner, Jen Morrow. She was the one who had held the Caines’ hands when they first took over, because while Finn Caine was a fine lawyer and Adele had been a stellar landscape architect, they hadn’t known diddly-squat about the book business when they’d started. If it hadn’t been for Sarah, they’d have gone under before they had begun. In fact, it was with Sarah’s encouragement that Quinn had become the only bookbinder in Vienna. Now that she was basically cleared of any wrongdoing, Quinn wanted to get back to it. It was her quiet way of saying thank-you to the people who had stuck by her.

  “Nope, I’ve made up my mind.” Quinn felt an unexpected boost of energy. It was time to go. She moved with the crowd out and down the aisle. She motioned for Aiden to follow. “See everybody later. Get a move on, Detective!”

  He laughed and sauntered behind. Of course, she ended up being the one waiting because he took his sweet time getting to his SUV.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun with her cupped hand. “Proud of yourself? Could you walk any slower?”

  He squinted and smiled. “It was quite the show. At first, it was just a brisk walk, but then you broke into a half gallop and finally skipped the rest of the way. I forgot that about you.”

  “Forgot what about me?” Butterflies flapped their wings inside her stomach.

  He dug into his pocket for his car keys but didn’t press the remote button until he was close enough to open the car door for her himself.

  “Thank you.” She folded into the passenger seat and tucked both legs in.

  He rested his forearm on top of the passenger door, dipping his head low enough to be able to make eye contact. “I’d forgotten how you entertain yourself even doing nothing.”

  “I do?”

  His eyes held a playful glint. “Oh yeah, ever since we were kids. Skipping to the car, working out the song order for one of your playlists, then humming the songs to make sure they’ve got the right flow. You used to practice old school break-dance moves in your parents’ kitchen when you thought no one was around.” He glanced back down at her. “I’ve never met anyone who could make even the most prosaic activities their own little party.”

  Her mouth gaped.

  “Watch your hands and feet,” he instructed before shutting the door.

  What just happened?

  He got in on the other side and closed his door. “Ready to go?” he asked before pushing the button for the ignition.

  She nodded, made mute by his soliloquy.

  Quinn knew she was being ridiculous, but her body was also reacting to being in an enclosed space with Aiden. Her palms got sweaty. Her mouth became sandpaper.

  “Hello? Earth to Quinnie?”

  Ugh, that nickname again.

  “Do me a favor, Aiden. Don’t call me Quinnie.”

  Silence.

  Wow, did I say that out loud?

  Yes—yes, you did.

  Aiden put the car in drive. “My bad. I thought you liked the nickname.”

  From my family? Sure. From you, not so much.

  She gazed out the window without really seeing anything. Tree. Bird. Bike. Mailbox. “It’s the name of a little kid. I know to you I’ll always be little Quinnie Caine, but I’m all grown up now.” She let out a sigh. “Since you haven’t noticed.”

  Aiden brought the car to a stop. “We’re here.”

  She turned her head. Yep. There was Prose & Scones. She was both disheartened and relieved the store was so close by.

  “Okay, cool. No problem. Thanks for the ride.” She grabbed the door handle, ready to push herself out to the curb if needed.

  Except his hand held onto the sleeve of her cardigan.

  “Quinn, look at me.”

  “No thank you,” she told the car floor mat.

  That made him laugh. “Eyes over here … Quinn.”

  Taking a deep breath, she finally looked his way.

  His expression gentled. “I see you.”

  Everything inside her stopped and whirled all at once.

  “I see you, Quinn Caine. That’s a promise.”

  He wasn’t done.

  “I’m proud of you too.” Then he reached out and rumpled her hair. “Now, go get ’em.”

  She couldn’t believe it. He’d rumpled her hair—again. Just when she thought she was getting through to him, he pulled out that lame maneuver.

  Why do I even bother?

  She got out of the car, on autopilot, slamming t
he door and refusing to look back.

  Speed-walking through the store, Quinn stopped just long enough to hug Sarah because she was the best hugger—her gesture to let her know her current sour mood had nothing to do with her. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault Quinn wanted what she couldn’t have: Aiden would never really see her as a full-grown, actualized romantic possibility.

  She got to her office, flicking on the lights, then shoving her latest favorite mixtape, titled That’s How the Light Gets In—the classic title a borrowed line either from Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms or from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem,” she couldn’t remember—into the retro tape player and plopping into her cushioned chair. She tried to breathe deep, to get the air working in her lungs, anything to try and ride out the humiliation she had felt in that car, all while listening to the rhythmic cadence of “Under the Same Sun” by Ben Howard. To the left side of her workspace, she had hung a corkboard with pinned comic clippings from The New Yorker and random poems from The Sun magazine. And in between the clippings, she had a series of her enamel pins at the ready so she could choose the appropriate pin to coincide with her current emotion.

  “What pin pairs well with being patronized by a man you can’t get out of your head or heart?” she muttered to herself. “‘Smelly Cat from Friends?’ Oscar the Grouch saying, ‘I Love Trash’?” Nope—she needed a giggle as well as a reminder:

  1-800-HIS-LOSS

  She took it off the corkboard, grabbed a pin backing from the miniature clay pinch pot on her desk, the one she’d made in fourth grade, and fastened it right above her heart.

  Strangely enough, the tiny act of proclamation made her feel better.

  Then her phone rang. It was Daria. Quinn touched the speaker button.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Daria answered. “What’s wrong?”

  Only one word had come out of her mouth, and of course that’s all it had taken for her best friend to know something was up.