“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”
—William Shakespeare, MacBeth
RBG growled, the kind starting low and in the back of her throat. Then came the whining. The combo always meant something had tweaked her.
“It’s a squirrel, you silly dog. It’s always just a squirrel. In a tree. When I’m trying to sleep.”
Her girl huffed before giving her a look. People say humans make a bad habit of anthromorphizing their pets, but Quinn swore her dog had about a hundred different emotions and opinions, including the attitude she had just thrown down.
Then RBG started grumbling again, her eyes laser focused out the open window.
Quinn squinted at her phone: it was a little after one in the morning. She grabbed a pillow and smooshed it over her head.
It didn’t help. RBG’s guttural noises turned into barks, and now it was Quinn who was in a tizzy.
“Fine, fine. I’m awake now.” She threw down the pillow and sat up. RBG didn’t even flinch. Every muscle was rock solid, her whole body at attention.
She shuffled out of bed. “You know, there’s nothing back there,” Quinn said through a yawn, as she wiggled on a pair of jeans, putting on her sweater. “You’re going to feel so silly when you find out you got all worked up over a lil’ bitty squirrel. Just sayin’.”
Quinn shoved her feet into her sneakers and patted the side of her thigh, her signal for RBG to follow. Her dog baby bolted off the bed and trotted to the door, nudging the leash with her nose.
Quinn clipped it on her and grabbed her keys and phone.
After leaving her home, RBG pulled Quinn down Windover Avenue. She still didn’t know what RBG had sensed, but every time Quinn tried to haul the dog back, she’d strain at the leash until she almost choked herself. And so they continued walking, Quinn thinking the whole time that RBG was leading them on a fool’s errand.
Until she veered right on Knoll Street. Quinn heard the sound of someone grunting, and then a thud, like something heavy had been dropped. She followed the noise, walking at a faster clip. She turned on her phone’s flashlight feature in order to avoid tripping on the uneven road with gnarled roots busting through the crumbling asphalt.
“C’mon, where are you?” She swept the range of light left and right. Tree. Branches. An owl. Nothing unusual. Nothing that could have made that sound. Was she hearing things?
That’s when Quinn noticed something: it had gotten quiet. She slowed her pace, scanning the area with the light. They were in the trees now, on the edge of the manicured section of Sarah Walker Mercer Park, but it was pitch-black. She thought streetlights usually shone around there, but maybe she was wrong. She knew up ahead was a paved area, but she couldn’t see it from where she stood. Quinn peeped down at RBG, and her girl looked up at her. “Huh, maybe it was the wind?”
That’s when she caught it—the sound of a door slamming shut, followed by a car peeling away, screeching like a banshee through the night. And it couldn’t have been that far away because Quinn could smell burnt rubber on the breeze. She ran toward the sound, hoping to catch a glimpse. The car left a trail of billowy white smoke all the way down Nutley Street. It went so fast, Quinn couldn’t even be sure of the car’s color.
“Damn it.”
RBG started to whine.
“It’s okay, girl.” Quinn fumbled with her phone—her hands were shaking—trying to steady herself in order to shine the light. She was going to find a seat on one of the park benches and catch her breath before heading back home.
But then her light caught on some pink fabric and something that resembled … hay?
She moved at a snail’s pace, just a little bit closer.
“Wait, that’s not … oh no …”
It wasn’t hay. It was hair. Human hair. And it was blonde … ash blonde.
Quinn’s gaze darted up and down the body, her brain trying to catch up to where her eyes and gut had already arrived.
That’s because the body wasn’t just anybody.
Face up, with empty eyes and mouth hanging open, lay the last person she’d ever expect to find: Tricia Pemberley.
RBG strained the leash, itching to investigate, but there was something wholly unnatural about the way Tricia was lying there.
“No, girl. Stay.” Quinn’s voice came out hoarse because she was finding it hard to breathe. She was no medical expert, but it didn’t take one to know for certain: Tricia was dead. With her hands shaking even more badly now, Quinn slid the bar on her phone and called the police.
The cop tapped his pen on his notepad. “Did you get a look at the license plate?”
Her mind going blank, Quinn shook her head.
“What about the make or model of the car?”
“No, I just heard it. It took off so fast, I couldn’t even tell you what kind of car it was. There was all this … this white smoke coming from the tailpipe.”
She thought she knew almost everyone in Vienna, but this guy was new-ish. There was something familiar about him, the way someone would be if you’d met him once at a party or if he was a customer who had come into the store more than once, but not enough to be a regular.
“You say you knew the victim?”
It was weird to hear him say that, to think of Tricia Pemberley as a victim of anything. I can’t believe she’s really dead.
Quinn snapped out of her fog. “Yes, I’ve known her almost all my life.”
“Would you say you two were close?”
“No, not at all.”
Now it was the officer’s turn to express surprise. “Oh? Were you two enemies?”
“What? No! We may not have been friends, but …”
Something in his expression hardened, grew cold even, before he smoothed it over. But she hadn’t missed it.
“Tricia was gorgeous, successful, and engaged to a guy with big bucks. I’d understand if you were envious, wanting what she had.”
Oh great. Another one who thinks every woman’s sole purpose is to find a husband.
“Listen, Officer”—she glanced at his nametag—“Wyatt Reynolds, I don’t know where you came from before being assigned to the Vienna PD, but trust me when I tell you, I wasn’t jealous in the slightest. And there’s no way I’d ever hurt her—or anybody for that matter. Especially like that. No one deserves that.”
The sirens’ blare cut through the atmosphere, with blinding lights flashing by; it was a squad car, followed by an ambulance and an SUV. Officers Shae Johnson and Ned Carter emerged from a black-and-white. Shae had graduated five years ahead of Quinn, and Ned was one of the few people who had been born and raised in town, part of the local Carter family, all descendants of Keziah Carter, a freed woman of color who, in 1842, purchased fifty acres of land from what had been the original Wolf Trap plantation, almost unheard of in the Antebellum era. If someone encountered a Carter around these days, chances are he or she was one of Ms. Keziah’s descendants, but Quinn—just like everyone else in town—rarely thought about the Carters’ history. For her, Ned was just one of her father’s good friends, two grown men who had bonded over their mutual interest in mushroom hunting, of all things—particularly morels—enough to form a mycological club. They even had T-shirts saying “I’m not weird—I’m a fungi.”
Of course, emerging from the SUV was none other than Detective Aiden Harrington. He might have been the same age as Bash and just as tall, but he was the physical opposite in every other way. While Bash had a slender build, a mop of light brown hair, and boyish good looks, Aiden was all thick, ink-black hair and stormy gray eyes, and he was built like a Mack truck.
In other words, he was all man—admittedly too much man for Quinn, growing up. After all, there was a six-year age difference between them. When she’d been twelve and he’d been seventeen, that had been a big deal, an impossibility. Not that this had stopped her from writing “Ms. Quinn Caine-Harrington” all over her notebooks back in school.
But now, she was twenty-five and he was thirty-one. When she had come home from her latest—and last—overseas teaching gig, her family had thrown her a welcome-home party at The Maple Avenue Restaurant—part of the trend in town to have a place with the most unimaginative, prosaic name, all while serving truly inventive food. She knew he’d be there—she was counting on it. She’d even had her hair and makeup done, finally allowing her longtime hair stylist, JoDene, free reign to bibbity-bobbity-boo on some highlights, give her hair more than a typical trim. Quinn had even sanctioned use of that torture device-slash-curling iron of hers, which JoDene wielded like a Lord of the Rings conjurer, transforming her rod-straight mop into these loose, beachy, sun-kissed waves.
And when she spotted him enter the restaurant, Aiden made a beeline her way, like the detective/rock star he was, if there ever was such a thing.
They locked eyes.
He smiled—no, scratch that—he beamed.
And when they were finally toe to toe, her head craning up—even in those ridiculous heels, to take in those eyes warm and soft only for her, she knew, down to the marrow of her bones, this was their beginning.
Quinn and Aiden. Aiden and Quinn.
She had the fantasy tattooed in her mind: her friends would tease and call them “Q&A,” and they’d share a look between them before laughing long and deep the whole time.
That had been the fantasy, until he’d reached out … to ruffle her hair.
Just like her brother did.
“Good to have you home, Quinnie,” he said, before sauntering over to chat up the new redheaded server.
Quinnie. He had called her Quinnie. Only her family still used that childish nickname—oh, and apparently, Aiden Broadwater Harrington.
That’s when it had hit her—he would only ever see her as Bash’s little sister, the tag-along-kid who made sure to blend in well enough so they’d not mind her presence much. It didn’t matter that she was a young woman now, one with an Instagram-worthy dress and strappy, grown-up shoes, magic hair, and dewy-fresh makeup. She would always just be lil’ Quinnie Caine.
She had plastered on a smile for the rest of the evening, making sure to visit with each and every person who had come by to welcome her home. But under the surface and out of sight, the tiny, long-nurtured hope of there ever being a Quinn and Aiden went out, the same way Tinkerbell’s light died when children dared say they didn’t believe in fairies. Flutterless wings lay dormant, her long-held dream dying under twinkle lights.
That had been five weeks ago. She had seen him since, but not often and never for long. Now, while the other officers were securing the scene and the EMTs ran over to Tricia, attempting to revive her, Aiden stalked over to where she was standing, along with Officer Reynolds and, now, Officer Carter.
“Tell me you’ve got a good reason for being out here, Quinn.” Aiden stopped in front of her, hands on his hips, exposing his sidearm.
Officer Reynolds’s face blanched. “You know each other?”
“Yeah, you could say that. Now answer me, Quinn.”
At least he’s not calling me Quinnie.
He was wearing an olive-colored corduroy blazer with a pressed, button-down shirt and black jeans. He was also clean-shaven and smelled like sexy-musky-man. He always looked good for work, but considering it was almost two in the morning, Quinn was guessing he had been involved in another kind of activity before being called to the scene.
“Sorry if I interrupted your hot date.” Hashtag sorry, not sorry.
A vein in his left temple pulsed. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Hey, I wasn’t looking to cause any trouble. I promise,” she said. “RBG got spooked is all, and once we were out here, we heard a thump. By the time we found her, someone had taken off in their car. I called nine-one-one first thing.”
“Can you explain to me, then, why you were out here alone in the first place? Vienna’s safe, but it’s never a good idea for a woman to walk alone at night.”
“Aiden, I told you. RBG got spooked, barking and growling until I took her out to take a look. And P.S.: She’s a German shepherd. I was safe with her.”
He frowned in response.
“Hey, I wasn’t even sure what I heard out here,” Quinn went on. “It could have been the wind for all I knew. I wasn’t going to call nine-one-one until there was something to see.”
“Or until you were sure your accomplice got away,” Officer Reynolds muttered.
Officer Carter flashed a warning glare. “Reynolds.”
Aiden pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t touch the body? Or contaminate my crime scene any further?”
“No, of course not. I just … I just can’t believe Tricia’s dead.”
RBG let out a short woof. Guess not everyone was broken up about her passing.
Quinn couldn’t stop staring at Tricia’s lifeless face, numbly watching as one of the EMTs performed CPR through a protective barrier. With gloves on, the other tech held her wrist, feeling for a pulse. For ten minutes, nobody else dared move except the EMTs. It was as if they were all collectively holding their breaths until Tricia could regain hers.
“I’m sorry, folks, but I’m going to have to call it,” one of them said. “Her lungs have collapsed, and there’s evidence of paralysis, not just on the left side of her face but also in her throat and upper extremities.”
Quinn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But aren’t you going to take her to the hospital? Don’t give up yet!”
“She’s gone, miss,” the other EMT said, his expression somber. “Detective, I’m going to call the ME.”
Aiden gave a nod.
“And now it’s time you come down to the station with me.” Officer Reynolds grabbed Quinn’s upper arm in a vise grip.
RBG went nuts, barking and snarling. If Quinn hadn’t been holding her leash, RBG would’ve tackled the officer to the ground. She tried dislodging her arm. “Hey, let go!”
Aiden got right in his face. “You will take your hands off her right now. Are. We. Clear. Sergeant?”
Officer Reynolds released her arm, which Quinn immediately started massaging. RBG rubbed her head against her leg, licking her hand. “It’s okay, girl—I’m fine.” She stroked the dog’s head and scratched along her jaw.
“She still needs to come in for questioning, make a statement,” the officer bit out, beads of sweat peppering his upper lip.
Aiden grimaced. “I don’t know how they conduct themselves at the Baltimore PD, but in Vienna, we respect the chain of command, which means I give the order, not the other way around. Understood?”
Officer Reynolds gave one last glare toward Quinn before answering, “Yes, Detective. Understood.”
Just then, the medical examiners arrived. Unfortunately, they were followed by a TV news van.
“That’s just great,” Aiden muttered. “Reynolds, make yourself useful and get the others to finish securing the scene. I don’t want to see any of those vultures near here.”
With those parting words, Aiden stormed off toward the medical examiners; all the while Reynolds leaned into her air space, a fiery gleam in his eyes.
“Don’t even think about going anywhere. You may have them fooled, but I’m onto you. And there’s no way I’m letting you get away with it.”