The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [53]
“Mandy spiked her own Coke at a friend’s house, then made it all the way to the middle of nowhere before suddenly being so drunk that she crashed?”
“I didn’t say Mary had a good story, I just said she had a new story.”
“Why? She was my daughter’s best friend. Why?”
Rainie could hear the deeper question behind those words. Why was this happening, to Mandy, to him? Why would someone hurt his daughter? Why wouldn’t the world stay controlled and rational, the way all behavioral scientists wanted it to be?
“I think Mary’s a lonely little princess,” Rainie answered softly. “I think for the right kind of attention, she could be manipulated very easily.”
“The UNSUB got to her? Made her change her story?”
“Or the UNSUB got to her and had her make up the story in the first place. We don’t really know that someone hurt Mandy. We do know that Mary said things at the funeral, however, that made you think someone hurt Mandy.”
“I’m being played,” Quincy filled in slowly. “Harassing phone calls, illegal automobile purchases, rumors about my daughter . . .” He sat up a little straighter. “Shit, I’m being played like a fucking violin!”
Rainie blinked. “Since when did you take up swearing?”
“Yesterday. I’m finding it highly addictive. Like nicotine.”
“You’re smoking, too?”
“No, but I haven’t lost my deep and abiding love for metaphors.”
“I’m serious, Quince, you’re letting yourself fall apart.”
“And apparently, you haven’t lost your deep and abiding love for understatement.”
“Quincy—”
“What’s wrong, Rainie?” he quizzed with that new edge in his voice. “Can’t stand for me to be so human?”
She was up from the picnic table before she knew what she was doing, her hands fisted at her side and her heart hammering in her chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means . . . it means I’m tired,” Quincy said more quietly, his voice already conciliatory. “It means I’m under pressure. It means probably, that I’m looking for a fight. But you’re not the person for me to fight with. So let’s not do this now. Let’s forget I said anything, and simply not do this now.”
“Too late.”
“You looking for a fight, too, Rainie?”
She knew she shouldn’t say it. She knew he was right and they were both stressed and now was not the time. Six long months without even one damn phone call. She brought up her chin and said, “Maybe.”
Quincy got up from the picnic table. He dusted off his hands. He stared at her, and his gaze appeared a lot more composed than she felt. He’d always been so good at remaining in control.
“You want to know where we went wrong?” he said crisply. “You want to know why it started out seeming so right, and then the world ended, not with a bang, but a whimper? I can tell you why, Rainie. It ended because you have no faith. Because one year later, the new, improved Lorraine Conner still doesn’t believe. Not in me. And most certainly not in yourself.”
“I don’t have faith?” she countered. “I don’t have faith? This from the man whose only way of coming to terms with his daughter’s death is to turn it into murder.”
Quincy recoiled sharply. “Strike one to the woman in blue jeans,” he murmured, his expression growing hidden, growing hard.
Rainie wouldn’t back down, though, couldn’t back down. She’d only learned one way to deal with life, and that was to fight. “No hiding behind your wry observations, Quincy. You want me to see you as human? Then act human. For God’s sake, we’re not even having a real argument yet, because you’re still too busy lecturing me!”
“I’m simply saying you have no faith—”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me! Be less therapist, more man—”
“Man? Last time I tried being a man, you looked at me as if I was going to hit you. You don’t need a man, Rainie. You need either a blow-up doll or a damn saint!”
“Son of a bitch!” Rainie opened her mouth to yell further, then suddenly froze. She knew what he was talking about. That night, their last night together nearly eight months ago in Portland. Going to Pioneer Square. Sitting outside at Starbucks and listening to some a capella group perform.