The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [99]
“I’m stubborn,” Rainie muttered. “And stupid.”
Kimberly smiled. “But in your own way, you’re also hopeful. You’re just not comfortable with that part of yourself. I understand. I’m hopeful I will kill Tristan Shandling. I’m not comfortable with that yet either, but I figure I have a few days.”
“Kimberly,” Rainie said gently. “Word of advice—don’t go there. Tristan Shandling is a piece of shit. You play by his rules, and you won’t ever get yourself back. He will have molded the start of your career, and you’ll never get to know the kind of officer or agent you would have become. You’ll simply be what he made you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do. I’m a murderer, Kimberly. Thanks to Ronnie Dawson, I’m free and clear in the eyes of the law, but years ago I killed someone. I’m a murderer. And I’ll never know what else I could’ve been. Yeah, I pretty much hate that. Then again, the other person’s dead. That’s gotta suck, too.”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t know.”
Rainie shrugged. “Life’s about baggage. Think twice before you hang a boulder around your neck.”
“But he’s going to keep coming,” Kimberly insisted. “You know Shandling is going to keep coming and coming until either he, or us, winds up dead. The shark is in the water, Rainie. Now, we need a bigger boat.”
Thirty minutes later, Kimberly was asleep on the sofa, her long blond hair pooled around her. The sun was beginning to wane, the white walls of the hotel room becoming washed in shades of gray. Outside the air was probably stifling. Inside it was cool and for a while Rainie simply leaned against the windowsill, six stories above, looking out at nothing in particular. Jet lag was catching up with them. Kimberly was probably down for the night. No sound came from Quincy in the bedroom.
The room was quiet. It hadn’t occurred to Rainie until now how much she both craved and abhorred silence.
Maybe she had a father. It was hard to imagine. Her mother had told her once, with Molly’s stunning indifference, that her dad could be any one of over a dozen men, and that she’d already forgotten all of their names. Men came, men went, Molly said. Don’t be a fool and expect something more.
Thirty-two years later, Rainie’s father remained a perfect blank in her mind. He had no eye color, no hairstyle, no distinguishing features. He was a black silhouette, like the mystery person with a white question mark in the middle they showed in magazines. I gave you life. Do you know who I am?
No, she didn’t.
Maybe she had a father. Or maybe it was a lie and this was all Tristan Shandling. She had to have faith. Cynicism was more likely to keep her alive.
Rainie pushed away from the windowsill. She crossed the room and opened the door to the bedroom. The blinds were drawn. The room was swathed in black intersected by faint beams of fading light. Quincy sprawled in the middle of the bed, his left arm flung across the dark floral bedspread, his right arm crooked over his head. He’d taken off his shoes and tie. His firearm and shoulder holster were positioned within easy reach on the nightstand. Otherwise he’d fallen asleep fully dressed.
Rainie entered the room. She closed the door behind her. Then finally, fully clothed herself, she crawled onto the bed. Quincy didn’t stir.
The collar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned. She could just make out the first whorls of dark, springy chest hair. She had once run her fingers through that light matting of hair. She had pressed her palm over his breast and felt the strong rhythm of his heart.
“Quincy,” she murmured, so he wouldn’t startle awake