The Mia Quinn Collection Read online

  Why did you always get what you wanted, only far too late for it to do you any good?

  When she didn’t say anything, her dad continued, “What I mean is, I want to help you. I know I can’t make up for not having been much of a father to you, but I can do a better job at being a grandparent. Let me help out with the kids more. Or do more around the house and yard. Things Scott probably did.”

  Had her dad really changed? Or was he just getting older, feeling frail, feeling regrets? If he hadn’t been pushed out of his old job, would he be talking like this?

  “You worked hard all your life, Dad. You deserve to take it easy.”

  “Frankly, I’m bored.” He shifted in his seat. “I’ve been thinking about taking a mission trip with my church down to Guatemala. They’re going to build a school.”

  A mission trip? Dad? Now Mia really had walked through the fun-house mirror.

  Somehow it seemed easier to talk to him when they were both staring at the black pavement and the cars in front of and around them. When he signaled a lane change, they turned together to check the blind spot.

  Mia found herself asking, “So why did you and Mom get a divorce anyway?”

  He was silent for a minute. “Looking back, it’s hard to say. One thing is that we grew apart. It was my fault, I can see that now. I let it happen. I didn’t like to talk about work when I was at home, and I was always at work, so what was there left to talk about?”

  In his words Mia heard an echo of her relationship with Scott.

  “I don’t think you knew this, but things were hard with Scott before he died. I always said I would never get a divorce. Never do to my kids what you guys did to Peter and me. But when Scott and I started growing apart, I didn’t know how to pull things back together. I thought if I acted like things were okay, then maybe they would be.” She sighed. “Since Scott died, I’ve realized there was a lot he wasn’t telling me. He would just drive off to his office space every day. I thought he was working, but he must have spent a lot of the time worrying. Maybe he didn’t want to burden me. Maybe he thought the way we had split things up meant he couldn’t ask for help. He died trying to carry everything himself. I let him down, Dad. I left him all alone.” Tears closed her throat.

  He reached over and squeezed her knee. “If there’s anything I’ve learned, honey, it’s that we are all imperfect. We can’t change the past. We can say we’re sorry, we can try to make amends, we can know that God forgives us if we ask Him, but it’s really about what we can do now as we go forward.”

  He put his hand back on the wheel. Mia had a sudden flashback to him teaching her to drive—“hands at ten and two”—one of the few ways he had been involved in her life after the divorce.

  About the only other memories she had of her dad from her teenage years were of the few times when he’d had them for the weekend and had invariably wanted help with some fix-it project. Peter, who was two years older, usually managed to get invited to a friend’s house or otherwise get himself off the hook. Even though her dad always billed it as learning experience, Mia was usually reduced to being the mute helper: handing him the wrench, holding the light. She could almost hear his impatient voice in her head: “No, right there. Can’t you see where you need to point it? Oh, good grief, give it to me! It would be easier if I just did it myself. I don’t know why I even asked you for help!”

  And suddenly she wondered if that was how she seemed to Gabe sometimes. Impatient. Critical.

  “Just how bad are things, honey?” her dad said, interrupting her train of thought.

  What could she say to him? That she was holding on by her fingernails? “Pretty bad, but I’m working on it.” It would be way too embarrassing to spell out just how bad, like owning up to eating two gallons of ice cream and an entire cake by yourself. Although in this case, Scott had bought the cake and ice cream, and she had only eaten part of it. “Scott’s business wasn’t doing well. But instead of telling me, he just started putting everything on credit. Now I’m going to have a hard time even paying the minimums.”

  “Why’d he lease that big SUV, then?”

  “When he got it, I think he thought things were turning around. He’d just landed this new client. Plus, he thought a big car would be safer for the kids. And he wanted to look successful. By the time his new client decided to file for bankruptcy, it must have been too late.”

  “You know if I had any money I’d give it to you, honey.”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know.” She could imagine how Peter would react if their dad actually had any to give her. But it was a moot question. “We’ll make it. We’ll be okay. I’m just glad Frank D’Amato took me back at King County and I still have that gig as an adjunct professor.”

  “How are things going in catching whoever killed Colleen and that Stan guy?” her dad said as he turned onto the street where Brooke’s preschool was.

  “We’ve got more than enough suspects, but no one that’s a slam dunk. Frank’s been appealing to the public for help. The problem is, I don’t think the public knows anything. Whoever did this is not going around running their mouth about it. These killings were planned. But what the police are getting are folks calling about their dreams or saying it’s probably the neighbor they’re having a beef with.”

  He parked and she went in to get Brooke. After Mia came back and buckled Brooke into the car seat in the back, she got into the front passenger seat and briefly rested her head on her dad’s shoulder. When was the last time she had done that? Had she ever?

  They made one more stop before going home, at Pagliacci’s for pizza to go. That made two times in one week. Mia promised herself that soon she would start planning and shopping for real meals. But tonight they had to hurry so they could make Gabe’s game. She was back to life in the fast lane as soon as she walked in the door—trying to pick up the house, sort through the mail, check the answering machine and her personal e-mail. Her dad coaxed Brooke into eating some strawberries as well as nibbling on a slice of pizza. Mia poured her a glass of milk, then reached for one of the beers she had bought at the store a week earlier.

  “Want a beer, Dad?”

  “I’m not drinking anymore.”

  Mia stood up too fast and hit her head on the ceiling of the refrigerator. She turned toward him. “Really?”

  He drew an X on his chest with his index finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Mia thought of what she had found in the basement underneath Scott’s old ski clothes the night Colleen was killed. A bottle of whiskey. Scott had told her he had stopped drinking years ago. Well, just another thing that he hadn’t quite been truthful about. Or maybe it had been true when he said it and then it had become not so true.

  And today her dad was claiming to be a changed man.

  But tomorrow? Why, tomorrow he might go back to being the same old dad.

  CHAPTER 31

  The stadium was packed. Mia turned and waved at where Brooke was sitting with her grandpa about halfway up the bleachers. The powerful lights stole the stars from the sky. It looked like the type of daylight Mia had lately been experiencing in her dreams. Surreal. Metallic. Unforgiving.

  Gabe, so bulked up by his uniform and pads that he was identifiable only by his number—79—sat on the end of the bench. This was the third game his team had played, and the coach hadn’t put him in once. And if Gabe wasn’t playing, Mia didn’t care much about what was happening on the field. She recognized one of the boys who had been at her house on Wednesday, plowing his way through a pack of opposing players like a moving mountain. As she waited for Charlie, Mia stared at the orange gravel track that outlined the field without really seeing it. The crisp air smelled of dirt and torn grass.

  “The klieg lights remind me of a nighttime crime scene,” Charlie said, coming up behind her. “Now all we need is a body.”

  Trust Charlie to paint such a peaceful picture. “Not like the football games of your youth?”

  It was a guess, but by th
e way he flinched it seemed to have struck home.

  “I was only on the team for a few games, but then we came to a mutual parting of the ways.”

  “I’ve never actually been to a football game before,” Mia admitted.

  Charlie did a double take. “What—did you go to an all-girls Catholic school or something?”

  “Or something. I knew the only way I could afford to go to college was to work, so I worked every weekend.” She looked across the field. “So have you heard anything over on the other side?” Trying to pass as a parent, Charlie was moving around on the fringes of the crowd, trying to overhear anyone talking about Darin’s death.

  Charlie followed her gaze. The kids from the opposing high school were no different from the kids on this side. The girls were bundled up in down jackets, wearing matching hats and scarves. Some of the boys wore just flannel shirts and jeans and pretended they weren’t freezing. Everyone was chanting, clapping, yelling. No different at all, except that one side wore green and yellow and the other orange and black. Yet Mia knew that some of those kids had watched Darin being tormented and done nothing. Maybe some had done much more than that.

  A shiver danced across her skin. The air had a bite to it. Winter was coming. Long dark nights with no one to hold her. And if a pipe froze or the heat went out or they had to get someplace over icy roads, it would all be on her shoulders.

  Charlie spoke, pulling her back to the here and now, to a crisp fall instead of a bone-chilling winter. “I’ve heard Brandon’s and Reece’s names mentioned several times. And a couple of others—some kid named Conrad, another named Zane or Zen.” Since this was Seattle, either name was possible. “But from what I’m hearing, Brandon and Reece were the ringleaders.” He looked up at the stands. “I think your daughter wants you.” Brooke was beckoning Mia with white-mittened hands.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow at the funerals. But if you hear anything really juicy before that, let me know.”

  She picked her way back up the stadium steps. The crowd was on its feet, clapping in rhythm and calling, “Let’s go, de-fense! Let’s go, de-fense!”

  As soon as she found her way back to her daughter’s side, Brooke asked, “Can we go to the snack stand?” She had picked at her pizza and strawberries, but her appetite had returned at the thought of snacks.

  Mia realized she could say no. She could lecture. If she were a really good mom, she would now pull a healthy snack from her purse. Instead she said, “Sure.”

  Brooke turned around. “Hold our seats, okay, Grampa?”

  “Will do, honey.” He smiled and patted the top of Brooke’s hat, which was made of felt and looked like a cat’s face. “And if they have any of those Payday bars, get me one.”

  The snack stand was the one place where both sides gathered. The air was redolent with the smell of hamburgers, hot dogs, and brats grilling on a smoky fire, tended by a man in a long dirty apron. But despite the mouthwatering smell, Brooke had no interest in meat. If she had her way, she would live on only white or tan food. Mia was bent over her, discussing the merits of a soft pretzel versus a muffin, when a man spoke behind her.

  “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  Mia straightened up, surprised. “Eli! What are you doing here?”

  “My daughter’s a cheerleader. For the opposing school, I take it.” Sometimes Seattle was a small town on a big scale.

  When Eli had talked about his daughter needing to get away from Portland, Mia had developed a mental image of the girl, but cheerleader certainly hadn’t been part of it. Now she looked at the girls dancing in front of the other team’s crowd:

  Patriots got the power,

  Patriots got the heat,

  Patriots got the spirit,

  to knock you off your feet!

  “Which one’s yours?” she asked.

  “Rachel’s second from the left.”

  Mia glimpsed strawberry blond hair, the tip of a snub nose.

  “So does your son play?” Eli turned toward the field. “What position?”

  “Right now what he’s playing is the bench. So far the coach hasn’t put him in.”

  “We’ve still got awhile to go before the game’s over.”

  “No, I mean this season,” Mia said. “It’s a sore spot for him.”

  Eli winced in sympathy. “And who’s this kitty you have with you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my daughter, Brooke. Brooke, this is Mr. Hall.”

  Brooke pressed her face into Mia’s thigh.

  “She’s a little tired.”

  “She looks like you.” Eli half turned toward the snack stand. “What are you getting?”

  “A muffin for Brooke and a Payday bar for my dad, if they have any. Maybe a cup of cocoa for me.”

  “I saw you eyeing those bratwurst.”

  They did look good—and they smelled even better. “I probably shouldn’t.” She had gobbled a slice of pizza at home. But only one.

  “Any calories you eat in a stadium don’t count,” Eli said with a smile. “Hasn’t anyone told you that?”

  He ended up buying Mia a bratwurst and a cup of cocoa, Brooke a muffin, and her dad a Snickers, the closest thing the snack bar had to a Payday. Eli also ordered two brats for himself. After Mia thanked him, they went their separate ways. The brat plus the cocoa and the candy bar meant she had both hands full when she really needed one to guide Brooke, who was preoccupied with her muffin. But they finally made it back to their spot. Mia hoped she wasn’t alienating the five people who had to keep standing every time she needed to get by.

  “Here you go, Dad,” she said, handing him the Snickers. “Hope that’s acceptable.”

  “Sure.” He took it from her but didn’t open the wrapper. “Who was that you were talking to? Another cop?”

  “No. Eli is one of the other law professors at UDub. And the rest of the time he’s a public defender.” Mia took a sip of her cocoa. It tasted like what it was, various artificial powders mixed with water. Clumps of powder burst between her teeth. You shouldn’t be able to chew hot cocoa. That made her think of Rainy’s story about Darin bringing her marshmallows.

  After Mia finished her bratwurst, the rest of the game dragged. Around her, parents cheered and clapped, but many also chatted or sneaked occasional glances at a smartphone.

  Brooke clambered onto Mia’s lap and almost immediately fell asleep. It was technically past her bedtime, but keeping to a regular schedule had gone out the window when Scott died. Mia welcomed her warmth, savoring the contact. Since going back to work, she had had little time to just cuddle.

  Her lower back ached. Her rear end was both painful and numb. Some of the other parents were smart; they had brought blankets or cushions.

  “Which one’s yours?” asked the mom next to her.

  “That one,” Mia said, pointing. “Number 79. The one on the bench.”

  Four minutes left, and Gabe’s team was up by twelve. Mia silently begged, Please, Coach, let him play. Let him show what he can do. He kept clapping his hands, yelling encouragement, but she knew he was in agony.

  Then the game was over and his team, victorious, stormed off the field, leaping, yelling, and bumping fists.

  Stiffly, Gabe followed.

  Her dad leaned over. “Tell Gabe I’m sure he’ll get in next time.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’m going to head on home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Mia said. She gently shook Brooke awake, and they slowly made their way down the stairs. Before Mia finished buckling her into the car seat, her daughter was asleep again.

  She listened to the radio while she waited for Gabe to finish showering. After about ten minutes she turned to look for him. The parking lot was emptying out. Then she saw something that made her freeze.

  A few rows back stood a man with a hoodie pulled over his baseball cap. Did he look like the man who had chased her in the university’s parking lot? Her heart started to beat faster. If it was the same man,
then he must be after more than her purse.

  He must be after her.

  She had to do something. But what? Should she honk the horn, yell at other people for help, drive away even if Gabe wasn’t yet in the car?

  Just as Mia’s panic was reaching a peak, the man in the hoodie turned and got into a small black car and started it. She realized she had been holding her breath and let it out in a whoosh of air. She was getting paranoid. Seeing killers in every passerby.

  Her heart was still beating fast when Gabe climbed in the car. “Why me?” he yelled. “I’m the only one who never goes in.” He slapped the dash.

  She tried not to flinch. “Do you want me to talk to the coach?”

  “No! Then I’ll be the kid who plays because his mom complains.”

  “But we need to know what the coach is thinking.”

  “I know what he’s thinking,” Gabe said shortly. “He doesn’t like me.”

  “Gabe!” Mia turned the ignition key all the way over. It clicked, but the engine didn’t catch. She tried again. The radio dwindled to nothing. She turned the key a third time.

  This time there wasn’t even a click.

  “What’s wrong?” Gabe asked.

  “I don’t know.” Cars were Scott’s area, not hers.

  She pulled the release, got out, and, after some fumbling, managed to prop up the hood.

  It was dark underneath. By now Gabe was looking too. Mia got the flashlight from the glove compartment, but when she turned it on, all it made was a fuzzy circle of light so small and soft it was useless.

  “Is there a problem, Mia?”

  She twisted her head. It was Eli, calling out to her from a small brown Honda.

  “My car won’t start.”

  He pulled his car over and got out. His daughter followed, hanging back. She wore a cropped jacket over her tiny orange cheerleading skirt. Mia said, “Gabe, this is another one of the professors, Eli Hall, and his daughter, Rachel. Oh, and, Rachel, I’m Mia. Mia Quinn.” Gabe, who was a half head shorter than Rachel, looked up at her like she was a cross between a goddess and a lioness. Rachel appeared supremely disinterested.