The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (6 page)

A siren wails down the highway, winding away into the mountains.

“It sucks,” I whisper. “I know that. But we’ll deal with it. Baby steps. Each day we’ll just aim to get through. Then one day, maybe it’ll all be a little bit easier. Like a sunny break after a terrible storm.”

There’s a long silence.

A single headlight flares suddenly in my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me. I turn and look out the back window. A bike has pulled off the road about a hundred yards back. The headlight is cut.

I think of the bike at the school. Disquiet whispers through me.

“I want to go home,” she says, her voice soft, small. “I want my mom.”

“I know.” I gather her into my arms again and an indescribable sensation washes through me as I hold her against my breast. A ferocity. A feeling that I will do anything for this child now. Anything. I will keep her safe. I will make her happy. “We’ll find a way,” I whisper against her hair. “Together we’ll put those girls in their place, okay? But we’re going to do it in a smart way. We can’t physically beat away all the bad things. Violence is not the answer.”

“That’s what he said.”

Ice shoots through me. I pull back.

“Who?”

Her gaze holds mine.

“You mea
n . . .
that man?”

Silence.

Fury, fear, chases through me. I turn in my seat and glare at the bike in the dark shadows.

“He’s not a bad man.”

“How do you know?” Urgency nips my voice.

Something flickers in Quinn’s eyes, and in that instant, without a quiver of a doubt, I know it’s Jeb. He’s here. He followed and spoke to Quinn. He’s on that bike out there. It was him waiting outside the school.

“Did he ask you where you live?” My words are clipped.

Silence.

“Did he?”

“Yes!” she spat. Her only tool is anger, and she’s grabbing it back, wielding it again. “He asked if you were married. I told him your stupid boyfriend dumped you.”

I can’t breathe. “Does he have a motorbike?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Does he have a tattoo, on his neck? A fish?”

Quinn turns her head sharply away.

I lurch forward, put the truck in gear, hit the gas, and squeal back into the road. Wrenching the wheel hard, I pull a U-turn across the boulevard, almost clipping a parked sedan on the opposite side. My tires squeal. My hands are tight on the wheel as I drive too fast, my heart thudding overtime, perspiration breaking out on my lip.

“Put your seat belt on,” I snap as I remember she took it off.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?”

“Police station.”

She swings round in her seat to face me. “No! You can’t, please—he’s
not
a bad man.”

“And how do you know that? Because he bought you candy? Because he smiled nicely at you? There are some very bad people in this world who know just how to get at little girls.” My voice is shaking. “You might
think
he’s safe. Men like him can make you feel they’re your friend. They can make you feel comfortable, happy. But they’re dangerous. They’re predators. You have to understand this. Terrible, terrible things can happen.”

“He’s
not
dangerous,” she sobbed. “He’s read my favorite book. He helped me when those girls took my candy.”

I wheel sharply into the public safety building parking lot, tires bouncing as I hit the edge of the curb. I come to a stop, sit for a while, engine running, watching in the rearview mirror, heart pounding, sweat prickling over my torso. But there’s no bike. There’s nothing in the street save for the odd car. Maybe I imagined a man on the bike in the school lot. Maybe I imagined we were being followed. I’m seeing Jeb in every damned shadow because I’m paranoid now that he’s out. I drag my hands over my hair. My imagination is becoming my worst enemy.

The police station is attached to the fire hall at the back. Beside it is the Rescue One base. The light is on in Adam LeFleur’s office, a yellow glow spilling out into the cold night. He’s working at his desk. His large form is comforting. It’s going to be okay.

We’re all here for you, you know tha
t . . .

I can do this. I can handle this. If Jeb is back and looking for trouble, Adam will move heaven and earth to lock him back up, for good this time. I unbuckle my seat belt.

“Come,” I say to Quinn as I open my door.

Quinn presses herself deeper into the car seat, clutching her backpack over her tummy again. “I’m not going in there with you.”

“Quinn—”

“You can’t make me. I’ll bite you. I’ll kick you—I’ll scream.” She refuses to look at me. Her mouth is set in a sullen pout.

I glance at the police station. Frustration swells inside me. Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial the station number. The call clicks directly to voice mail, which gives the detachment office hours. I curse to myself. Short of dialing 9-1-1, I’m not going to get through by phone.

I open my door. Standing next to my truck, I yell up to the lighted window where I can see Adam bent over his desk. “Adam! Can you hear me?”

No response. He can’t hear a thing through the double glazing. I look around—no one in sight. All is quiet.”

“Okay,” I say, bending back into the truck. “You stay here. But I’m going to lock you in the truck.”

She remains mute, chin stubbornly jutted forward.

“I’ll be just inside that window over there,” I say, pointing to Adam’s office. “The police will be able to see you from there, okay?”

Nothing.

Quickly I shrug out of my down jacket. “Here, put this over you so you stay warm.”

She doesn’t take it so I leave my jacket on the driver’s seat beside her. I set the child safety lock, close and lock the doors. My truck locking system is faulty—if I activate the child locks, even the passenger side door can’t be opened from the inside. Quinn will not be able to open the doors for anyone. Locking her inside fills me with guilt, but I’m desperate; I don’t know what else to do. I can’t wrestle her into the police station, and I can’t risk her bolting into the night.

I hurry along the path, telling myself I’ll just be a minute, and the cops are right here.

CHAPTER 6

Quinn hugged her backpack tight over her tummy. She desperately wanted to
not
believe Rachel. She wanted to hate Rachel. Make her go away. Make all the horrible things of the past six months disappear. She wanted her mom and dad back. She felt like a sock was stuck in her throat and those stupid tears were coming again.

She kicked her boot heel against the base of the truck seat, trying to stop the tears. But still they burned the backs of her eyes. She drew Rachel’s jacket over her, up to her nose. It was fluffy and warm and smelled softly of her aunt’s perfume. There was blood on it from when Quinn had bashed her above the eyes with the backpack. She banged her boot harder as she turned to watch her aunt run lightly along the path and up the concrete steps to the police station entrance.

Above the building a Canadian flag waved in the wind. White police cruisers and SUVs with red and blue stripes down the sides were parked in the lot in neatly angled rows. Beyond the building, high up above the waving flag, the dark shape of Bear Mountain rose up like a dark blot against the sky. Quinn could see warm yellow lights glowing from the Thunderbird Lodge restaurant and the gondola station near the top. Far above even the peaks, northern lights waved like greenish and yellow curtains, making the glaciers glow ghostly white.

As she waited, the truck windows began to fog up. Quinn pulled her aunt’s jacket tighter. The street was empty and dark, leaves blowing along the paving.

They were all liars. She was not going to believe them. She just was not.

Quinn balled her fist and rubbed a little hole into the mist on her window. That’s when she saw it, a black bike gleaming, the rider with a dark helmet and jacket, watching her from across the street, his exhaust puffing white smoke.

Her heart jumped.
It was him.
She was sure of it.

Excitement rippled through her. She rubbed the hole bigger and leaned forward, peering through it.

The man. Her shadow.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

She liked him—he made her feel special, as if she had a guardian angel. Maybe her mother had sent him down from heaven to protect her, like in that book she’d read where angels were dark and handsome with tattoos and they watched over girls like her who’d been left all alone in the world.

Stupid Missy Sedgefield and Abigail Winters and the others spouting their bitch mouths off about seeing him following her through the woods, snitching about him buying her candy. The bike faded into soft focus as Quinn’s breath caused mist to re-form over the window. She quickly balled her hand and scrubbed another circle into the mist. He was still there.

Our secret, ’ka
y . . .

Quinn felt bad for getting into the fight now. It had forced him out of the shadows to help her, and they’d all seen him. Now her aunt was tattling in the police station. Rachel was going to scare him away. Missy had told Principal Davenport about his black hair and black leather jacket. But they hadn’t seen the tattoo that curved down the side of his neck. Quinn was pretty sure about that. By the time the man had crouched down to speak to her, the girls were running toward the school. It was a coho salmon tattoo. She knew because her dad had been a fisheries expert and he’d had carvings and Indian drawings of coho. He’d told her that the jaws and teeth of the male fish grew hooked and aggressive like that when they turned up into the rivers to spawn.

The girls had told Principal Davenport he was scary.

But he wasn’t. His eyes were the deepest blue and he had the best smile ever. And now Rachel and the police might scare him away. Quinn rubbed another hole into the mist. He was still there, watching. She felt a warm little clutch in her heart. It was her job to keep his secret. A friend. A secret friend.

Our secret, ’ka
y . . .

A young female officer with a mop of dark, loose curls opens a door beside the reception counter fronted with bulletproof glass. Her name tag says Constable Pirello. Her gaze flicks over me but her expression is inscrutable. Typical cop.

“Come this way.” She leads me into a bull pen of sorts with metal desks behind dividers. The walls and carpets are in tones of soft gray. There is only one other police officer at his desk at this time. The other desks sit empty.

“Would you like to take a seat; can I get you some water? Can you tell me what happened?” She’s looking at my face.

My hand goes to my brow and my fingers come away sticky with blood from where Quinn hit me. With shock I realize I must look like a mugging victim. I’m covered head to toe in gray glacial dust, my hair is a snarled mess, and my face is bleeding.

“It’s nothing,” I say, looking at the blood on my hand. “I came down the mountain on the back of an ATV in a hurry to get to the school. My niece was having som
e . . .
trouble.”

Her left brow rises slightly and the woman appraises me with big violet eyes.

“I was at the gondola launch,” I explain. “I must’ve bumped my head. I’m fine, really. I’d like to speak to Adam.”

“You mean Deputy Chief Constable LeFleur?”

She has a French accent, I realize.

“We’re old friends. I know he’s here, I saw him in the window.”

Something flickers through her gaze. She pulls out a chair next to the closest desk. “Please, wait here.”

I remain standing as Officer Pirello strides down the hall. She manages to pull off the heavy gun belt and bulletproof vest look, her swagger somehow sexy, overly confident. I dislike her on the spot.

Adam comes down the hall with her. Pirello talks quietly to him as they walk. He looks up and starts slightly at the sight of me.

“Rach.” He comes forward quickly. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“ATV ride. Bumped my head. Adam, can we have a word in private?”

He hesitates, glances at Pirello. “Is this is about the elementary school incident, with your niece?”

I inhale deeply. “Partl
y . . .
yes.”

“This is Constable Annie Pirello,” Adam says. “She recently joined us from Montreal. She’s the one who took the call from the school. I think it’s best she hears anything you might have to say.”

Pirello regards me again with those big violet eyes and expressionless features. Self-conscious and suddenly irritated, I clear my throat and glance toward his office at the end of the hall. A part of my mind has started to backpedal.

“Fine,” I say. “I was wondering i
f . . .
any of the parents are pressing charges, or anything? I don’t know what usually happens with something like this.”

“No charges at this point,” Pirello offers. She has a cute little gap between her front teeth, which also manages to make her look oddly sexy. For some reason this just galls me further.

I use my sleeve to dab at the blood on my brow. “Did the girls say why the fight happened?”

“None of them wanted to talk.” Pirello’s eyes hold mine, as if she’s waiting for something else to drop, for me to tip my hand, give her further information. My palms grow damp.

“I understand there was a man who came onto the school grounds and broke up the fight,” I say crisply.

Pirello nods, not giving anything away herself.

“The girls apparently told the principal that this man was watching my niece during lunch hour, down on the ball fields. Did Mrs. Davenport tell you that?”

“She did.”

Irritation spikes. “And she also told you that he followed her to the Alpine Market, where he bought her candy?”

“That’s correct.”

“So what exactly happened?” I demand of Pirello. “Did you find out who he is? What he wants?”

“We have a general description from the girls and two of the teachers, but your niece would not confirm their version of events. If she has something to add, perhaps she would like to—”

“I want to know from
you
who he is,” I snap. “Is h
e . . .
known to police? Dangerous?” My gaze flicks to Adam, who is watching me strangely.

“We don’t know who he is, ma’am,” says Pirello. “He might have simply been a Good Samaritan who stepped in when he saw a schoolyard brawl.”

“Then why didn’t he stay when the teachers came out?”

“We don’t know yet, Rachel,” Adam interjects. “We’ve canvassed the neighborhood and spoken to the store clerk at the Alpine Market. All we’ve gleaned at this point is that he’s about six two, black hair on the long side. Darkish complexion. And he was wearing a leather jacket and riding a bike.”

A bike.

Pirello asks again, “Did Quinn MacLean mention anything else?”

A strange sort of defensiveness swells in me at the sound of my niece’s surname on the cop’s lips, my sister’s married name. With it comes a sharp stab of fear that this Constable Pirello is going to go digging and find that Quinn is the birth child of a dangerous felon.

I don’t want the cops—or anyone in town—to draw any kind of link between Jeb and Quinn. Suddenly I feel trapped. This is all happening too fast and I haven’t had time to think it through. I reach for the edge of the desk, feeling dizzy, exhausted.

Adam touches my arm. “Rachel, are sure you’re all right? Can I get you anything?”

I raise my palm. “I’m fine. And no, Quinn won’t tell me anything. She’s been through a lot lately with the death of her parents, and we’re trying to work through it all.
I . . .
I was just worried. About potential charges and all. And who that man is. I should go. Quinn is waiting in the truck for me.”

Pirello and Adam exchange a quick glance.

“If she does mention anything—” Pirello starts saying.

“I’ll call. Thanks.” I head for the door, completely unsure about what I’m doing, but gut instinct shuts me up. If Quinn finds out through someone in town that her father is some murderer and rapist, it will utterly crush her right now.

Adam catches up to me. He cups my elbow and leans across me to open the door leading out of the reception area.

“Don’t worry,” he says quietly, near my ear. “We’ll keep an eye out for this guy. I’ll put a police presence at the school after the Thanksgiving break.” He hesitates, then meets my eyes. His face is close. “You’re certain there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

Oh, now you want to talk, out of earshot of Pirello.

I hold his gaze. “No.”

Something silent surges between us—the mutual knowledge that Jeb is out of prison. We’re both thinking about it.

“I just got spooked today, Adam, that’s all. I should’ve been there for Quinn when the school first called.” I give a soft snort. “I’m still learning how to be a mother to an eight-year-old girl who doesn’t want me in her life.”

“You should both come round for dinner. I’ll speak to Lily and have her call you. She’s so great with kids. We’d love to see you and Quinn again.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “You and Lily have done well—two gorgeous boys. A real family. She’s a lucky woman.” I’m unable to keep the slight bitterness out of my voice. It’s not that I resent what Adam has. It’s that I wasn’t able to manage this dream with Trey.

Something shimmers through his eyes. I start to leave, but he says suddenly, “You’re worried it’s him, aren’t you? That’s why you came.”

I glance over his shoulder. Annie Pirello is watching us. Shrewd, probing eyes. Intense woman.

I look away, to the glass doors leading out of the police station, toward my truck in the lot. Quinn’s little shadow is still there behind fogged glass.

“What if he does come back?” I say softly. “Can we stop him from being here?”

“Cullen’s conviction was overturned. He’s as free as the next guy, to go wherever he pleases. Law enforcement has no control over his movements. But there is also no reason for him to come back here.”

“What about that land his mother left him, on the Wolf River?”

“It’s derelict. There’s nothing there for him. He’d be insane to even try to make something work here. He’s not welcome in Snowy Creek, Rachel, and he knows it. What he did to those girls—people here will crucify him if he returns. There’s still so much residual anger—hell knows what might happen if he sets foot in this town. I’m not sure I could control it.”

“What if it’s revenge he wants? For us testifying? You know, like that felon who comes after his lawyer in
Cape Fear
?”

Adam hesitates. “You’re thinking he might go after your niece to get at you, is that what this is about? You think he’ll come after our children, just to mess with our heads?”

I bite my lip. Deep down, even now, in spite of what I’ve been led to believe about Jeb, in spite of all the evidence presented in court, in spite of my own fears, in spite of today, I can’t fully accept he’s capable. When it comes to Jeb, I can’t think clearly. Trey said there was something wrong with me, that I was sick in my head when it came to him. Maybe he’s right.

Adam’s features darken. “Look, if Cullen dares set one fucking foot in this town, we’ll be on him like flies on shit. One slip—and he
will
make one, mark my word—we nail him. He goes back into Kent, for good this time. I’m not letting my mother’s efforts go down the toilet here. She had a good arrest. This was not her team’s mistake.”