Taking Turns (Turning #1)(24)

Quin looks at me. “What the f*ck is he talking about?”

But we both know what he’s talking about. Smith wants Marcella. He thinks he can get Quin the information he needs and we can all have a replacement at the same time.

I’m silent as Quin stands up. “Fuck that girl. Fuck. That girl. I’m not in, OK? So if you *s want to pair up and leave me out, feel free.”

Smith and I both watch Quin walk out. And then Smith looks back to me. “He’ll get over it. He’s just pissed off that she tricked him. But you know what? I kinda like that about her.” And then he nods to the headset on the table. “And I like that f*cking screaming too.”





The rest of my day is not filled with enough distractions to keep Smith’s idea from percolating in my mind.

The screaming was hot.

When Smith brought her down the elevator the other night she didn’t look wild. She looked scared, actually. But the screaming tells me another story. It says she’s a fighter.

My mind is whirring with possibilities and ideas.

I did say I’d talk to Marcella about Rochelle for Quin. If only to get some semblance of closure about Rochelle’s state of mind and being.

So after I conclude my last phone call about the upcoming holiday events, I find the card on my desk at TPC and stare at it as I look out the window.

I call the gallery. It’s closed.

Smith has an address written down on the back of the card, but no phone number. So I call down to reception and tell them to bring my car up from the garage.

I clean my desk off, putting everything in its place before I leave, and then make my way down to the waiting car. It’s cold tonight, but no snow. So the traffic is light as I weave through the downtown streets and make my way over to Little Raven Street near Union Station. It’s one of those high-end areas just north of downtown. Every townhouse and condo on this street goes for over a million dollars. Well over a million, actually.

I scan the house numbers for her address and when I find it, I breathe a sigh of relief that the lights are on.

I park the car, get out, and walk up to her front gate. It’s short, but stately, made of wrought iron, and it doesn’t squeak when I open it and walk through. Her townhouse is three stories tall, plus a basement from the looks of the stairs I have to walk up to get to the front door. It’s modern, has lots of large windows and sharp lines, and when I peek inside, I can see a fire going in the large front room.

Nina Simone is singing about a new dawn and a new day and then I get a flash of the woman I came to see as she walks across the room on the far end of the first floor.

I press the button for the doorbell.

Marcella stops in the middle of the hallway and stares at me, staring at her.

She doesn’t move. Not one muscle. She’s absolutely still as she considers her options.

Will she call the police?

Will she go about her business and ignore me?

Or will she answer the door?

Just as I get to that last option, she decides.

“What?” she says, peeking through a crack in the door.

“I’d just like to apologize for Smith’s actions last night.”

“Did he tell you everything he did?” She’s still very angry about it. “Because I’d like to know just how deeply disturbed he really is so I know how to react.”

“He told me he’s sorry.”

“Did he?” Marcella asks, unbelieving. “Then why are you here apologizing instead of him?”

“May I come in, Miss Walcott? It’s like ten degrees out here.”

She looks me up and down real fast, then opens the door and says, “Briefly.”

“Yes,” I say, stepping past her and into the warm house. “I’ll keep it short.” She’s cooking dinner, I realize. Something smells good.

I turn to her, but she pushes past me and says, “Excuse me. I have to check my food before it burns.”

Even though she didn’t invite me to follow her back into the kitchen, I do. I take off my leather gloves and set them down on the granite island with my car keys. “Smells good. What are you making?”

Marcella reaches for a remote and turns the music down so we can have a conversation. “Chicken pot pie,” she says, opening the oven. She peers in, grabs a pot holder, and then pulls out a single chicken pot pie.

“It’s frozen?”

She laughs. “No.” But her answer is terse. Like I offended her.

“You make them yourself?”

Marcella sets the cooking sheet on a trivet and turns around. “What do you want?”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

“He broke into my—”

“I’m sorry Smith did that. He’s impulsive. But he had a reason.”

“I’m sure he did,” she says.

“Technically, Miss Walcott, you kinda broke into our house too. Right?”

Her spine stiffens and her chin lifts up. “Rochelle invited me up.”

“Right,” I say, drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out. “That’s the other reason I’m here. You see, Quin—”

“I don’t know where she is. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. If she wanted you guys to know where she went and what she was doing, she’d have left a note.”