The Passing Storm(30)

“Shelby, we’re not sleeping on the floor.” Quinn sat up, unhappy to have disturbed the perfectly arranged bed. He knew he should fetch the dog, but his toes were so warm.

The container of dog food sat before the nightstand. Why wasn’t Lark’s mother angry? The reason evaded him.

Not ten minutes ago, he’d come out of the bathroom with Shelby trotting behind. Rae was waiting by the guest bedroom door, the container hefted in her arms. Perspiration sprouted on his brow. Since coming to live at her place, he hadn’t thought to mention the stash of dog chow hidden in Lark’s room. Or to reveal that Lark, in the months before her death, was Shelby’s main benefactor. She’d bought most of the ten-pound bags of chow from her seemingly bottomless allowance. Lately, he’d been skipping lunch at school to cover the cost.

All of which totaled up to an awkward tally.

Rae deserved a full accounting days ago. Or he could’ve told her today. After Yuna let Kameko kiss the panting dog for the umpteenth time and finally carried her to the car. Once Connor wandered off to read. There’d been a good five minutes in there to confess. If only.

Between rescuing Shelby, bathing her, and making dinner, coming clean was the last thing on Quinn’s mind.

Now he was found out.

What Rae did next was perplexing. Miraculous, even. It ranked up there with one of his teachers switching a Friday test to the next week.

She handed over the container. Without a word of reprimand. Patting Shelby on the head, she bid him good night.

Remembering, Quinn felt a surge of relief.

Leaning sideways out of the bed, he flipped open the container. He scooped out a handful of chow. On the comforter he built a tidy mound of savory bits.

Shelby’s ears perked.

They both knew better than to skip a meal. If food was available, you dug in.

“C’mon, girl. Jump up!”

She bounded onto the bed. The dog chow vanished. Sitting at attention—a tricky feat, on a mattress—Shelby flicked out her tongue. Just once.

“I can’t feed you more. You’ll need to go out, and it’s bedtime.” Gently he pushed her onto her side. No further encouragement was necessary. With an elaborate sigh, the dog fit her compact body against his legs. A rare sense of contentment filled Quinn.

He wanted to curve the arc of time, bend it back to when he was eight years old. Before his parents fought day and night. Only they wouldn’t be his parents—Rae would. She’d do fine with double duty because her dad liked to help out, and Connor was cool for an old guy. She’d do great. Quinn would call this bedroom his own; every night, Shelby would share his bed. Lark, sleeping down the hall, would be his bossy little sister.

This fantasy led to an obvious and terrible conclusion. He’d gladly trade in his parents. Tell the universe he was picking a different card, leaving Mik and Penny in the deck.

No question about it. He’d make the switch in an instant.

Shame pricked Quinn. What decent kid dreamed about trading in his parents? He loved them both. At least he loved them most days. When Mik came home from Marks Auto and Penny got back from her latest job, and they just drank beer. On the nights when they chose the hard stuff, they weren’t likeable at all. By the third drink, they became different people.

From what Quinn could tell, Rae and her dad weren’t drinkers. They even kept milk in the house. Low-fat, but it was better than nothing.

At his side, the sleeping dog twitched. Shelby’s paws began paddling the air as she chased something in her sleep. Quinn wanted to sink into dreams too. He stared at the ceiling instead. In the silence enveloping the house, it was hard to fend off the thoughts crowding his head.

Or the guilt stinging his heart.

Rae and Connor were good people. They never yelled. They didn’t care if he grabbed a snack from the fridge. They were generous too. He was getting new tires for his truck, and Rae was letting him keep Shelby.

How was he reciprocating their kindness? By breaking a cardinal rule for houseguests, and teenagers in general.

Never lie to adults. Never lie directly, or through acts of omission. His lies were stark, and far-reaching.

About his parents, and who’d ordered him to leave.

About Lark and her dad.

And the police. They still didn’t have the facts straight about Lark’s death.

None of which Quinn—focused on self-preservation—dared tell Rae. Open his mouth, and she’d throw him out. Leave him with no options. He’d end up living on the streets.

Chilled by his mountain of lies, Quinn burrowed deep beneath the blankets. Keeping secrets—and betraying Rae—was wrong. And the only way to stay safe.

On the windowpane, snowflakes ticked a heavy rhythm. Shelby yipped in her sleep. Throwing off the blanket, Quinn gave her a pat. He steered his feet to the floor.

Then he watched the snowfall increase to a blinding sheet of white.





Chapter 11


Swirls of snow collected on the steeply pitched roof of the Tudor mansion. A virtual castle of stone and stucco, the grand house lay seven minutes east of Chardon Square.

At five o’clock on the dot, Griffin Marks pulled into the drive. With satisfaction he noted his sister’s Ford Explorer was already parked in his parents’ driveway. He’d hoped to arrive early to speak with Sally privately. With luck, he’d find an opportunity before dinner. Although they were both now in their thirties, he continued to solicit his sister’s advice as if they were still children, and Sally, two years older and constant like the seasons, was still required to help Griffin solve his thorniest problems.