“That’s what this week is for. I presume you have prospects and arrangements for a second week if it comes to making replacements?”
She nodded. “Believe it or not, there are people in the wings who would kill for a spot on your team.”
“I hope it won’t come to bloodshed.”
She flushed.
He tipped his head. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Shy away from anything to do with death. It is what it is.”
She drew herself straight. “I won’t, then. But others might.”
He nodded. “Not your concern.”
She consulted her tablet. “I’ve sent you the interview schedule and all pertinent information I could find for each member. Let me know when you need something else.”
“You are amazingly good at your job.”
“It’s nice to have one—in which I do something.”
A part of him quickened, a part that once felt vital. It might feel better if leaving Livie wasn’t eating a hole inside. He could talk to her every hour if he wanted, see her via Skype morning, noon, and night. He used to know what was appropriate, and yes, he realized that wasn’t.
“Morgan?”
He looked up.
Denise repeated herself. “Glen Conyer?”
“Send him in.” This had been his life, most of it spent without Jill, and Jill in none of it to come. He pushed that from his mind. “Glen.” He stood.
“Morgan.” The man’s hair had thinned and the scalp shined through it at the top. “Man, it’s great to see you.” They grasped hands. “We doing this thing?”
He cocked his head. “Some of that’s up to you.”
The ace accountant had small irises so the white showed all the way around as he said in all seriousness, “Say the word. I’m in.”
Since she’d left the cellar with Vera’s journal, Quinn had not gone back down. It wasn’t a decision as much as a reluctance that came over her every time she thought of doing it. Instead, she’d scoured the house, even using paint from cans she’d found in the garage—which was incongruously uncluttered—to touch up walls and trim. The windows shone, the wood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much she could do about the ancient gray-speckled kitchen linoleum that popped and crackled, but it was clean.
She felt good knowing Morgan and especially Livie would have a fresh start in the house. With the cellar blocked off, it would be a normal house Morgan could furnish and inhabit in comfort. The kitchen appliances were a little sad, but he’d figure that out. Now, as she had done each day before leaving, she reached into the key box on Morgan’s hutch, drew a scant handful from the remaining keys at the bottom, and approached the medicine cabinet.
She pulled one from the collection in her hand and tried it in the lock—gasping when it turned, though others had too. But this time she felt the lock release. Squealing, she did a happy dance and then reached for the knob. With excitement feeding anticipation, she stared through the milky panes of the cabinet, one motion away from satisfying her curiosity—and stopped.
Morgan had told her she could open it. He’d tried the keys himself so she could see the bottles. Yet as much as she wanted to, she didn’t want to alone. Together they’d discovered the cellar, together carried the cabinet. They’d found the locket and thejournal, cringed at the bad stuff downstairs and sparred over the contents of this cabinet until she couldn’t imagine opening the doors without seeing his face. After everything, where was the fun in going forward without him?
But she groaned. He was out of town. She didn’t know when he’d be back. She knew he wasn’t thinking of her, or the cabinet and whatever was inside. He might not even care when he got back. He’d wanted it left alone. She straightened her arm and started to pull the door—then stopped again.
She should break the spell he’d cast the night he dared her to take his check. And that, of course, reminded her that it was his. Sighing, she removed the key and
She nodded. “Believe it or not, there are people in the wings who would kill for a spot on your team.”
“I hope it won’t come to bloodshed.”
She flushed.
He tipped his head. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Shy away from anything to do with death. It is what it is.”
She drew herself straight. “I won’t, then. But others might.”
He nodded. “Not your concern.”
She consulted her tablet. “I’ve sent you the interview schedule and all pertinent information I could find for each member. Let me know when you need something else.”
“You are amazingly good at your job.”
“It’s nice to have one—in which I do something.”
A part of him quickened, a part that once felt vital. It might feel better if leaving Livie wasn’t eating a hole inside. He could talk to her every hour if he wanted, see her via Skype morning, noon, and night. He used to know what was appropriate, and yes, he realized that wasn’t.
“Morgan?”
He looked up.
Denise repeated herself. “Glen Conyer?”
“Send him in.” This had been his life, most of it spent without Jill, and Jill in none of it to come. He pushed that from his mind. “Glen.” He stood.
“Morgan.” The man’s hair had thinned and the scalp shined through it at the top. “Man, it’s great to see you.” They grasped hands. “We doing this thing?”
He cocked his head. “Some of that’s up to you.”
The ace accountant had small irises so the white showed all the way around as he said in all seriousness, “Say the word. I’m in.”
Since she’d left the cellar with Vera’s journal, Quinn had not gone back down. It wasn’t a decision as much as a reluctance that came over her every time she thought of doing it. Instead, she’d scoured the house, even using paint from cans she’d found in the garage—which was incongruously uncluttered—to touch up walls and trim. The windows shone, the wood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much she could do about the ancient gray-speckled kitchen linoleum that popped and crackled, but it was clean.
She felt good knowing Morgan and especially Livie would have a fresh start in the house. With the cellar blocked off, it would be a normal house Morgan could furnish and inhabit in comfort. The kitchen appliances were a little sad, but he’d figure that out. Now, as she had done each day before leaving, she reached into the key box on Morgan’s hutch, drew a scant handful from the remaining keys at the bottom, and approached the medicine cabinet.
She pulled one from the collection in her hand and tried it in the lock—gasping when it turned, though others had too. But this time she felt the lock release. Squealing, she did a happy dance and then reached for the knob. With excitement feeding anticipation, she stared through the milky panes of the cabinet, one motion away from satisfying her curiosity—and stopped.
Morgan had told her she could open it. He’d tried the keys himself so she could see the bottles. Yet as much as she wanted to, she didn’t want to alone. Together they’d discovered the cellar, together carried the cabinet. They’d found the locket and thejournal, cringed at the bad stuff downstairs and sparred over the contents of this cabinet until she couldn’t imagine opening the doors without seeing his face. After everything, where was the fun in going forward without him?
But she groaned. He was out of town. She didn’t know when he’d be back. She knew he wasn’t thinking of her, or the cabinet and whatever was inside. He might not even care when he got back. He’d wanted it left alone. She straightened her arm and started to pull the door—then stopped again.
She should break the spell he’d cast the night he dared her to take his check. And that, of course, reminded her that it was his. Sighing, she removed the key and
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