The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) by Loreth Anne White Page A
Authors: Loreth Anne White
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grab the last tin and go inside with the garbage bag, locking the door behind me. I lean my back against the door for a moment, closing my eyes, gathering myself. My heart is racing.
It was probably the bear. I’m just being paranoid. But as I remove my dust-caked boots and pad on stockinged feet into the kitchen, that sense of unease, foreboding, lingers.
Trixie thumps her tail when she sees me, but the old girl doesn’t get up from her basket the way she used to. She’s comfy where she is. She trusts the food will come. There’s no sign of Quinn in the kitchen. Nor in the open-plan living area on the other side of the counter.
“Quinn?” I flick on more lights and turn up the heat. As light floods the downstairs area, Quinn is nowhere in sight.
“Quinnie?” I call as I climb the stairs. I try her bedroom door. Locked. My heart sinks. I rap softly on the door. “Quinn, are you coming for some supper?”
“Not hungry,” comes the muffled voice from inside. She’s been crying.
“You need to eat something—”
“I said I’m not hungry. Go away.”
I close my eyes. “Quinn, we should talk.”
Silence.
I stand there, lost. This is exactly the kind of dilemma I would have called my sister with. We might not have spent much time together these past few years, but whenever I needed help, Sophia was there for me at the other end of the phone, and then some. The punch of loss is so acute it takes my breath away. My mother died when I was eight, Quinn’s age. So I understand, perhaps, a tiny bit of Quinn’s pain. Sophia, eleven years older than me, stepped into a mothering role. I wish Quinn would allow me to do the same for her. I fight back tears. I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll feel stronger about it all in the morning. I’ll have a better plan. We’ll go on that trip.
I take a scalding hot shower and wash the dirt and the day from my hair, but I still can’t seem to shake the chill in my bones. I apply disinfectant cream and a plaster to the small cut on my brow, and dry my hair. Dressed in soft sweats and a down vest, I head downstairs in my socks. Once Trixie has been fed, I make for the fireplace.
Getting down onto my knees, I ball up old newspaper and stack kindling, then logs. I light the fire, and as I watch the flames crackle and whisper to life, I think of the logs that Trey and I chopped and stacked in the spring before going to Bali. I wonder how it all went so wrong so fast. Quinn’s arrival was a catalyst, for sure, but there were deeper issues at play. His words sift into my mind.
You know, I always thought you might actually still have a thing for him, that you couldn’t let him g o . . .
I get up and pace the living room, wishing I’d bought blinds for the floor-to-ceiling windows that look down over the dark garden to the boathouse and lake beyond. The moon is rising. Whitecaps on the black surface are ghostly in the lunar light. Tonight the leaves from my birch are all gone, branches poking up into to the sky like the gnarled fingers of an old man.
I rub my arms and I think of soup. But I’m not hungry, either. Instead I pour whiskey from a bottle of oak-aged scotch that Trey left behind. I take my drink and my laptop to my grandfather’s old armchair by fire.
As I sip the scotch, I search Google for newspaper articles and commentaries on Jeb’s trial and recent release. Clicking on a Vancouver Sun feature from three days ago, I read again an overview of the original court case and the Innocence Project’s fight to overturn his conviction. According to the article, the UBC Innocence Project lawyers argued that Jeb’s own defense counsel in the initial trial had been aware of, but not presented, evidence that there was DNA from another male on the bloodied hoodie found in the back of Jeb’s car. The hoodie that contained the empty date-rape drug pack. The hoodie had also been logged into evidence later than the rest of the contents found in Jeb’s car. Police
It was probably the bear. I’m just being paranoid. But as I remove my dust-caked boots and pad on stockinged feet into the kitchen, that sense of unease, foreboding, lingers.
Trixie thumps her tail when she sees me, but the old girl doesn’t get up from her basket the way she used to. She’s comfy where she is. She trusts the food will come. There’s no sign of Quinn in the kitchen. Nor in the open-plan living area on the other side of the counter.
“Quinn?” I flick on more lights and turn up the heat. As light floods the downstairs area, Quinn is nowhere in sight.
“Quinnie?” I call as I climb the stairs. I try her bedroom door. Locked. My heart sinks. I rap softly on the door. “Quinn, are you coming for some supper?”
“Not hungry,” comes the muffled voice from inside. She’s been crying.
“You need to eat something—”
“I said I’m not hungry. Go away.”
I close my eyes. “Quinn, we should talk.”
Silence.
I stand there, lost. This is exactly the kind of dilemma I would have called my sister with. We might not have spent much time together these past few years, but whenever I needed help, Sophia was there for me at the other end of the phone, and then some. The punch of loss is so acute it takes my breath away. My mother died when I was eight, Quinn’s age. So I understand, perhaps, a tiny bit of Quinn’s pain. Sophia, eleven years older than me, stepped into a mothering role. I wish Quinn would allow me to do the same for her. I fight back tears. I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll feel stronger about it all in the morning. I’ll have a better plan. We’ll go on that trip.
I take a scalding hot shower and wash the dirt and the day from my hair, but I still can’t seem to shake the chill in my bones. I apply disinfectant cream and a plaster to the small cut on my brow, and dry my hair. Dressed in soft sweats and a down vest, I head downstairs in my socks. Once Trixie has been fed, I make for the fireplace.
Getting down onto my knees, I ball up old newspaper and stack kindling, then logs. I light the fire, and as I watch the flames crackle and whisper to life, I think of the logs that Trey and I chopped and stacked in the spring before going to Bali. I wonder how it all went so wrong so fast. Quinn’s arrival was a catalyst, for sure, but there were deeper issues at play. His words sift into my mind.
You know, I always thought you might actually still have a thing for him, that you couldn’t let him g o . . .
I get up and pace the living room, wishing I’d bought blinds for the floor-to-ceiling windows that look down over the dark garden to the boathouse and lake beyond. The moon is rising. Whitecaps on the black surface are ghostly in the lunar light. Tonight the leaves from my birch are all gone, branches poking up into to the sky like the gnarled fingers of an old man.
I rub my arms and I think of soup. But I’m not hungry, either. Instead I pour whiskey from a bottle of oak-aged scotch that Trey left behind. I take my drink and my laptop to my grandfather’s old armchair by fire.
As I sip the scotch, I search Google for newspaper articles and commentaries on Jeb’s trial and recent release. Clicking on a Vancouver Sun feature from three days ago, I read again an overview of the original court case and the Innocence Project’s fight to overturn his conviction. According to the article, the UBC Innocence Project lawyers argued that Jeb’s own defense counsel in the initial trial had been aware of, but not presented, evidence that there was DNA from another male on the bloodied hoodie found in the back of Jeb’s car. The hoodie that contained the empty date-rape drug pack. The hoodie had also been logged into evidence later than the rest of the contents found in Jeb’s car. Police
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