Page 157

Finally, he pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. And then he just stands there, facing away from us, his shoulder against the wall, his head low.

I gulp and dare to approach him. “Quint? What did you find out?”

He shifts his face farther away from me and raises a fist to his mouth. I hearhim release a shaky breath. “Um. Yep.” His head is still lowered as he turns and presses his back against the wall. He scratches one of his eyebrows. “That was the third-party company that runs the ticket sales for us. They checked, and, uh, sure enough, there are two bank accounts linked to tonight’s sales. The Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center… and Shauna Crandon.”

I close my eyes. Relief hits me hard. Relief and satisfaction. It may not prove that Shauna took the money from the beach cleanup, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s close enough.

But all those thoughts are swept away when I open my eyes and find Quint staring at me, his eyes awash with more emotions than I can name. He looks miserable.

“Prudence,” he whispers, his voice strained. Which is when I realize that what I’m looking at is remorse. “I—”

“Later,” I say, cutting him off. Though I’ve imagined Quint begging me for forgiveness plenty of times these past few weeks, now that we’re here, I don’t know what to do with the ragged feelings in my chest.Self-absorbed. Judgmental. Hypocrite.

He flinches, and I know my tone was harsh, but so was his when he said those awful things.

“All right!” says Morgan, clapping her hands. “Now what do we do?”

“We have to tell my mom,” says Quint. “After that, I don’t know. I guess we call the police?”

Silence descends on us as we consider that. How serious that seems. But thisisserious. I thought twelve hundred dollars missing from a big glass jar was a big deal, but if this really has been going on for years, then we could be talking thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands of dollars. Maybe more. This isn’t a petty crime.

“Do you think she could go to jail?” I ask, and I can tell as soon as the words leave me that Quint and Morgan were thinking the same thing. It’s hard to imagine Shauna in a jumpsuit and prison cell.

“Probably,” says Morgan. “If Rosa decides to press charges.”

“I guess that’s up to her.” Quint draws himself up, squaring his shoulders. “All right. Let’s go find Mom.”

The theater lobby is full of excited chatter. Trish is currently acting as DJand “With a Little Help from My Friends” by the Beatles is playing. The three of us pause, scanning the crowded room. Though lots of guests have taken their seats and started on their cheeseburgers, plenty of people are loitering by the silent auction table and around Quint’s photos. A few others are chatting with Trish and flipping through her karaoke songbook, maybe gearing up to perform once dinner is over.

Rather than pay the exorbitant amount it would have cost for professional servers, food is being passed by more volunteers, including a fair amount of students I recognize from our high school, all wearing matching yellow volunteer shirts as they carry plates of cheeseburgers, clear tables, and refill water glasses. Something tells me this, too, was Quint’s doing. Popular Quint, pulling people into his sphere, asking for their help, and actually getting it.

This would have been the highlight of the evening, at least for me. The food smells delicious. The auction prizes look great. Wallets are opening, and the snippets of conversation I can hear suggest that Rosa’s speech was well received. Everyone is having a good time. The Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center’s inaugural gala is, by all measures, an enormous success.

I might feel pride in knowing that I had a part in making this happen, but it’s overshadowed by my resentment at not being able to see it through to the end.

“Dude,” says Ezra, walking toward us with half a cheeseburger slider in his hand. He’s wearing a yellow volunteer shirt, but something tells me he hasn’t been taking his server duties very seriously. “These are the best sliders I’ve ever had. Have you tried one yet?”

“I’m good,” says Quint, waving off his friend. “Hey, EZ, have you seen my mom?”

“She was over there a minute ago,” Ezra says, pointing with the burger before taking another bite. “So, is there a whodunnit story or what? Wait! Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He lifts one pointed eyebrow. “It was the lifeguard, in the pool, with a fishhook!”

Quint stares at him blankly.

“What, not even a smile?” says Ezra, throwing his head back in dismay. “Come on! I’ve been working on that joke for, like, ten minutes.”

“Really?” drawls Morgan. “Andthat’sthe best you could come up with?”

“Look, I’ll fill you in later, okay?” says Quint. He starts to pass him, but Ezra stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Hold on, dude.” He reaches over and grabs a glass of wine off the bar. “You look like you need a drink.” Then he adds, whispering, “And they’re totally not carding anyone.”

“Uh. No, thanks,” says Quint, ignoring Ezra as he searches for his mom.

“Prudence? Snarky girl whose name I don’t know?” says Ezra, holding the glass toward me and Morgan.

“I’m fine,” I say.

Morgan just gives him a look of contempt.