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QUINN

TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

I t’s a hot lazy Sunday afternoon.

Temperatures are up in the nineties today.

Rightfully, I should be inside my house, with the air conditioner cranked up.

But ever since my short stint in prison, I hate to be indoors for very long.

So this morning, when it was cooler, I did some gardening.

I sold our ostentatious house last year, and I purchased something much smaller with a beautiful garden in the back. I get so much joy out of working on it.

And now I’m celebrating my morning of labor by sitting on my front porch, in a rocking chair, having a delicious glass of lemonade with lots of ice in it. It’s the late afternoon and the temperatures will drop soon. A slight breeze lifts a few stray strands of hair off the back of my neck.

Some days, it’s just nice to be alive.

I almost wasn’t. I shift in the rocking chair, aware of that tight feeling in my abdomen that I get when I’m in certain positions. I will always have a scar there to remind me of how I almost lost my life. How I was in critical condition in the hospital, a tube down my throat.

All because of Claudia. My sister.

I felt so stupid when I found out. I had no idea how much she had grown to resent me over the years. I certainly never suspected she was the one sleeping with my husband. Or that she was in love with him.

I still wouldn’t believe it if she hadn’t said it to my face. When I tried to offer her money for her legal defense, she turned it down. Don’t do me any favors. You never have.

I wish she had taken the money. Her lawyer tried to use an insanity defense, but the defense didn’t work. The jury convicted her of three charges of attempted murder. She’s going to be in jail for a very long time.

I’ve tried to visit her, but she refuses to see me.

Fortunately, I hired a talented lawyer for my own defense.

It was somebody Scott Dwyer recommended to me.

And that man from the motel, Nick Baxter, testified on my behalf about the bruises on my neck.

He ended up being a really good guy in the end.

I was acquitted of all charges when the jury ruled I had acted in self-defense.

I take a gulp of lemonade just as the police car pulls up in front of my house. It took a while before the sight of a police car stopped making me feel sick. It’s a side effect of having been on trial for murder. But now that I’m dating a police officer, I’ve learned to get over it.

Scott Dwyer emerges from the car, a big grin on his face. His face always lights up at the sight of me. And he’s changed out of his police uniform into a nice white dress shirt and pants. He looks achingly handsome.

For a long time, I couldn’t even contemplate being in a relationship with another man.

After the trial was over, I swore off men for good.

But Scott stayed by my side during the entire trial and in the aftermath, giving me advice whenever he could.

Nothing ever happened between us, but he was the first friend I’d had in a long time.

Derek would never have let me be friends with a man, but now I was free to do what I wanted.

Then about three months ago, on a hot day like this one, Scott suggested we go get some ice cream.

And now we are a couple.

“You ready to go?” Scott asks me.

I rise from the rocking chair and brush out a few wrinkles in my blue sundress. I tuck a stray strand of my dark hair behind my ears. I haven’t dyed my hair in two and a half years, and it has finally grown in its natural color. I missed it.

“Ready,” I say.

He glances at his watch. “It should take about an hour to get there. Not much traffic.”

I smile at him. “I’m not in a rush.”

I step down the walkway to his car. He dashes around the side of the vehicle so he can open the door for me. I always tell him he doesn’t have to do it, but he wants to. It’s sweet.

“The reviews for the restaurant are phenomenal,” Scott remarks as he slides into the driver seat. “I can’t wait. You’re sure we’re going to get a table?”

“I’m sure,” I say. “I called ahead.”

Scott reaches out to give my hand a squeeze. Then he starts the engine and we’re on our way. I don’t know if he is going to be the man I end up with, but I’m happy with him now. He treats me right, and I like him a lot. And that’s what’s important to me right now.

And in one hour, we’re going to have a lovely dinner at Rosalie’s. Nick promised he’d save a table for us.

ROSALIE

Rosalie’s is busy tonight.

Of course, it’s busy every night these days. The restaurant went from being boarded up to eventually getting a steady stream of business, and last month, Nick got us a write up in a popular food blog, and now it’s gotten really busy. It can be a little stressful, but I love it.

A new waitress, Vanessa, comes to the pass with two new tables full of order tickets.

Vanessa just started last month, but she’s been doing a good job.

I reach for the tickets from the counter, which we had lowered to accommodate a person who can’t stand.

The entire kitchen has been modified for me, although we left a lot of it the same because I’m running the kitchen and not doing the cooking anymore.

I make sure every plate that leaves the kitchen is up to my standards.

This isn’t just a side of the road diner.

This is something better—something special. Or at least, I like to think it is.

“Everyone is enjoying their food?” I ask Vanessa.

She nods eagerly. “The tips are amazing tonight.”

I laugh. “Glad to hear it.”

After I call out the new tickets for my little brigade of cooks, I look up and see Nick standing at the entrance to the kitchen. He grins at me and gives me a little wave. “Is this a bad time?”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s always a bad time. Why do you have to be so good at publicizing this place?”

“I don’t know. Why do you have to be so good a chef?”

I fold my arms across my chest, resting on my belly. “You’re the one at fault. I’m pretty sure.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He cocks his head to the side. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure because—”

“I’m fine , Nick.” I give him a look. “Stop worrying.”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “But… I just can’t wait, you know?”

Nick doesn’t usually fret about me this way.

Ever since that night I almost died, he’s pushed me hard.

More than I wanted to be pushed some days.

We went back to Dr. Heller and got me on some medications that helped a lot with my fatigue.

And one that helped a lot with my depression as well.

I should have taken the anti-depressants to begin with—I had no clue how dark my life had become until the fog lifted.

And I got a power wheelchair to use outside of the house, so I didn’t have to use all my energy pushing myself around when fatigue was already an issue.

Once the depression was gone, I felt like myself again. And I couldn’t believe I had almost let my dreams slip away from me.

So the two of us set about getting it back. It was slow going the first year, but like last time, it eventually took off. This is the busiest Rosalie’s has ever been. We have people waiting for tables most nights.

So the timing couldn’t be worse. But is the timing ever perfect to have a baby? It doesn’t matter. Because like it or not, in one short month, Nick and I are going to be parents.

After what happened last time, I can’t entirely blame him for worrying.

And this is a terrible time for me to be taking a maternity leave.

One of my cooks is going to step up to help with expediting, but because funds are still tight, Nick is going to do it on the typically slower nights.

I’ve been training him, and he’s actually not too bad at it.

He might not be able to cook, but he knows good food.

And he’s very organized and forceful when he needs to be.

“I can’t wait either.” I rest a hand on my baby bulge, which has gotten more and more unwieldy in the last couple of months. “But don’t worry. I’m okay. I promise.”

He crouches down next to me. He rests one of his hands on top of mine on my belly, then leans in and kisses me. I should be pushing out orders now, but it’s hard to resist my husband. After five years of essentially living like strangers, it’s like we’re on a new honeymoon.

It just took almost dying.

In the weeks after the incident, we finally got all the details, although it was mostly from reading them in the paper.

The woman who showed up earlier in the night, Quinn Alexander, had just murdered her husband.

She stabbed him in the belly, although there was significant evidence that she did it in self-defense.

Nick told the police he saw bruises on her neck, and he assumed somebody had attacked her.

Nick later ended up testifying in Quinn’s trial.

But it turned out that the husband was sleeping with Quinn’s sister, Claudia Delaney.

And when the sister—apparently already a bit mentally unstable—discovered the dead body, she had a complete breakdown.

Claudia set about finding Quinn, then exacting revenge on her.

She stabbed Quinn, then put her in the trunk of her car, intending to get rid of the dead body.

And she went after me because she thought I saw her stabbing her sister. She was getting rid of the witnesses.

She did the same to Greta. After the old woman told her what she wanted to know, Claudia took care of her—stabbed her in the abdomen just like Quinn. But amazingly, the knife missed any major organs and Greta survived—she was home from the hospital within a week. She must have nine lives.

“Hey,” Nick says to me now. “I know you’re busy, but do you want to let me take over for half an hour so you can say goodbye to Greta?”

“Now?”

He shrugs. “She’s leaving in the morning. She’s got an early flight, so if you don’t see her now, you might miss her.”