The Passing Storm by Christine Nolfi
Chapter 27
Rae stared unseeing at the TV.
Quinn was in his bedroom.
After finishing the story, he’d appeared physically ill. Traumatized by the memory. Rocking on the floor, his arms tight around his knees. Secrets were corrosive, especially when they were bottled up for too long. Rae knew this from bitter experience—her own secrets had weakened her relationship with her late daughter and tested her father’s love and his patience as he reluctantly learned to live with them. Quinn, however, felt somehow complicit in her daughter’s death. As if he could’ve stopped an argument between two girls from leading to tragedy.
Masking her shock at everything he’d described, she’d thanked him for sharing the true events surrounding Lark’s death. Then she helped him to his feet.
Hugging Quinn gently, his lean body slack in her arms, she proffered reassurance. I’m glad you told me. Really grateful. Now put that night out of mind. Quinn—it’s not your fault. You did great. You did all that you could when you heard the girls fighting. Lark was your friend, and you climbed over the wall to try to help her out. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.
A flurry of reassurances; he remained silent through them all, his gaze unable to meet hers when she released him. Head bowed, he’d trudged down the hallway with Shelby on his heels.
Now turmoil seared Rae’s thoughts.
Last October, eight teenagers had attended the slumber party. They formed Stella Thomerson’s crew of popular girls. Most of the girls were casual acquaintances of Lark’s. She hadn’t known most of them well enough to be at odds regarding anything of importance. Certainly nothing so earth-shattering as to lead to a shouting match outside on a snowy autumn night. In the popular crowd, Lark was an outlier. A second-tier friend, a tagalong.
She’d been surprised that Stella had invited her at all.
Wheeling her thoughts back to Monday, Rae dissected the conversation with Yuna, when she’d stopped by in the early afternoon while Quinn and Connor were hanging the decorative lights. Rae picked through everything they’d discussed with the thoroughness of a detective sifting through clues. How she’d described making a fool of herself at Griffin’s firm that morning. How the conversation veered to Lark as Yuna launched a further shock when she placed the keepsake—which Rae had assumed was forgotten, a relic hidden in her attic—on the table between them. And then described Lark’s plan.
Rae, if Lark was bragging that Griffin was her father . . . it probably didn’t go down well with Stella.
Was Lark quarreling with Stella that night? Having an argument that became so heated, they took it outside? Of the popular girls, Stella was the Queen Bee. The others did her bidding whenever she liked. She was also more reserved than some of her friends—not the sort to engage in a shouting match. At least not in Rae’s experience. In all the years she’d known Katherine’s daughter, she couldn’t recall a time she’d witnessed Stella even bicker with one of the other girls.
Rae turned and tested the possibilities racing through her mind, rearranging them like the pieces of a Rubik’s Cube. Perhaps Stella held back. If she was furious with Lark, she could’ve asked one of the other girls to do the dirty work. Argue with Lark outside, without witnesses. Any one of them would’ve jumped at the chance. A way to earn brownie points with the Queen Bee.
The quiet descending upon the house felt oppressive. Her stomach in knots, Rae flicked off the TV. A gust of wind rattled against the windows before hurrying off, allowing the silence to flood back in.
Sifting for clues secondhand would never uncover the truth. All Rae had was a trail of pure conjecture based on the events Quinn had described. There was only one reliable fact: Lark was gone, her life cut short in the most tragic way. There was no proof she’d been fighting with Stella—or anyone else, for that matter. Over Griffin, of all things. Because Griffin was dating Katherine at the time, and Stella may have reacted badly to Lark’s boasts.
Am I the one who’s overreacting?
Assuming Lark had argued with one of the other teens, it probably meant nothing. They fought, and then the other girl went back inside. Lark stayed outside, dangerously near the icy, empty pool—alone.
Or did she?
Snatching up her smartphone, Rae thumbed through the texts. Her daughter’s final message leaped onto the screen.
Should’ve stayed home.
After sending the text, Lark slipped on ice and fell into the pool.
Or someone pushed her in.
Dread gripped Rae’s throat. How would she ever know for sure?
Grimly, she sighed. There was only one way. She needed to talk to each of the girls who’d attended the party. Sit them down, one by one, then compare each of their stories. Yuna could help her contact each of the families—Yuna got along with everyone in town and had better diplomatic skills than Rae. They could begin by contacting the girls in Stella’s posse, and leave the call to Katherine for last. If Stella was behind Lark’s accident—directly or indirectly—it made sense to talk to the others first.
Rae’s heart sank. All the girls were loyal to each other—and to Stella especially. If they’d lied as a group to the PD on the night of Lark’s death, what chance was there of garnering the truth now? They’d simply lie again.
I need an inducement, something to pry one of the girls loose from the others.Something to encourage one of them to stand apart and substantiate Quinn’s version of events.
The solution was suddenly obvious. Groaning, Rae hid her face in her palms.
I need Griffin’s help.Lowering her hands into her lap, she drew a steadying breath. There really was no other option.
Griffin’s niece, Jackie, had not only attended the party, she was Stella’s best friend. If Griffin could impress upon Jackie the seriousness of the situation, she’d do the right thing. Perhaps not immediately. But Rae was confident he’d get his niece to open up. Jackie would verify the true version of events. Which would leave Rae—if the worst-case was the actual scenario—dealing with a more awful situation than she’d bargained for.
Don’t even go there. The worst-case scenario is only a remote possibility. Very remote, and not worth considering.Stella and the others were typical fourteen-year-old girls, with their love of fashion and the latest music and their catty disagreements. A little spoiled and certainly indulged by the parents who loved them—Rae had been no different when it came to Lark’s wants, and her needs—but every one of the girls was grounded by a core of decency. Good kids, all. Not one of them would’ve intentionally harmed Lark. It was unthinkable.
“Want to watch a movie?”
Flinching, she looked up. Her father padded to the couch. Connor wore flannel pajamas with a green plaid robe sashed tightly around his waist.
Despite the tension balled up inside her, Rae dredged up a smile. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“I might sleep on the couch . . . if I can fall asleep. I’ve got a fire in my belly, and I’m not talking about ambition.”
“Too much dinner tonight?” she asked, glad to engage in a reassuringly normal chat.
“Why’d you let me eat all that Italian food?”
“Too much garlic never agrees with you.” Grabbing the throw, she pressed it around his knees. “I should’ve remembered.”
“Too much everything. My insides are on fire.” He glanced toward the hallway. “Where’s Quinn? I thought he was out here, watching TV with you.”
“He went to his room. Best guess, he’s studying.” At least she hoped he was. Quinn also needed a reassuringly normal task, something to take his mind off tonight’s disturbing conversation.
“I wonder if he’d like to play cards.”
“What?” Blinking, Rae focused her attention on her father.
“I might be more comfortable sitting at the kitchen table.”
“If the indigestion’s bad, it’ll help to sit in a straight-back chair. Should I get something for your stomach?”
“I pop too many pills. I should know better, eating all that spicy food.”
“What’s done is done.”
“Why don’t we play a few hands of poker? I’ll turn on Hester’s twinkly lights—we can see them from the kitchen. I’m sure I can persuade Quinn to join us. It’ll keep me occupied, until my stomach settles down.”
Rae found she wasn’t listening. With a start, she came to a decision. It was after nine o’clock, but this couldn’t wait. She needed to speak with Griffin immediately. He’d talk to his niece and put Rae’s worries to rest. He’ll confirm nothing untoward happened to Lark.
“What do you say?” Connor looked at her expectantly. “Are you up to a game of poker?”
“Dad, I’m going out. I need to get the ball rolling on this, or I’ll never sleep. I need to know for sure—I do know for sure,” she added breathlessly, hopeful and sick-hearted all in the same instance. “There’s a perfectly innocent explanation, even if it doesn’t look that way. But I need confirmation. The rock-solid kind.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“I won’t be gone long.” She started for the foyer, then stopped when she noticed his hand pressed to his tummy. He did look uncomfortable. “Would you like ginger tea to settle your stomach? It’ll help. I’ll make you a cup, before I go.”
Connor pulled the throw off his lap. “I’ll make it myself. It’ll do me good to move around.” With mild exasperation he watched her pull on her coat. “What’s the hurry? You look . . . agitated.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“What did I miss?” He watched her fingers dart up the coat, buttoning quickly. “Are you going to Yuna’s?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
If the Cleveland Cavaliers had materialized on his front porch, Griffin couldn’t have been more surprised. Not even if they’d piled inside the house to raid the fridge for brewskis.
Arms crossed, fists tucked into the armpits of her coat, Rae attempted a smile.
Griffin didn’t step out to join her. He did open the door a fraction more. Her appearance rendered him mute.
A minor setback. Rae, predictably, grabbed the conversational reins.
“Winter’s back.” She cocked her head at the snow, falling in sloppy patches across his yard. “I guess my dad is right. Spring is still a way off. What I’d give for short sleeves and hot weather. Did it snow much in Boston?”
“Sometimes,” he replied, dragging his voice out of hiding.
“I’ve never been on the East Coast. Well, either coast. Come to think of it, I’ve never been much of anywhere. Vacationing in Cincinnati probably doesn’t count.”
“You should visit.”
She studied him with intense, nervous interest. “Where?”
“The coast. Either one. They’re both nice.”
“Do you have a preference?”
Griffin blinked. What is this strange phenomenon? Rae was making . . . small talk. An art she’d never practiced, much less mastered. He was considering lending an assist when her green eyes rounded.
“Oh crap,” she blurted. “It’s Friday.”
“Yes.”
“Friday night.”
“An astute observation.”
“Popping by like this is rude. Completely.” She glanced at her car, disappearing beneath a layer of white. Her sheepish gaze swung back to him. “Barging in on a Friday night—date night. Totally my bad.”
Amused, Griffin leaned against the door jamb. “I thought Saturday was date night.”
“I’m not sure.” Rae shrugged.
“Don’t you date?” Prying was impolite, but she had appeared at his place uninvited.
She huffed out a breath. “Hardly.” Her eyes darted away from his. “At least not since dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
This pleased him. “You should get out more.”
“You sound like my father,” she tossed back, irritation creeping into her voice. “Listen, I’m sorry for dropping by—it’s important. If you prefer, I’ll come back at a less inconvenient time. Although I do need to talk to you. I’d rather not push this off to another day.” She cleared her throat. “Are you . . . entertaining guests?”
She peered around his waist. Apparently to confirm that a harem of naked women wasn’t cavorting in his living room.
This also pleased him, inordinately so.
He gave himself a mental kick in the keister. In matters concerning Rae, he wasn’t used to having the upper hand. It was no reason to fall for her bumbling charm offensive.
Still, putting her at ease was the better part of valor. He’d never before seen her this nervous.
“I don’t want your money,” he said, guessing at her reason for the visit. “The planter you mowed down in front of my office isn’t a family heirloom. Imitation terra-cotta—all plastic. I’ll pick up a new one for next to nothing. Your road rage is forgiven.”
“Yuna told you I planned to send a check? That was a private conversation!”
“Yuna told Kipp. He blabbed.”
“Kipp spilled?” For a marvelous instant, the worry left Rae’s features, and a grin lit her face. “The monster.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. Dealing with his wife’s hormonal swings is testing his mettle.”
Trashing on mutual friends was an icebreaker, and he sensed her relief. As if she needed a lighthearted interlude before launching into the true reason for stopping by.
“Kipp’s a lightweight,” she said. “Yuna can bend his mettle even when she’s not pregnant.”
“Yeah, and he’s practically living at my house. Mostly because Kameko has been knocking on my door. She’s the bigger carnivore.”
“Weird, isn’t it? For a little kid, she can chow down the protein.”
This new, anxiety-riddled version of Rae was fetching. What did she need to discuss? The fact that she’d appeared unexpectedly was an opportunity.
Seizing it, he swung the door wide. “Why don’t you come in?”
“Thanks.”
Helping her out of her coat, he discovered a faded green T-shirt underneath. It was emblazoned with orange lettering. I’M NOT SHOUTING. I’M IRISH. A castoff from her father’s closet? On closer inspection, she hadn’t brushed her long and wonderfully untamed hair. Apparently, she’d jumped into her car and driven over, accompanied by nothing more than a bad case of nerves.
Which meant Rae’s guard wasn’t up. For once. What were the odds it would ever happen again?
Giving her space, Griffin rooted himself in the center of the living room.
“Rae, let me go first.” He resisted the urge to begin pacing. Allow Rae to detect that they were both nervous, and he’d lose the upper hand. “There’s something I have to say.”
“Can it wait? What I need to discuss is more important.”
A debatable conclusion, but Griffin let it slide. She’d always been stubborn and a little bossy.
“I have to get this off my chest,” he admitted. Since Monday, he’d been silently composing the speech.
“Go ahead.”
“You tend to act first and think later. I’m the opposite. I take my time, think things through.”
“You know how you feel before you act. That’s no big secret. You’re the tortoise, and I’m the hare.” She tipped her head to the side. “Your big sister used to tease us about it. And I mean all the time. Sally was such a know-it-all when we were kids. I was never sure which position she thought was better—hare or tortoise.”
“Definitely tortoise,” he supplied, “for all the obvious reasons. A tortoise doesn’t leap into the fray without thinking.”
“Because of short legs.”
“What?”
“A tortoise has short legs—they aren’t made for leaping.” She scanned his tall frame. Rae stood five foot ten, but he had four inches on her. “Metaphorically speaking,” she added, “I’m sure your legs can leap just fine.”
With frustration, Griffin palmed his forehead. “For ten seconds, would you ditch the play-by-play? Let me finish.”
“Sure.”
“When we were in high school—long before the White Hurricane—I knew I was in love with you. I’m a tortoise. I think things through. I knew what I felt was real, clear back when we started our freshman year. I kept up the best-buddy routine because I knew your feelings weren’t the same . . . at least not until our last months of high school. From ninth grade on, there’s not much else I thought about, other than sealing the deal.”
“I was a girl, not a business transaction.” Her brow arched. She darted a glance at the door. “I really do need your help with something. Actually, I need a favor. A big one. Can we hash out the other stuff some other time?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Rae, let me get this out.”
Impatience leaped in her gaze, but she tamped it down. “Fine . . . but I have no idea where you’re going with this.”
“I spent high school tortured by one obsession—making love to you,” he clarified, picking up the pace, needing for her to understand before the emotion thundering through him brought him to a standstill. “I was convinced that if we were intimate, you’d be mine forever. Sex would give me the guarantee I was seeking. I never entertained a minute’s doubt. I was sure of it. From an adult perspective, I realize how dewy-eyed that sounds. People get laid all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“For some people.” Rae withered him with a look. “Take me off the roster, pal. I’m of the opinion that jumping into bed with your lover should mean something.”
“I agree—and stop pulling me off track,” he snapped, getting to the heart of the matter. “I had lust on the brain—and my sister knew I was going to do something stupid. Sally read me the riot act in about ten different ways. Then she made me promise not to put the moves on you until I was . . .”
Why didn’t I give Rae the shorter version?
“Until you were . . . what?” She was going to make him say it aloud.
Fine. He was a tortoise. But he knew how to leap.
“Until I was old enough to pop the question.”
Merriment played with Rae’s lips, but her eyes were sad. She wanted to make light of his snap confession. Fluff it off. She didn’t quite succeed.
“If you’d gone down on bended knee, Everett would’ve pitched a fit. I can’t even imagine. Your father would’ve grounded you permanently.”
A thoughtful expression eclipsed the merriment. She was listening to him fully now.
It helped Griffin plow through the difficult parts. “My father’s opinion didn’t matter—not after the White Hurricane, and Hester died. When you lost your mother, I threw my common sense out the window. My decency too, Rae. I became the guy who only cared about scoring with his girlfriend.”
“That’s all you thought about?” The hurt she tried to contain bloomed quickly across her face.
“I should’ve been your stand-up guy,” he said hoarsely. “The one you could lean on. I should’ve been your friend, and—”
“All right, Griffin. Stop.”
But he couldn’t, not yet. Not until he’d laid his emotions bare. “When you broke up with me, I knew I’d pushed you past your limits.” Swallowing down his pride, he added, “I knew I deserved to lose you.”
“Stop.” Pain fissured across her mouth. “I get it.”
Eyes lowered, Rae stepped back, retreating to the picture window. The snow was coming down harder now. Sheets of white burying the landscape until nothing was discernable.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “All things considered, I suppose we’re even. I never explained why I broke up.”
“I’m not asking. It doesn’t matter now.”
“I can tell you that I blamed you. Like you’d betrayed me.”
“I did.”
“No, Griffin. That’s not what I mean. Everything that happened . . . it wasn’t your fault.”
Lost in her own counsel, Rae pressed her nose to the glass. As if she was searching the night for answers she’d never find. Answers that Griffin, in his private agony, knew they’d lost years ago.
“I’m such a dope.” From over her shoulder, she regarded him. “I spent years believing you were responsible. Griffin, I wasn’t an angel. I wanted you too. That night when we were supposed to meet behind the post office . . . it was supposed to be our first night. I was ready to sleep with you too.”
“You were?” He’d never been sure. Assumed she’d changed her mind.
She nodded. “Why didn’t you show up?”
The question startled him. “I did. You weren’t there, Rae. I drove around the parking lot for half an hour, wondering if you’d driven to the wrong place.”
“No, I was there . . . you were late.”
“You were waiting for me?” Confused, he sensed an undercurrent. Something Rae wasn’t telling him.
Had decided not to tell him.
What right did he have to press? He’d said his piece. Getting the confession off his chest didn’t make him feel better, especially with the undercurrent rushing faster now between them.
Letting it go, he asked, “What did you need to discuss?”