Page 74 of Cruel Dreams

Quinn and Zane speak briefly. I don’t hear what they say, and I don’t care. The lift didn’t go down to the lobby after Zane came up to our floor, and the doors open immediately.

“Quinn,” I snap.

I keep the doors from gliding closed, and she hurries into the elevator, dropping two loaded bags onto the floor.

Zane doesn’t utter a single sound, and I jab the button for the lobby.

We step out of the Crowne and into the evening air, and my steam dissipates. I have no money, no credit, and a cell phone Idon’t want to use because it’s the only way Zane can reach me and I don’t want to talk to him right now.

Quinn uses her phone and opens a transportation app. “Where are we going?”

I don’t answer.

“Stella?” she insists. “Where are we going?”

I want to slap her for saying that name, but what else is she supposed to call me? What am I supposed to call myself?

“To my old apartment.” I rattle off the address. Even though Zane owns the building, it’s the only place I can think of that’s mine. Where I belong.

We sit in the back of a spotless SUV in silence, and I don’t let myself look behind me as the Crowne fades away. That part of my life is done.

The driver lets us out in front of my building. The small apartment complex, the grass and the trees in the yard...this tiny haven had been my only home after I aged out of the system. The only place except for Maryanne’s where I had felt safe. I wish I hadn’t let Zane visit me here. Watching TV, eating pizza on the couch, making love in my bed, my eyes devouring him as he dressed for work.

He’s tainted my apartment with happy memories, and his ghost will be everywhere.

Quinn jimmies the front lock and we drag our bags down the hallway. I find the key to the door under the mat and let us in. The door slams shut and Quinn locks it. She jams her hands onto her hips and says, “What the fuck, Stella?”

Without a word, I open my suitcase and pull out the file Zane gave me. I slap it into her hands run into my bedroom. I find a pair of my old pajamas and jerk them on, my heart calming. Something of mine from my old life. It’s small, but it helps.

Someone recently laundered the sheets and bedding, and gratefully, I slide into the familiar bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I pray Quinn will let me be.

She does.

She doesn’t bother me all night.

Maybe Zane knew I’d run here. Maybe he knew how horribly I’d react to the whole thing and knew I’d have nowhere else to go. The kitchen and bathroom are fully stocked with the things Zane knows I like, and the next morning, Quinn’s able to make coffee. The mouth-watering aroma drifts to the bedroom. Ashamed of my temper tantrum, I slink into the kitchen, and she’s scrambling eggs and frying bacon. She didn’t crawl into bed with me—she must have slept on the couch.

She barely glances at me as I fill one of my old chipped mugs. The familiarity of my dishes, the rich coffee, and the fresh half and half are soothing, and the tension seeps out of me.

Quinn plates me eggs and bacon and butters a slice of toast. Whoever shopped thought of everything, but then, that’s the kind of life Zane lives, isn’t it?

The file’s sitting on the table, but I can’t look at it. Because of my hysterics last night, we skipped dinner, and I’m starving. If I think too much about what Zane told me, I won’t be able to eat.

Quinn serves herself and sits next to me at the small table. She has different ideas about our morning conversation, and she pokes her fork at the file. “Can you explain this to me now?”

The bacon turns to dirt in my mouth, but I swallow. “I think it’s all pretty clear,” I say, unwilling to repeat the details Zane told me at the pumpkin patch.

“Zane found your parents.”

“You mean Clayton Black stole my parents.”

“And that’s Zane’s fault?” Quinn asks, ever practical.

“The Blacks and Maddoxes were like this,” I say, holding up a hand, my fingers crossed. Thick as thieves, Maryanne would say, and isn’t that the truth.

“So . . . he’s guilty by association?”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

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