Page 78 of Quinn, By Design

“Your mum’s boyfriend claimed to be passing on her message. Not your fault. She was responsible for you, not the other way around,” he repeated arguments she’d only let herself believe since meeting him. “When did she die?”

“They couldn’t determine the exact time of death.” Another claw from the multi-toed monster haunting her. “Some time in the morning. A range.”

“But she could have been dead when her boyfriend left your apartment?” He zeroed in on one of her endless what-ifs.

“Or she could have been alive.”

“I want to smash walls.”

“Thank you for being angry my mum died. And for listening.”

“I hate that you’ve lived with this fear.” He returned to his chair. “Want to know what I was doing at age ten?”

“Not answering questions from the police?” She swallowed another mouthful, the dance of bubbles in her bloodstream a counterpoint to her tragic tale.

He smiled. “Swinging off a rope into a river. Searching in the undergrowth for bits of rock or wood I might be able to fashion into something. Sweating on getting a new chisel for my birthday. Arm wrestling with my brother. The grown-ups are supposed to be responsible for us.”

“The police were careful not to blame me. I remember sitting in a corridor while adults buzzed about me. I knew it was my fault. Why did I change my routine? Every morning I took her coffee. Without fail. Why did I fail on that day?” Her catechism had been different to the fearsome biblical one her Presbyterian gran memorised as a child, but Lucy could recount hers just as fluently.

“When I was a kid”—he reached across the table to tuck her hair behind herear, his fingertip stroking the softer skin there while his thumb brushed her cheek—“I pinched a biscuit from a batch Mum had made up for a neighbour. A mirror in the hall came crashing down. I was positive the two were related. Steal a biscuit and disaster happens. You weren’t to blame.”

“I wasn’t. But for a long time I thought I was.”

“Didn’t your grandparents exorcise that demon for you?”

“I was in the next room when Gran died. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

“Why did you?”

“She was settled in her chair with a photo album. I went to make tea.” A routine she and her gran had established.

“But the police came back.” His outrage took him the mental step from one death to the other. Her responsibility—cause and effect. “And you had a feckin’ useless boyfriend who made a joke about it being natural to anticipate an inheritance, to look away while accidents happened.”

“I’ve been afraid I’ll hurt the people I love.” Her deepest, darkest shame, and he’d coaxed it from her like he coaxed magic from a block of wood.

Do you understand I just said I love you?

“Hence the over-the-top hospital in the home for Cam?”

She nodded.

“When were you going to tell me?” His question restored hope.

“That morning, but I chickened out.”

“Why not tell me at the workshop?”

“Because I’ve never told this story before.” She sucked in more air. “Because I wondered if treating you like a fuck buddy triggered your disgust enough to cut all ties with me.”

“You heard that?” He scrubbed his face.

“I hate myself for that morning. For making you feel less because I got cold feet about telling you about Mum.”

“We’re all allowed to be scared sometimes,” he murmured.

“I hate even more knowing the restoration work I demanded because I went into a funk when Grandpa died forced you to cancel your original exhibition.” Her heart stalled. Because he hadn’t offered to sit beside her again. Hadn’t said one quick screw between lovers was only one beat of a symphony.

“It’s not your fault.”

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