Page 40 of Lethal Vengeance
School reports are excellent.
Mother, Victoria Fairchild, married Roberto Lopez when she was ten. Had a daughter, Sophia Lopez, a year later. Mother died in car accident when she was sixteen and Sophia five. Bachelor’s degree from Texas A&M in Criminal Justice. Became a police officer at the age of twenty while she was finishing her degree. Became a Texas Ranger at the age of twenty-eight.
They sift through the papers. Commendations for service and excellence.
Nineteen-year-old sister abducted from River Walk in San Antonio. No leads. Found eleven months later in the desert. Victim of trafficking.
The rest of the information is a detailed account of Quinn’s spiral, starting with her accusations against members of her department on charges of bribery and colluding with traffickers. She was written up for insubordination multiple times. Drugs and money went missing from evidence, and she became the prime suspect. Suspended while they investigated. Death certificate for Zoe Fairchild. Car bombing.
Her voice comes softly from Zane’s side. “Zoe was my name. I took my dad’s middle name when I started down this path.” She’s staring at the picture of her at her father’s funeral. “It’s true. All of it. Several of my superiors were guilty of looking the other way when girls were kidnapped and trafficked, but I couldn’t prove it. They made it look like I was losing my mind.”
She laughs. “Maybe I was. Right before I was suspended, a huge raid netted a fortune in drugs and money. I took it all, and it paved my way here.”
She hands Zane a piece of paper. “There’s your contact for the transfer. She’s somebody I helped a couple of years back. You can trust her, but she does require payment.” Her eyes rest on the picture of her father’s funeral. “The only thing missing from the file seems to be my stepfather’s death. Heart attack. Last year.”
She looks at her watch. “While you’re taking our stuff to the new place, I’m going to take a walk to clear my head.”
18
QUINN
“Quinn, wait,” Zane returns, hurrying after me.
Halfway between one step and the next, I stop. “I need to walk.” I don’t want to hear whatever he has to say right now. Escaping is the only thing I need.
He gestures down the stairs. “Let’s go.”
I pause, trying to read his face, but it’s almost impossible. With a shrug, I step down and keep going. When I hit the outer door, I don’t stop, just turn, and continue walking.
It’s not like I didn’t know they were running a deeper background check. Zane has been completely transparent with me. And honestly, I’d have done the same thing if the tables were turned. We live in a dangerous world. Trust is a high value commodity and tough to come by.
I understand. I do. But I’m still spinning. For some reason, I didn’t think it would matter. It does, but why? Is it because I’ve gotten closer to them? Maybe. Possibly. I’m angry they know. They didn’t tell me their secrets.
That’s not fair or true. I sigh. They did tell me some of their personal secrets, and they didn’t need to do so.
It’s not just anger, either. Other emotions are swirling around and around. Embarrassment. Sadness. Grief. Even relief.
Maybe it’s the method of delivery. It’s brutal to see your life described in such stark terms with no context or color to fill in the blank spaces. There’s so much missing—good and bad.
Zane keeps pace but says nothing.
Irrationally, it makes me crazy. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” I yell, stopping in the middle of the street. “Forget it. Just leave. I’ll be back in time for the mission.”
Grey eyes blankly assess me. “Are you ready to talk?”
A horn blares, and I throw up my hand. “Go around.” It’s not like the street isn’t wide enough for two people and a damn car.
The driver throws open the door and storms toward me. Zane steps in front of him. The guy takes one look at Zane’s big body and scrambles to return to the car. Cursing and waving his hands, he drives around us.
Zane holds out his large hand, palm up. “Come on. We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the long walk back.”
Confused, I look around at the street signs. My eyes widen. We’re at least a couple miles north of the apartment. In a part of town I’d only been to once.
I place my hand in his.
“I probably know some of what you’re feeling,” he states wryly. “When they stripped me of my military career, everything I’d ever done, good and bad, was dragged out in court and printed in the newspapers. Commendations. Men who’d died under my watch. Successful missions. Failures. It was my life, and those were my actions, but none of it had any meaning behind it.”
The breath I’d been holding comes out like one big sigh. “Exactly. I didn’t think I would care, but some part of me hated it. Maybe it’s pride. My whole life I was proud of who I was—too proud, I think.”
