Page 131 of Born to Sin

“Tell me,” Quinn said. “Tell me what you know. Please.”

A half-hour later, they were both on barstools, on their second cup of tea—her head was buzzing by now with fatigue and caffeine—and Quinn was saying, “It sure sounds like Abby fell head over heels. And like she didn’t want to hear any advice to slow down.”

“That was Abby,” Samantha said. “Thought she knew better than anybody else. Serene, people said. Sure of herself. More like arrogant, though I loved her, of course. Everything came so easily. Sailed through uni, through her PhD, a research fellowship. Probably made her think she was cleverer than she actually was about people. People aren’t books. They’re not equations.”

“You sound like you took very different paths,” Quinn said.

“What, because I didn’t do as well at school, and took a while to find my way? Because I went into the Air Force instead of to university? Beckett told you that, I’m guessing. There’s more than one way to be clever. Not many make the cut to do my job. It’s not easy to keep doing it, either.”

“I’ll bet,” Quinn said. “I’ve heard there are so many near-misses, just because there’s so much air traffic now. I can’t imagine being in the military at all. All that discipline.” She did her best to shudder in a fluffy-heiress way. “And being an air-traffic controller, watching that blip disappear on the screen and not being able to do anything about it? Or eventhinkingabout that happening, if you made a mistake? You’d have to have to have nerves of steel.”

“It isn’t easy,” Samantha said again.

“So has that ever happened to you?” Quinn asked. Bonding, she figured. “An accident?”

“Well, once,” Samantha said. “A couple of years back. I was doing some training for one of our new hires, at a private air terminal. You train them there because it’s quieter. Usually.”

“Really?” Quinn asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing to do with us. Bird strike. It was hard on the trainee, though, as it was close enough to see from the tower. The trainee washed out, in fact.”

“Wow,” Quinn said. “That sounds terrible.”

“It’s the job. You have to be able to shake it off and move on. But that’s not what you came to talk about. I don’t have much more than I’ve told you. That Beckett somehow convinced my sister to abandon her career and become the happy housewife for him.”

“I thought Australians did more of the … work/life balance thing, though,” Quinn said. “Beckett said she was just taking a break.”

“Yeah, right,” Samantha said. “A break.” She stood up. “More tea?”

“Yes, please,” Quinn said. “But—would you have a bathroom I can use?”

“Sure,” Samantha said. “I forget that other people don’t have iron bladders. Can’t take a quick break for a wee when you’re on the screens. Through the bedroom there.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said, and took off.

Did she snoop a little? Well, yes. She opened the bathroom cupboard, the drawers, as quietly as she could manage, and checked inside. Painkillers, over-the-counter variety, looking Tylenol-ish and Advil-ish. Birth-control pills. And about three kinds of antacid. That was all. Disappointing. Wouldn’t it be great to find a bottle of Xanax? That seemed like such a logical explanation for that part of it, at least. Nothing on the bedside tables, either. She didn’t dare look inside them, because the bedroom door was open.

When she got back and was drinking Cup Number Three—Samantha was a looking a little restless, or maybe just sleepy, so she’d better step this up—she said, “So that party. That night. What do you think really happened?”

“Who knows,” Samantha said. “Like I said—Abby wasn’t happy. Not really, and especially not that night. Shesaidshe was happy, but that was just saving face. She’d always been the older sister, the ‘successful’ one.” She made air quotes around “successful,” then went on, “Now, she had to face that she was falling behind in her career, that she’d given it all up for nothing. She was depressed, that’s what. She put on a brave face, but I could see it in how she was tryingnotto let me see. She kept asking about me instead, as if I was still the fuck-up.”

“Really.” Quinn did her best to look fascinated. It wasn’t easy when you were jangling on all cylinders. “So was she drinking too much that night? That’s what happens with me,” she improvised madly. Beckett had said that, right? “When I don’t want to see the truth. I drink too much. I sleep with the wrong guy. I can be a mess, sometimes.” She tried to look like a mess. She probably should’ve worn different clothes. Party-girl clothes.

Fortunately, Samantha wasn’t a very critical audience. “Well, maybe. I wasn’t counting her drinks. It was a party, wasn’t it?”

“How many people?” Quinn asked. “I mean, was it huge, or …”

“Oh, you know. Fifteen or twenty.”

“I’m guessing she went home early to her kids,” Quinn said. “Or did she hang out later instead, kind of not wanting to go home?”

“Early-ish,” Samantha said. “Around eleven. I told her to stay over, because of the rain, but she wouldn’t do that, either. Beckett wanted her home, she said, and you know that when he said jump, she jumped.”

“What about the Xanax?” Quinn asked.

A beat passed, and Samantha straightened her spoon on the saucer. The apartment was like that, too: meticulously neat. Even her magazines were stacked exactly on top of each other and at right angles to the edge of the coffee table where they sat, and she had no cushions or throws at all. No décor.

“Sorry?” Samantha said. “The what? I’ve drunk too much tea. Need to stop. I’m not on until eleven, but I’m careful anyway. Always.”

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