Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
I was single for the first sixty years of my life, but I’m not totally unromantic. Like all single people I would sometimes wonder what it would be like to have a mate, to be in love forever with the same person, to be in sync. Then I knew too much about the world. Now I knew too much about Jane. I think overall I would have preferred not to have known how much he loved her. How funny that I had felt this way a couple of years ago, and over an incident much more critical to Carlo’s and my relationship. I thought I’d gotten past that insecurity. Brigid Quinn, vulnerable. Did it ever stop? Do you ever just relax in a relationship? Why did things have to bubble up from time to time like ancient tectonic plates crashing against each other, sending little shock waves that weaken the land we think we live in? Was it Carlo’s fault? Or was it Jane’s? Or a combination of everything. Everyone. Me. Not being Jane.
The self-pity overwhelmed me once more, spreading through my chest like a balloon pressing the air out of my lungs. I felt so low I got down on the floor where my spirits were. But that was no good. The pugs, who had followed me into the room, took it as play rather than an expression of despair, which took most of the drama out. They threw themselves at my head until I laughed at myself.
Oh, grow the hell up, Quinn. You’re sixty-five years old, for Pete’s sake, and at some point you have to stop thinking like a teenager. Romance, my ass. Look at that poor Gloria Bentham.
When does your average insecurity become pathology?
There but for the grace—no. No, I don’t need anyone else, not God, not nobody. I can manage on my own just fine. I made the decision in a flash, deciding I wouldn’t love Carlo quite as much as I had to this point, because that much loving hurt too much. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
I rubbed my cheek against the Berber carpet to get rid of any remaining Jane thoughts, got up off the floor, and called the Sarasota Sheriff’s Office. I didn’t have any trouble getting through to Detective Ian Meadows when I told the receptionist I might have some information about the Walker case.
Then I called St. Dominic’s Abbey and asked to speak to Victor Santangelo. Dead, cancer, someone called Abbot Franklin said. When I asked how long ago he had died, Franklin gave me a date about a month before. I told Carlo what I had discovered, and thought I could detect an almost physical shift in him as the past returned to grieve him. So many events happening simultaneously, I thought.
Thirty–seven
Gloria started to be something of a problem, moping around.