“DID YOU HAVE FUN WITH MISS GABBY?” QUINTEN says, hopping out of his occupational therapist’s room. “I had fun.”
Gabby walks over, her amber-colored eyes sparkling as we watch him prance down the hall. “He did a great job today. We worked with spatial awareness, and I got him halfway into the body tube and rocked him back and forth. He loved it.”
My brows rise. “How many times did he want to get out?”
“Only a few.” Her grin spreads.
I throw my phone into my purse and dig out Dalia’s car keys, thankful she lent me her ride for the day so we don’t have to trudge through the slush to make it to the bus station. I’m eager to leave before Abby, the owner of Little Hands and Hearts Therapy— which is where we are right now—comes into the hallway and asks me if I’ve been getting her messages.
“Hey, did Abby talk to you?” Gabby questions.
My stomach drops. “Nope.”
Gabby nods. “I think she needed to talk to you about some insurance stuff. Probably no big deal. I think there was some mix- up with what they’d cover for Quin.”
I roll my eyes and sigh, putting on the same front I always do, pretending it’s a simple misunderstanding. But Quinten’s care is hard for me financially, and I can’t always make my part of the payments. Insurance does cover most of it, but they fight me harder because I don’t have Quinten in ABA therapy.
But ABA therapy doesn’t work for Quin. Play therapy does.
Besides, insurance is a scam, made specifically to ruin my fucking life, but even I know it still needs to be paid. I will pay for it, I console myself. I feel guilty enough I’m only able to bring him in twice a week and barely able to handle the co-pay on that.
Anger buzzes beneath my skin when I think of all I could do if it weren’t for fucking Parker.
My phone starts to vibrate in my hand at the same time as Quinten runs up to me and pulls on the sleeve of my arm. “Ready to go home?” he asks.
“Let’s roll, dude.” I smile at Gabby and slip my phone into my pocket. “See you next week.”
She tosses a wave and I follow Quinten down the carpeted hallway where he’s skipping his way to the exit.
My phone vibrates again, but despite the salted sidewalks, the concrete’s still a little slippery, and I don’t want Quinten to trip or for me to fall and take him down with me, so I ignore it.
Probably just Dalia checking in anyway, and we’re about to see her.
Or maybe it’s Parker, who I definitely don’t want to talk to right now.
I get Quinten buckled in and set up with his headphones and music, and then we’re off, nothing but the roads and the silence, leaving plenty of room for me to ruminate in my thoughts. It’s been a few days, and I haven’t been back to work. I’ve made excuses with my boss, saying that I’m sick, but Gabby bringing up the insurance issue is a stark reminder that I really can’t afford to not be bringing in nightly money.
It’s just…every time I think about going back in, I imagine Andrew showing up to finish what he started.
My phone rings again, vibrating in the center console right as we pull into the open space in front of our apartment.
I barely have the key in the lock when it’s swinging open, Dalia’s wide and frazzled eyes meeting mine. “Where the hell have you been?”
The look on her face makes my stomach drop. “Quin’s therapy. Why? What’s wrong?”
Quinten hops in place beside me before slipping between Dalia’s body and the doorframe to disappear into the living room. She doesn’t even spare him a glance, and now I’m really concerned.
“I tried to call you. I’ve been trying to call you, Amaya. Jesus Christ.” She reaches out, gripping my forearm tightly.
“Miss Paquette?” A deep voice comes from behind Dalia.
She sighs when I look around her, seeing the two men standing in our kitchen.
I push her to the side and make my way in the house. My eyes immediately find Quinten, who’s in the living room, side-eyeing the strangers but keeping his distance.
“Miss Paquette?” the man on the right says again.
“Who’s asking?” I don’t like random men in our apartment when it’s supposed to be our safe place.
“I’m Detective Fuller, and this is Detective Allan,” the same man says, his graying brows furrowing as he gestures toward his partner. “We’d just like to talk to you for a minute, if you don’t mind.”
I cross my arms and look at Quinten then Dalia before jerking my head toward the living room to let her know she should keep him occupied. She nods and sucks on her lips before moving, and I make my way closer to the detectives, a sick feeling creeping into my stomach and up my throat.
Is this about my mother? Ridiculous. It’s been years.
“Sure,” I finally reply, reaching into the fridge to grab the creamer before I turn to make a pot of coffee. “Either of you thirsty?”
Detective Fuller smiles, his thin lips stretching across his tan face as he shakes his head. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Nodding, I reach up to grab the coffee grounds and start scooping them into the filter. “What can I do for you two?”
Detective Allan pipes in, his blue eyes sharp and his voice clipped as short as his buzzed hair. “Where were you three nights ago around the time of one forty- five?”
I pause with the grounds halfway poured, my brows drawing in.
What the hell?
“Uh…at work, probably.”
Detective Fuller frowns in a way that highlights the deep set of wrinkles around his mouth. “At the Chapel.”
My heart stutters. This is starting to border heavily on invasive territory. These men aren’t from Festivalé—at least I’ve never seen them— but if they know where I work, that means other people might know too.
The thought makes my stomach cramp.
“That’s right,” I confirm.
“And what time would you say you left for the night?”
I spin around completely, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not sure. I think I got home around three? It was kind of a hectic night.”
Detective Allan lifts a brow, rubbing the salt- and-pepper scruff that sprinkles his chin. “Was it?”
I shrug, biting my lips.
“Do you have anyone who can corroborate that time frame, Miss Paquette?” Detective Allan questions.
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little confused,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What is all this about?”
My eyes flick past them into the living room where Dalia is coloring with Quinten, her gaze firmly on us. My chest tightens. I don’t want her to hear about what happened with Andrew; in fact, I’ve been actively trying to forget anything happened, but the more questions these guys ask, the more I think this all might be connected to the other night with him.
But how would they even know?
Detective Fuller blows out a breath, his eyes cataloging what seems like every single movement of mine before he looks around at the kitchen. “Small place, huh?”
I cross my arms. “And?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Decent money at the Chapel?”
“What’s that have to do with anything, Detective?” I snap.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Do you know an Andrew Gleeson, Miss Paquette?”
“Yeah, yes.” I nod, my heartbeat pulsing in the side of my neck. “He comes into the club.”
“And you dance for him?”
I swallow, unease swirling through my veins. “Sometimes.”
“Your boss, Phillip, said you were his favorite. That when he was there, no one else could ever get anywhere near you.”
My muscles tense. I’m not sure what these detectives want or what’s going on, but if they’re talking to Phillip… This whole situation is weird.
“Listen, Detectives, not to be rude, but it’s been a long day and will be an even longer night, so if it’s all the same to you…” I wave my arm between them. “I’d like you to leave.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.” Detective Fuller steps closer, the heel of his dress shoe clicking on the tile. “You see, Miss Paquette, Andrew Gleeson is dead. And you were the last person he was seen with.”
