This Story Might Save Your Life(73)

“I can’t tell if it’s open,” Sarah says when she pulls into the parking lot.

Sandwiched between a liquor store and a sign shop, Quinn’s Cupcakery is hard to miss. Once a three-star donut shop, it is now a beacon of 1950s nostalgia with its bright neon signs and checkerboard floors. Through the front window, we watch Quinn slide an empty tray into an aluminum rack.

I call her number. She glances down at her phone, then lets it ring.

“Figures.” I unbuckle. “You coming with me?”

“Only if you buy me a cupcake,” Sarah says, already getting out of the car.

Quinn is still facing away when I push on the door. It’s locked. I rattle it to be sure.

“We’re closed,” she shouts.

I rap my knuckles on the glass. This time Quinn sees us, and her bright red lips form a stern line.

A moment passes in which I reassess everything I know about Quinn and realize it doesn’t amount to much. I’m associated with her only through Mallory, who’s an even greater enigma than her wife. When Quinn cracks the door, I find myself at a loss.

“Did something happen?” she asks.

“We were hoping you had a minute to talk,” Sarah says when it’s clear I’m not going to take the lead.

It seems entirely likely Quinn will shut the door on us, but she opens it wider without another word. The buttery aroma of baked goods fills our nostrils as we take a seat at a pedestal table with aqua-blue chairs. I wasn’t prepared for how awkward this was going to be.

“So, you and Mallory aren’t answering your phones,” I say.

“Because there’s nothing to discuss.”

I blink at her. “I think there’s a lot to discuss.”

Quinn sighs. “Do either of you want a cupcake?”

“Yes, please,” Sarah says. She follows Quinn to the display and coos over the choices.

On the wall in front of me is an old poster for milkshakes. Beside it, a marquee sign with old-fashioned light bulbs pointing THIS WAY FOR COCA-COLA. There’s a jukebox in the corner and vintage napkin holders on each of the three tables.

“Did you make all these yourself?” Sarah asks as Quinn plates two chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing, one topped with a fondant poodle skirt, the other with a vinyl record.

“I have help in the morning,” Quinn says, more kindly than before. “But I do all the decorations myself.”

“Amazing.” Sarah pulls out her wallet but Quinn waves her off.

When they return, Sarah and I dig in. I’m not hungry, but Sarah’s tactics are clearly better than mine, and she seems to think this is necessary.

Quinn watches us chew. “So what have you heard?”

“Nothing since Keller showed up at Joy’s house yesterday,” I say, covering my mouth. “I’m sure Mallory told you about it.”

“About your criminal past?” She nods.

I flinch. “That’s not what I came here to talk about.”

“No?” She crosses her arms. “Did you come here to talk about the million dollars you stole?”

“I didn’t…” I gape at her, startled less by her words than her tone. She’s angry with me. No, furious. “Stole? Is that what Mallory told you?”

“Is it wrong?”

“Of course it’s wrong.” My voice is so shrill, so weirdly defensive, it takes me a second to remember why we’re here in the first place. “How long was Mallory spying for Xander?”

Quinn laughs bitterly. “How long have you been in love with Joy?”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, okay.” Sarah holds out her hands. “We’re all a little on edge right now. Let’s start over. How are you handling this, Quinn? I can imagine your feelings are extremely complicated at the moment.”

Quinn sniffs at this.

My sister is right. Telling Quinn to fuck off probably wasn’t the best strategy. Brushing the crumbs from my hands, I push my plate away and try again. “What you said during the search party—”

Quinn stands abruptly and heads for the back room. “You can go ahead and forget that,” she says over her shoulder. For a moment I worry I’ve made another tactical error, but then she returns with a broom and begins sweeping the checkered floor.

“You don’t have to take it back,” Sarah says, flashing a meaningful glance at me. “We understand. He had your wife spying for him. Of course you didn’t like him. That’s a rotten thing to do.”

“Yeah, well. He’s done worse.”

“So you knew he was hurting her,” I say.

“Not exactly. Not that. I knew there was something weird going on, and that Mallory never sees things clearly when it comes to Xander. So I figured it was probably worse than she was letting on. But no. No. I didn’t know until Keller told us. And I want you to know it makes me sick.”

I shift to the edge of my seat. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

She keeps sweeping.

“You know it wasn’t just a car accident, right?” I press.

She flattens a hand to her hip. “Why are you here, Benny?”

“Because—seriously?” I look to Sarah for help.

“Because whoever’s responsible for his death might lead us to Joy,” Sarah says.