Neanderthal Seeks Human (Knitting in the City #1)(51)
Author: Penny Reid

I glanced over my shoulder to find my suspicion was correct; “What’s that?”

He pulled one hand roughly through his hair and put the cufflink in his pants’ pocket with the other, “I need to talk to you about last Sunday, that- uh- guy, in the park.”

I was kneeling on the floor next to the ottoman; at the tone of his voice I sat back on my heels and turned my entire torso towards him, “Ok.” I placed the cards on the magazine top, he had as much of my full attention as was possible given my current lack of sobriety.

Quinn hesitated, sauntered as he spoke, not looking at me; “So, when I left Boston years ago I wasn’t very popular with… anyone.” He fiddled with the contents of the room- a lamp shade, the mini bar, the instructions for internet connectivity, “I made some data copies in order to make sure that I wouldn’t be… bothered in Chicago.”

He paused over the mini bar, touching a doll-sized bottle of Jonny Walker.

I asked, “Data copies?”

“The people I worked for, I made copies of their data when I installed the wipe script and degauseer.”

“You mean, the bad men?”

He gave me a small smile and nodded, “Yes. The bad men.” Quinn walked to the couch, seemed to hesitate, then sat down. He placed his large hands on his knees, like he might stand back up at any moment, “Janie…” he leveled me with a vacillating, undecided gaze.

“Yes…?” He was quiet for so long I felt the need to prompt him. I was beginning to feel a renewed sense of anxiety. This was a long buildup for him; he was usually a straight-to-the-point kind of guy.

He sighed then asked, “Have you had contact with your sister Jem recently?”

I’m sure I looked comical, gaping at him and his question. He might have asked me, ‘Do you want tampons or pads for your Bat Mitzvah?’ and received a less dumbfounded reaction.

I breathed out heavily and responded with the first words that occurred to me, “How do you know Jem?”

He shook his head, his eyes focused and attentive to the expressions which must have been kaleidoscoping over my face, “I don’t really know her. But- in an effort to be more than technically honest- I know who she is.”

“What do you mean, you ‘know who she is’?”

“I mean, just before I left Boston six years ago, I met her when I was at a… business associate’s house. She was- she was involved with him and was… introduced to me briefly.”

“Six years?” I frowned at this. Jem would have been seventeen or eighteen. “Are you sure…? And you remember her?”

“It’s hard to forget someone who tries to set your car on fire.”

My mouth gaped open and I slowly released a breath in that sloppy, over exaggerated way you only achieve when you’re nearly drunk, “That sounds like Jem.”

Quinn leaned forward, pulling his gaze from mine and picking up the cards. He started to deal, “Right before I left Boston, before Des died, I was securing systems for a group that, well, the particulars aren’t important. It wasn’t a typical operation, though. The main guy- his name was Seamus- was basically a skinhead, a thug. But, he happened to be a very smart thug.” Quinn replaced the deck and picked up his cards, began rearranging them, frowning. “The trusted members all had these neck tattoos.” Quinn offhandedly gestured to his throat, drawing curving lines from his collar to his ear and around the back of his neck.

I drew in a deep breath, “The guy in the park, last Sunday, he had a tattoo on his neck.”

“Also Dan, the security group lead at the Fairbanks building, used to be one of them.”

“What did Jem do that has this guy’s panties so twisted?” I wrinkled my nose in, what I surmised was, an over exaggerated way because Quinn’s gaze softened as it perused my features and he half smiled.

“Does it matter?”

“No… yes.” I rolled my upper lip between my teeth and chewed on it, “No, I guess it doesn’t, but I’d like to know.”

“She helped one of his rivals raid a cash house of his.”

“Why would she do that?” I continued to bite my lip.

“Because she wanted make him angry. Because she is crazy.” His tone was flat, as though the explanation was rudimentary, obvious.

“I can’t believe you used to work with these people.” I switched lips and started nibbling on the bottom one.

Quinn’s eyes met mine; “I thought, when I saw the guy in the park, last week, that he was there because of me. But when I went to Boston and met with Seamus-”

I flinched, “You met with him!? The skinhead leader in Boston?”

He nodded, his jaw flexed, “When I met with Seamus-”

“Isn’t he dangerous? Why would you do that?” I interrupted him again.

Ignoring my interruptions he continued, “-Seamus said he was looking for Jem. The guy in the park, he thought you were her.”

A new kaleidoscope of expressions, mirroring my thoughts, must’ve mounted my features because Quinn quickly added, “I’ve had guards on you since last week and Seamus now knows that you are not Jem. He also knows that you work for me and are not a viable option for…” he paused as though choosing his words carefully, “Not a viable option for initiating contact with Jem. You should be completely safe.”

I nodded until it felt like I was bobbing up and down on a boat then cleared my throat; my hands were rigidly resting on my lap and I noted that they were balled into tight fists. With effort I relaxed my fingers and picked up my cards, forcing myself to look at them.

Ace of hearts, two of clubs, three of diamonds, ten of clubs, nine of clubs. It was a shit hand.

“Why- how-” I fanned out my cards and laid them on my lap, “Why did Jem try to set your car on fire?”

Quinn shrugged, not meeting my gaze, “I don’t remember, I don’t think there was a reason. I just remember that she was crazy.”

I felt sorry for myself, for being dealt a shit hand and for having a sister who’s most recognizable trait was criminality. Some people have annoying relatives who drink too much during the holidays and corner you with one-sided conspiracy theories where the government is both heinously incompetent and, at the same time, capable of staging the elaborate hoaxes, like the moon landing or Pearl Harbor or the theory of relativity.

I had a sister who didn’t limit her antics to holidays and liked to sleep with my boyfriend or attempt murder when faced with boredom.

I didn’t allow myself to dwell in the land of defeatism for very long. I couldn’t do anything about the hand I’d been dealt. I could only make the most of it, hope for the best, and accept my fate.

Or… I could cheat.

“Did you- do you-” I picked my cards up again but didn’t look at them; I kept my attention fixed on Quinn, blinked twice so he would come into focus, “Do you think I look like her? Like Jem? Did you think I was her?”

Quinn frowned at his cards then met my gaze, “Yes.”

I waited. When he didn’t elaborate I craned my neck forward and widened my eyes in disbelief, “Yes? Just… yes?”

He nodded.

“Which part? Yes to which part?”

“You look like her. I thought you were Jem when I first saw you.” He looked like he would have preferred to discuss anything else including, perhaps, the menstrual cycle of koalas or the regulations surrounding peanut butter manufacturing.

I slid my teeth to the side, “Is that why you wanted to kiss me? Because you thought I was her?” I quoted Quinn’s admission from the night of our first kiss. Something hard settled in my stomach and made my mouth taste sour, like stale wine and postage stamps, at the possibility.

He shook his head, “No, God- no. I think I noticed you at first because of the resemblance. I can honestly say I’ve never wanted to kiss your sister.”

“When did you figure out that we weren’t the same person?”

He folded his hand of cards and held them on his lap; Quinn leaned forward with his elbows on his knees; “The day after I first saw you, weeks before we spoke. I did a very thorough background check on you to make sure you weren’t Jem.” I was impressed by the starkness of his tone even though the admission looked like it cost him something. His eyes were weary.

I was also impressed by his continuing more than technical honesty even if it felt like I was prying the answers out of him.

I considered this information, I considered him. “Is that why you escorted me out? You thought- if I were Jem- I’d blow something up?”

“No. Like I said, I knew you weren’t her.”

“Then why did you pose as a security guard?”

“I didn’t pose. I like to spend time on the floor with my team, especially when we take on a new project. We’d just taken over security for the building and moved into the top floor. I wanted to…” He looked away, sighed, then met my eyes again, “I wanted to get a sense of the other people who worked in the building.”

“And you escorted me out because you wanted to get a sense of who no longer worked in the building?”

“No.” He said.

“No?” I prompted.