Earthbound
Page 52
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Hey, Baklava, we’re here,” Benson says, poking my ribs.
I must have fallen asleep. “Did you seriously just call me Baklava?” I grumble, throwing my arm over my eyes as I blink against the midday sunlight.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff—I found a library.”
I grumble something that was probably better unheard.
“Your phone rang a bunch of times while we were driving,” Benson says, ignoring my mutterings. “I couldn’t get it out of your pocket to turn it off.”
And I was apparently so zonked I didn’t even hear it. I take my phone out and check the screen.
Six missed calls.
“Jay,” I mutter as I shove it back into my pocket. “The man doesn’t give up.”
Once inside, we make our way to the microfiche lab and I realize I feel better already. Benson is someone who’s proved I can trust him, and a library—even a new one—feels like a safe haven. While I’m here, with him, I can deal.
As Benson predicted, when we look up the names in the database, there’s one reference to a Rebecca Fielding, and seven to Quinn Avery.
“Captain Quinn Avery,” Benson says. “Looks like he owned some kind of boat.” He writes down some references, then starts pulling tiny films out of file cabinets with a practiced efficiency. “Here,” he says, handing me the first film. “You start while I pull the others.”
Library nerds are the best.
“There’s a whole story on him,” I say, skimming an article. “You were right—he was the captain of a shipping boat.” I keep reading as Benson opens and closes file cabinet drawers. “Weird,” I murmur, then louder, so Benson can hear me, I add, “So this article says that just as he was really starting to make a name for himself in the shipping biz, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Benson asks. He places a small stack of films on the desk beside me and pulls up another chair.
I point at the screen as I keep reading. “Yeah. He lived at the edge of Camden—that totally explains why Psycho Quinn told me to go there—and one night there was a huge disturbance, gunshots and tons of noise. Neighbors went to his house, and all four walls were, like, totally riddled with bullets, everything inside ransacked and destroyed, but the house was empty.” I lean forward and keep skimming. “They never found any bodies, but neither he nor a local banker’s daughter was ever heard from again.” I turn to Benson. “Do you think that was Rebecca?”
“It seems likely,” Benson says, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“This would have been a major scandal, right?”
“Murder and an illicit love affair in the early 1800s? Oh yeah.”
“Can it be a coincidence?”
“What?”
“That the original Captain Avery seduced women and may have either murdered them or been murdered for his deeds?” I ask, fear fluttering in my chest again.
“Coincidence? I doubt it. But the question is, did today’s Quinn choose this identity because of its sordid past or did he just find someone in history to match his preferred crimes?”
Crimes. I hate using that word to describe Quinn.
What is wrong with me? Even after last night, I’m still trying to find a way to justify his actions.
“And why me?” I ask quietly. “I don’t see how any of this relates to me.” I read another paragraph, then turn fully to Benson. “Do you think he tracks down people who can do what I do? Do you think there are more people like me?”
“It seems possible,” Benson says hesitantly.
I wonder if he found any. If they’re still alive.
I swallow hard and scroll down farther. Suddenly the world swirls around me and I can’t stifle the loud gasp that escapes my throat.
It’s him.
It’s a sketch, not a photo—possibly done after his disappearance. But it’s definitely him. I can’t tear my gaze away from those eyes. Soft green eyes that the artist has captured well, even in monochrome. I reach out and touch his sharp cheekbones, then am shocked when I have to hold my breath to stifle a sob. My emotions are a hurricane inside me fighting to get out.
“That’s him, Benson!”
“Quinn? Like, the guy you saw last night?”
I can’t speak; I only nod. Before I have time to process the thought, I hit the print button.
“That is seriously weird,” Benson says. “You’re sure?”
“That’s exactly what he looks like,” I say, and my voice is unsteady.
“This guy must be way hard core,” Benson says, leaning in close to the picture.
Zac Brown Band starts playing, and it takes about five seconds before I realize it’s my phone’s ring tone. Instinctively I hit the talk button and put the phone to my ear, my gaze still fixed on the microfiche screen. “’lo?”
“Tavia, thank goodness. Please don’t hang up.”
I freeze as Reese’s voice sounds in my ear, pouring jagged ice down my spine.
“I just got back and Jay told me. Please let us talk to you. You’re in so much danger. Where are you? Just tell us—”
I hit the end button with a shaky finger and feel all the blood draining from my face. I answered my phone? What the hell was I thinking? That’s the kind of mistake that could get me killed. Me and Benson. “I have to get rid of this,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m talking to Benson or myself. It’s been easy to push Reese and Jay into the back of my mind since leaving Portsmouth—my head has been full of Quinn.
“Hey, Baklava, we’re here,” Benson says, poking my ribs.
I must have fallen asleep. “Did you seriously just call me Baklava?” I grumble, throwing my arm over my eyes as I blink against the midday sunlight.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff—I found a library.”
I grumble something that was probably better unheard.
“Your phone rang a bunch of times while we were driving,” Benson says, ignoring my mutterings. “I couldn’t get it out of your pocket to turn it off.”
And I was apparently so zonked I didn’t even hear it. I take my phone out and check the screen.
Six missed calls.
“Jay,” I mutter as I shove it back into my pocket. “The man doesn’t give up.”
Once inside, we make our way to the microfiche lab and I realize I feel better already. Benson is someone who’s proved I can trust him, and a library—even a new one—feels like a safe haven. While I’m here, with him, I can deal.
As Benson predicted, when we look up the names in the database, there’s one reference to a Rebecca Fielding, and seven to Quinn Avery.
“Captain Quinn Avery,” Benson says. “Looks like he owned some kind of boat.” He writes down some references, then starts pulling tiny films out of file cabinets with a practiced efficiency. “Here,” he says, handing me the first film. “You start while I pull the others.”
Library nerds are the best.
“There’s a whole story on him,” I say, skimming an article. “You were right—he was the captain of a shipping boat.” I keep reading as Benson opens and closes file cabinet drawers. “Weird,” I murmur, then louder, so Benson can hear me, I add, “So this article says that just as he was really starting to make a name for himself in the shipping biz, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Benson asks. He places a small stack of films on the desk beside me and pulls up another chair.
I point at the screen as I keep reading. “Yeah. He lived at the edge of Camden—that totally explains why Psycho Quinn told me to go there—and one night there was a huge disturbance, gunshots and tons of noise. Neighbors went to his house, and all four walls were, like, totally riddled with bullets, everything inside ransacked and destroyed, but the house was empty.” I lean forward and keep skimming. “They never found any bodies, but neither he nor a local banker’s daughter was ever heard from again.” I turn to Benson. “Do you think that was Rebecca?”
“It seems likely,” Benson says, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“This would have been a major scandal, right?”
“Murder and an illicit love affair in the early 1800s? Oh yeah.”
“Can it be a coincidence?”
“What?”
“That the original Captain Avery seduced women and may have either murdered them or been murdered for his deeds?” I ask, fear fluttering in my chest again.
“Coincidence? I doubt it. But the question is, did today’s Quinn choose this identity because of its sordid past or did he just find someone in history to match his preferred crimes?”
Crimes. I hate using that word to describe Quinn.
What is wrong with me? Even after last night, I’m still trying to find a way to justify his actions.
“And why me?” I ask quietly. “I don’t see how any of this relates to me.” I read another paragraph, then turn fully to Benson. “Do you think he tracks down people who can do what I do? Do you think there are more people like me?”
“It seems possible,” Benson says hesitantly.
I wonder if he found any. If they’re still alive.
I swallow hard and scroll down farther. Suddenly the world swirls around me and I can’t stifle the loud gasp that escapes my throat.
It’s him.
It’s a sketch, not a photo—possibly done after his disappearance. But it’s definitely him. I can’t tear my gaze away from those eyes. Soft green eyes that the artist has captured well, even in monochrome. I reach out and touch his sharp cheekbones, then am shocked when I have to hold my breath to stifle a sob. My emotions are a hurricane inside me fighting to get out.
“That’s him, Benson!”
“Quinn? Like, the guy you saw last night?”
I can’t speak; I only nod. Before I have time to process the thought, I hit the print button.
“That is seriously weird,” Benson says. “You’re sure?”
“That’s exactly what he looks like,” I say, and my voice is unsteady.
“This guy must be way hard core,” Benson says, leaning in close to the picture.
Zac Brown Band starts playing, and it takes about five seconds before I realize it’s my phone’s ring tone. Instinctively I hit the talk button and put the phone to my ear, my gaze still fixed on the microfiche screen. “’lo?”
“Tavia, thank goodness. Please don’t hang up.”
I freeze as Reese’s voice sounds in my ear, pouring jagged ice down my spine.
“I just got back and Jay told me. Please let us talk to you. You’re in so much danger. Where are you? Just tell us—”
I hit the end button with a shaky finger and feel all the blood draining from my face. I answered my phone? What the hell was I thinking? That’s the kind of mistake that could get me killed. Me and Benson. “I have to get rid of this,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m talking to Benson or myself. It’s been easy to push Reese and Jay into the back of my mind since leaving Portsmouth—my head has been full of Quinn.
