Page 106 of The Vanished

“Did he go home with her?”

“No. He remained in London.”

“And Logan? Were you able to learn anything more?”

“I don’t have any new leads. A mate has been monitoring Logan’s phone and banking activity, and there’s nothing. I’m sorry, Quinn.”

She stifled a sob so Drew wouldn’t hear her cry. But she knew what he was saying. No activity meant no hope. Even if Logan was hiding somewhere, he’d need money, and if he had a burner phone he could have called. He’d want to know that Max was all right.

“I will keep at it, but I don’t think you should get your hopes up,” Drew said gently. “And you need to make arrangements for Max.”

“Thank you,” Quinn choked out and ended the call. She couldn’t bring herself to accept that Logan was dead. She simply couldn’t.

She knew what she could do to learn the truth, but she didn’t think she had the strength to witness Logan’s final moments. It would break her. The only other person who could help was Daisy. Quinn hated to ask her niece. Daisy had suffered enough when she’d seen shocking and painful visions of her mother, Jo, but Quinn needed to know what had happened to Logan. She would never be able to move on otherwise. And she had to figure out what to tell Max. It would be cruel to keep hope alive if Logan was really gone.

Quinn walked into the kitchen, took out a bottle of whisky, and took a large swig. And then she rang Daisy.

SEVENTY-THREE

Quinn spent a restless night. Every time she drifted into sleep, her mind supplied horrific scenarios, each ending with Logan’s agonizing death. She could see the outline of the earring container on her bedside table, but didn’t reach for it. The past was a kind of drug, but she couldn’t escape into it tonight. She didn’t want to. She needed to feel her fear and grief because everything would change tomorrow. Everything depended on what Daisy saw, and if Logan was indeed gone, Quinn would have to adapt to a new reality—something she had already done too many times in the past few years.

After living vicariously through the people in her cases, she knew her own life was charmed. For all her losses, she lived in the most advanced, enlightened era so far, with access to therapy, medication, and countless ways to ease emotional pain. She wasn’t condemned by the conventions of her time to hide her grief. She could talk about her feelings, dull the sharp edges, and eventually crawl out the other side—battered, perhaps, but not destroyed. Still, despite the available resources, she had buried her emotions when Phoebe and Sylvia had died, focusing instead on guiding her family through an unprecedented crisis. She had almost erased Brett and Jo from her heart; she’d known them for so short a time that she could pretend they’d never been truly hers.

But she couldn’t erase Logan. She loved him, depended on him, and adored Max. And she knew exactly what losing a parent so suddenly and brutally could do to a five-year-old child. Whatever tomorrow brought, she would face it head-on. She would put Max first. He deserved that much from the family he had left, and they would see him through.

Quinn was giddy with exhaustion when the doorbell chimed at ten past eight. Gabe and the children had only just left, Max was still picking at his breakfast, and Quinn was nursing her second cup of coffee and not yet dressed for the day. She went to the door, but instead of opening it immediately—as she once might have—she peered through the window to make sure she recognized the visitor. Jude stood on the step, looking as if he were running on pure adrenaline.

SEVENTY-FOUR

“Make me a cup of coffee, will you?” he asked Quinn after he’d given Max a hug and helped himself to his uneaten toast. “Can you give us a few minutes, buddy? Aunt Quinn and I need to talk.”

“About Dad?” Max asked.

Jude nodded. He tensed as though he thought Max was about to ask what they were going to talk about, but Max simply walked out of the kitchen, his head bowed and his shoulders stooped as if he were an old man and not a little boy.

“That poor child,” Jude said softly. “What a toll this is taking on him.” He sat down at the table, accepted a mug of coffee, and added a splash of cream. “You look shattered,” he told Quinn.

“I couldn’t sleep. You don’t look so great yourself.”

“I don’t think Logan is in Cornwall.”

“Based on what?”

Quinn thought it was mad to go poking about in some World War Two bunker but, for lack of any other alternatives, she had been prepared to make the drive. She’d needed to do something, since sitting around and waiting for news was killing her. But that was before she had decided to appeal to Daisy.

“I went through the whole house last night. Room by room, cupboard by cupboard, drawer by drawer.”

“The police searched the house,” Quinn reminded him.

“Yes, but they were looking for evidence of a crime. I was looking for something different.”

“And did you find it?”

He nodded and took a noisy gulp of coffee. “Logan was involved with someone.”

“He did date.”

“I don’t mean a casual fling,” Jude replied. “He was in a relationship.”