I am Quinn
McGarvey Black
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part III
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part IV
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Part V
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part VI
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Part VII
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Part VIII
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2019 McGarvey Black
The right of McGarvey Black to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
This is dedicated to my husband, Peter Black,
who listened and encouraged each and every day.
“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”
― Maya Angelou
Prologue
One thing I know is true, you find out who your real friends are after you’re dead.
My name is Quinn Delaney Roberts. Friends called me Quinnie except on the days I was a little full of myself, then I was known as the ‘Quinntessa’. The part that gets me is that everyone moved on with their lives practically the day after I was buried. That was almost a bigger a surprise than dying. Almost.
Attending my own funeral was strange. Over the years, I’d been to plenty of wakes – car accidents, drugs, and cancer: lots of cancer. But when it’s yours, it’s a whole different story. It’s not sad exactly, it’s fascinating and kind of bizarre. Questions that haunted me when I was alive disappeared. A therapist once told me ‘with healing comes clarity’. I guess that’s true. Suddenly, I know everything in the universe, except for how and why I’m dead. Did I slip in the shower and crack my skull open on the porcelain soap dish in my tub? Did I choke to death on a chicken bone because I was alone and no one was there to save me? Every other day of my life is crystal clear except for the last one. Things are upside down and make no sense.
I always figured I’d live to be a hundred. My grandparents on my mother’s side lived into their nineties. Dying at age forty-four was unexpected and, if I might add, incredibly unfair. I wasn’t done with my life or ready to leave my husband, Alec and my two children. My kids both tower over me, which isn’t hard to do since I’m just over five feet tall. No matter what, they’ll always be my babies. My daughter Hannah is only twenty and Jack, just twenty-one. They weren’t ready to lose their mother. Not yet.
Growing up, my friends dreamed of big careers or traveling by train through Europe. All I wanted was to be a mother and have lots of kids. Even when I was little, I’d pretend my Barbie was a housewife and mother cooking dinner and playing with her children. My doll was always dressed like a suburban soccer mom acting out storylines that involved family picnics and Girl Scouts. I suppose it was odd, but it’s who I am – who I was.
Leaving my kids before they were fully formed bothers me the most. There were still things I wanted to teach them, like making fresh pesto from a basil plant or how to play the ukulele. Except for the B chord, I was pretty good on the uke. Sure, I sang off-key sometimes, but always with confidence. Enthusiasm makes up for a lot of sour notes. I wanted my kids to learn that, too.
My life didn’t turn out the way I expected. It was supposed to be amazing. Everyone had such high expectations, including me. Now, there’s one question that keeps reverberating in my head, did I do something to myself?
Part I
THE WEEK I DIED
Chapter 1
Other than the time Quinn Roberts’ sink backed up, and those two messages she left saying she thought there was brown mold in her bathroom, Joan Hemmerly hadn’t heard a peep out of her new lodger in the six months since she moved in. Quinn Roberts paid her rent on time and didn’t make any noise, the ideal tenant.
Hemmerly’s son, Ronny, did the maintenance work on his mother’s rental properties since his father passed away. Her son was the one who fixed Quinn Roberts’ clogged kitchen drain. He thought the lady was ‘real nice’, especially after she told him he could bring his dog, Cooper, inside instead of having to leave him out in the car. While he snaked her drain, the woman played with his dog while she made the handyman some herbal tea. She even gave his grateful hound a dog biscuit.
‘How come you have dog treats when you ain’t got no dog?’ Ronny asked.
‘I always keep some in my coat pockets in case I run into someone walking their pooch. I love dogs,’ said Quinn with a big smile.
The next day, Ronny stopped by his mother’s house.
‘You get that sink fixed?’ his mother asked.
‘Ye
ah, it’s all clear,’ he said. ‘That Ms. Roberts is nice, Ma. Real pretty too, a definite MILF.’
‘What the hell is a MILF?’ his mother asked.
Just hearing his mother use the acronym made her son laugh.
‘It means Mother I’d Like to F, Ma,’ Ronny said, snorting while he laughed.
An expression of horror crossed his mother’s face, and she shook her head. She’d never heard that one before and wondered where the hell he got that stuff.
‘Listen to me,’ she said to her twenty-eight-year-old son, ‘you stay away from her. She’s practically old enough to be your mother.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ he said as he chuckled. She warned her son a second time and then wondered if anyone ever thought she was a MILF. Probably not, she decided.
About a week later, on a dreary Saturday, the phone rang as the landlady was finishing her lunch. She tucked a loose strand of overly processed platinum blonde hair behind her ear and reached for the phone. A woman identified herself as Viv DeMarco and said she was a good friend of one of her tenants.
‘I’ve been trying to reach Quinn for five days,’ Viv said. ‘I’m standing out in front of her apartment right now, and she isn’t answering the door. Her Subaru is parked in the driveway.’
‘Maybe she went for a walk,’ Mrs. Hemmerly said, a little annoyed. ‘What are you calling me for?’
‘Look,’ Viv said. ‘I’m one of her closest friends. She always calls me back. I’ve left her twenty messages. Please, I drove all the way here from Avon. Something is wrong.’
‘What do you expect me to do? I can’t force her to call you back. I’m her landlady, not her mother.’
‘Quinn might be hurt or unconscious,’ Viv said, becoming agitated. ‘Her kids haven’t heard from her in over a week. We need to get in.’
‘I can’t just bust in…’
‘She talked about killing herself,’ Viv blurted out.
Oh boy, thought the landlady, that’s a game changer. She told Viv she’d be there in ten minutes and called her son, Ronny. He had been in the hospital the previous week, but he was back at work today painting one of her other apartments in the same neighborhood.
‘Put down your brush,’ the landlady said when her son answered. ‘We might have a problem over at Brookside with Ms. Roberts’ place. Meet me there in ten minutes.’
When the landlady pulled up in front of the building, a heavy-set woman with tangerine-colored hair and oversized matching red-orange glasses was pacing out front.
‘You Viv DeMarco?’ she shouted to the woman as she got out of her car. Viv nodded emphatically. ‘You’re sure about this? Ms. Roberts really talked about killing herself?’
‘Yes,’ Viv said, out of breath. ‘Quinn is on all sorts of medications. She has so many pills.’
The landlady told Viv they’d have to wait until her son arrived before they could go in. Who knew what they were going to find and she wanted to have a big guy with her, just in case. Ronny wasn’t the brightest bulb, but he was big and strong, just like his daddy.
A minute later her son and his friend, Jeff, both covered in white paint, came strolling over with Ronny’s terrier mix, Cooper, trailing behind.
‘Do you have to bring that dang dog everywhere?’ the landlady yelled at her son. ‘Never mind, let’s go in, and don’t be getting no paint on anything.’
The four walked up the front steps of the house. Joan Hemmerly rang the bell to Apartment B ten times to be certain no one was home. As the landlady unlocked the front door of the building, Viv started breathing funny.
‘I’m sure everything will be okay,’ Joan said as she pushed the creaky wooden front door open and stepped into the dark green foyer. ‘Maybe she just went on a trip somewhere,’ she said over her shoulder.
A massive pile of Quinn Roberts’ mail lay inside the hall. The landlady noticed the foyer walls were scuffed and the wooden floors needed cleaning. She made a mental note to put that on her son’s punch list. Swooping down, she picked up the mound of letters and the group proceeded to climb the stairs to the second floor. As they mounted each step, the old wooden staircase wailed under their weight. When they reached the top, the landlady knocked loudly on the door of Apartment B and waited for a response. Viv, Ronny and Jeff stood behind her, while Cooper scratched and sniffed at the apartment door. The landlady pulled out another key, shoved it into the lock and then pushed the door a quarter of the way open. Cooper ran in and disappeared. A putrid stink engulfed them, penetrating their clothing and every opening on their bodies. The place reeked. The landlady knew that smell. Something was dead in this place, and she secretly prayed it was just a mouse or squirrel trapped between the roof and the ceiling. That sometimes happened in old houses.
‘Ms. Roberts,’ the landlady called out loudly in a sing-song voice through the open front door. ‘It’s Joan Hemmerly, your landlady. I’ve got your friend Viv here with me. She was a little worried about you.’
They heard Cooper bark from one of the back rooms as they moved further into the apartment. With each step, the foul odor grew stronger, but no one acknowledged it, all fearing the worst.
The place was clean but messy and the temperature in the apartment was oddly colder than it was outside. A kitchen chair was turned over and lying on its side. The cabinet doors were all open as were the kitchen drawers, as if someone had been looking for something. Ronny closed all the doors and drawers and picked up the kitchen chair and put it back in its proper place. Unwashed dishes lay submerged in dirty water in the sink.
‘Quinn,’ Viv shouted, as the group moved into the living room. ‘It’s Viv, honey. Are you here?’
The persistent smell intensified the closer they got to the back hallway, making each one of them feel nauseous and gasp for clean air.
‘We have to check the bathroom and bedroom,’ the landlady said, starting to fear the worst.
‘Ma, you want me to go first?’ Ronny said.
His mother shook her head. ‘Ms. Roberts might be unconscious, or she might not be dressed. I’d better go first.’
The bedroom door was ajar, and the awful smell of putrefied fruit and something indefinable grew stronger with each step. As the landlady pushed open the bedroom door, she knew it wasn’t going to be a happy ending. The room was dim because the curtains were closed but she could still see the bedroom was in shambles. She flipped on the wall switch, and that’s when she saw her. Quinn Roberts was lying on the rug next to the bed, eyes wide open. Hundreds of pills in every color of the rainbow lay scattered on the floor looking as though someone had dropped a garbage bag filled with jelly beans. Dozens of pill bottles with caps off were strewn around her body and in all corners of the room. Cooper was contentedly licking the dead woman’s feet. When the landlady saw that, she threw up right on the white bedroom rug.
‘Ma,’ shouted Ronny as he and Jeff walked into the bedroom and saw his mother retching. ‘What’s wrong?’ Then he saw Quinn Roberts slumped on the floor.
‘Cooper, get away from her,’ he shouted at the dog.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Jeff grabbing for the wall to steady himself.
‘I’ve got to get out of this room,’ the landlady said, hyperventilating, and walked back into the living room. Viv was standing where they had left her, frozen, clenching her hands, eyeglasses askew, tears streaming down her face.
‘Is Quinn dead?’ Viv whispered.
‘Yeah, honey,’ the landlady said gently. ‘There are pills everywhere. Looks like you were right. You might not want to go in there.’
‘Are you sure she’s dead?’ Viv asked again.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Joan Hemmerly said, shaking her head. ‘Such a waste.’
Jeff, Cooper and Ronny, with his hands full of pill bottles, came out of the bedroom.
‘She had so many different kinds, Ma,’ he said, holding up some of the empty containers. ‘Xanax, Wellbutrin, Lamictal, Depakote. Maybe she didn’t kill herself on purpose. Maybe she got con
fused and took too many. She might have accidentally overdosed.’
‘We’ve got to call the police,’ the landlady said, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down her back.
‘What am I going to tell her family?’ said Viv.
They all stood silently in the living room for a moment. Viv started to sob as she told them that Quinn was only forty-four and had two kids in college.
‘She was so young,’ said the landlady. ‘It’s awful her kids losing their mother like this.’