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“I’ll meet you back at the house,” he said as he climbed into the SUV.
I wanted to stand, watch him go, and maybe wave at him, but I wasn’t a teenager. Instead, I did the grown-up thing and walked around the corner to peek at him from where he couldn’t see me. I only felt happy when his car turned onto Main, and then I was lost for what to do next.
My phone buzzed, and it was Quinn. He was the distraction I needed, and we agreed to meet at the diner. He said he had an idea he wanted to run by me, and anything that used up my brain power was a good thing.
“I’ve been thinking,” Quinn began as soon as he sat down. He was interrupted when Merle came over withmenus and coffee. “French toast, bacon, syrup, more coffee,” Quinn said without looking at the menu and with the broadest grin.
“Same,” I said for ease, not having the brain capacity to consider food choices. When Merle left, I doctored my coffee with cream and waited for more from Quinn.
“Yeah, so I had this idea.”
“I’m listening.”
Quinn had always been the type to think big—bigger than most—and his latest idea would probably be no exception.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Max—last week was his birthday. And about your cousin Natalie, it got me imagining what they would have done if they’d gotten out, but unlike Rachel, they didn’t have family they could go home to. Then I was doing some research, and there is a network of safe houses for them, but it’s underfunded and a broken system, and there’s nowhere for people who slipped through the cracks, who don’t have anywhere else to turn.”
He stopped when Merle delivered napkins and silverware, and they talked a bit about the weather before Merle headed over to another booth.
“Anyway, so I started scribbling some ideas for a safe place on Lennox land—creating a fully secure home, or yurts or something, with access to medical care in Whisper Ridge, maybe job training, therapy, grants … everything they need to get back on their feet. Somewhere to escape to.”
I rubbed my chin, considering Quinn's proposal. Hispassion for philanthropy wasn’t new, but this was different. It was personal to himandme, and it was needed. “Sounds like a big undertaking,” I said because he needed me to be the voice of reason.
“It will be. And that’s why I need you, Connor, as co-founder, as manager, and all-around good guy. You’re the best person I know, and I want to work on this together. As a team, not me as your boss, it would be your project, and I’d fund it, and you’d be the one helping people to get out.” He shifted in his seat. “I mean, sometimes they can’t get away, you’d need to … y’know, do your SEAL stuff to get them out.”
“I could do that.”
“So, what do you say?”
I must have paused too long trying to find the right words to say ‘hell, yes’, because he became flustered. “God, have you already got life plans to leave or something? Have I overstepped?”
I shook my head. “No, you haven’t.” The idea struck a chord with me. After all, helping people like Natalie out of the cults they’d been suckered into would be a cause close to my heart. Quinn’s plan wasn’t just about donating money—it was necessary and potentially life-saving. I found myself nodding before I even spoke. This could be something real for me.
“Tell me more.”
We spent the next half hour, until he had to leave for a meeting with his lawyer, hashing out preliminary ideas. Quinn’s vision was muddied with too much information, and I couldn’t make sense of the big picture yet. We’dneed a lot more talking because who would get these young adults out of the cults? Would we expect them to make their way to us? Or was my background going to help with that? Or my connection to my former teammate’s security company? For the first time in a long time, I felt a fire rekindling inside me, fueled by the prospect of helping, protecting, and finding those who needed me.
When Quinn left, I sipped coffee, wondering how Neil’s meeting was going. I wanted to tell him what Quinn had come up with.
That a future path was opening before me, and I might have a real reason to stay in Whisper Ridge and make a home with him.
Jesus, where did that thought come from?
I needed to talk to Neil.
I will.
One day.
Soon.
Neil wasquiet when he returned from being with his family, which was understandable. He was content to curl up against my side on the couch as we watched a British baking show. Now and then, I’d toss out a remark about the contestants’ choice of frosting or the unlikely flavors they were attempting, but none of it pulled a smile from him.
On the screen, the contestants were in the throes of the showstopper challenge, and the theme was pastrysculptures meant to resemble family pets. Yep, pets out of pastry.
“I can’t believe Gerry is trying to make his cat out of the choux pastry,” I commented, a laugh bubbling up as the camera zoomed in on a lopsided pastry that resembled a feline—if you squinted. “That looks more like a pile of god knows what, not their beloved Whiskers.” I laughed as Gerry frantically piped more cream, his hands shaking. “He’s going to need nine lives to get through the judges’ critique on that one.”
Neil finally chuckled, the sound warm in the quiet of the living room—it was such a nice sound. Better than nice. Perfect.
