Page 21 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
Corbin laughed out loud before clearing his throat. “Yes, sorry. A normal guy takes his girlfriend to the movies, but Mister Documentary takes her to watch CCTV footage. Go on.”
“She’s not my gi—” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Raisa thinks it’s not Vanessa. Her car and coat—yes but not her.”
Quinten turned onto a quieter street, and the crunch of his tires over snow and salt indicated not many cars had driven here today. Cautiously, he slowed the car. A man walking his dog came into view under the orange glow of a streetlamp. The dog stopped to sniff at a bush, taking his time to find the right spot.
Maybe he was a little bit like the dog, sniffing at bushes until he found a scent that would lead him to the truth. He turned his mind back to the conversation. “Raisa pointed out the walk is off, oh, and the shoes don’t match.”
“The shoes?” Corbin sounded skeptical. “What does that mean?”
Quinten raked his dominant hand through his hair. “Have you ever seen Vanessa wear anything other than high heels?” The move brought him another whiff of Raisa still lingering on his fingers, and he almost cursed.
Corbin let out a thoughtful hum. “Not often, but she’s got to own sneakers or joggers, right? I mean, she must do something to maintain that stick figure, and you can’t run in stilettos.”
“True,” Quinten admitted, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “But then there’s still the way that person in the footage walked… I didn’t see it, but Raisa did. Said it didn’t was like the way Vanessa walked. I didn’t get half of it, but she was pretty convinced.”
“What do you think?”
“She could have a point. I... Hell, I don’t know.”
“What did the police say?”
“I didn’t speak with the detective or her partner Zanetti, there was some technician who showed us the tape. He didn’t look that much invested in the whole business. He was mostly bored, I think.”
Static crackled briefly, until Corbin spoke. “Okay. We need to talk with the detective. I mean, if it’s not Vanessa, then who? And why would someone pretend to be her?”
Quinten tightened his grip on the wheel. “I don’t have those answers. Not yet. It’s suspicious that she disappeared just as we discovered the tampering with the books. Anyway, I have an appointment with the detectives on Monday. Let’s see what their take on the whole thing will be.”
Another hum from his brother.
The dog walker disappeared into the shadows as Quinten passed another streetlamp. The road ahead was empty, stretching out into the quiet of the night.
“We need to figure this out,” Corbin said after a moment. “Why don’t we do a family brunch on Sunday? Get everyone together, go over everything. Bring Raisa.”
Quinten frowned. “Brunch? You think pancakes are going to solve this?”
“No,” Corbin replied, a hint of a smile in his response. “But putting our heads together might. Besides, you could use an excuse to see Raisa again.”
Quinten rolled his eyes, though a small smirk tugged at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re avoiding the fact that she’s got you tied up in knots,” Corbin shot back.
Quinten’s smirk faded as he pulled into his driveway, the weight of the conversation settling over him. “Sunday, then. I’ll let her know.”
“Good. And Quint?” Corbin hesitated, before he added with quiet conviction, “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
The call disconnected with a soft beep, leaving Quinten alone in the stillness of the car. He leaned back against the headrest and let out a long breath.
Raisa slipped into her home and shut the door quietly behind her. The night air clung to her skin, but the memory of Quinten’s touch burned brighter than the cold. She leaned back against the door, her fingers brushing her hips as a shy, incredulous laugh bubbled up.
What are you, seventeen? Making out in a car like some lovestruck teenager?Her lips curved into a smile. It had been reckless, impulsive, and entirely unlike her. But, oh my goodness, it had felt good.
“Raisa.” Nana’s frail voice from the kitchen was soft but enough to make her jump.
“Nana?” She started, her breath catching as she turned.
Her grandmother appeared in the doorway, a teacup in hand and a light blue robe draped over her thin frame. The kitchen light cast a soft glow around her, turning her fine white hair into a delicate halo. Raisa’s breath hitched at the sight—Nana had always been the strongest person she knew, but age had softened her, made her fragile in ways Raisa wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
“You’re up late,” Raisa said, stepping toward her.
