The Target. Kay David

him down. He’s not my type.” She paused. “And I don’t still love Quinn.”

      As if to reinforce the sentiment, Hannah made herself remember the night they’d broken up. Driving blindly, she’d made it to the end of parking lot of the hospital, then she’d fallen apart. Hot tears running down her cheeks, she’d pulled over and filled the car with deep, racking sobs, her misery too huge to contain. Everything she’d wanted, everything she’d dreamed of—all of it had evaporated in a flash. When she’d recovered enough to see, she’d made it home, but for months she’d felt empty and cold. Now that was her normal state of being. There would be no more tears. Not for Quinn.

      Barbara returned her attention to the soup, staring into the simmering mixture. If she didn’t agree with her daughter’s pronouncement, she kept it to herself. Hannah leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek, then she picked up her suitcase and left.

      QUINN ATTACKED THE FRESHLY turned dirt as if he was digging a hole to bury his thoughts. His physical therapist had recommended gardening as a Zen-like activity to aid Quinn’s recovery and calm his mind.

      The man didn’t know Quinn very well.

      Gripping the shovel with both hands, Quinn forced the edge deeper in to the sticky black dirt. Locals called it “gumbo,” and it was an apt description. Wet, heavy and hard as hell to work, the soil rewarded those who persevered. When he’d first arrived, Quinn had gone to the feed store and grabbed a handful of seed packets and several flats of plants without even looking at the labels, then thrown the seeds into the ground with little attention and done the same to the plants. To his surprise, turnips had sprung up alongside pansies and radishes. Snap beans and green onions had taken root by the fence. In a few more days, he’d have fresh lettuce, too.

      Eyes followed his movement up and down the weedless, perfect rows. There were renters now living in the home where he’d grown up. An older couple with grandchildren, they’d assumed he would ask them to leave, but that had been the last thing on Quinn’s mind. He’d settled into the small over-seer’s cabin out back and asked only for solitude. Relieved but somewhat puzzled, they’d tried to visit with him in the beginning, but when he’d never cooperated, they’d finally understood he’d really meant what he’d said.

      He wanted nothing but to be left alone.

      Reaching the end of the last row, Quinn straightened his back and stretched painfully. From the bayou on his right, he heard the sounds of a quiet country evening. The lazy buzz of the cicadas, the distant caw of a crow, the soft slap of water against the dock. He was grateful he could hear them. Just as he was grateful he could almost run two miles, even though it left him gasping for air.

      He had countered his isolation and pain with a storm of activity, spending the first months after the explosion either exercising to distraction or working the same way, pushing both his physical and mental limits. The EXIT team had conducted their own probe of the bombing, but they were busy and over-burdened. Quinn had decided to help them out, even though they didn’t know it.

      And why not? he’d thought. What in the hell else did he have to do? His relentless pursuit of regaining his strength hadn’t gone as smoothly or as quickly as he would have liked; in fact, it’d been a damn hard struggle with little to show for it. Investigating the bombing on his own had distracted him.

      But over the months, he’d found absolutely nothing more than EXIT had, and in the past few weeks, he’d decided he wasn’t going to find anything, either.

      Since then, his only objective had been to stay awake. The minute he closed his eyes and went to sleep, the nightmares began. He had never seen the children after the bomb had detonated, but his imagination didn’t care. Horrible images haunted him, anyway. The silent, open gaze of a toddler. The too-still arms of a little boy. A grandmother’s wails.

      He straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a callused hand. Another memory haunted him, too. If he lived to be a thousand, he’d never forget the way Hannah had stared at him the day she’d left. She’d worn a blue blouse the color of her eyes, and the pain in her voice still echoed in his head. Along with the stupid little speech he’d told himself that night about their breakup being for the best. Who had he been kidding?