Change of Climate

Untitled Part 12

London wanted to call them immediately, while they were driving. Quinlan fought against it, saying that he wanted his full attention on the conversation. So they ended up sitting in a somewhat stony silence with each other until Quinlan settled them at a rest area. And then London refused to get out of the car because she didn't want anyone to overhear. She could tell that Quinlan thought she was being paranoid, but hey, this was how you acted when you walked in to your father's dead body in the middle of his ransacked lab. She thought she was justified.

"Can we at least open the window?" Quinlan asked. "It's hot."

London looked suspiciously at the family having a picnic at the table a little ways away.

"I don't think they'll be able to hear us unless we shout," said Quinlan, sounding exasperated.

"Fine," agreed London. She really hated that she behaving this sulkily when Quinlan had done nothing but go above and beyond in helping her out.

But then again: Father. Dead. Ransacked lab. London thought it was possible she was going to be irrational for a good long time.

Quinlan put his phone on the console in between them and dialed his mother on speaker.

"Quin," she said, her voice full of relief when she answered. "How are you? How's London?"

"We're both good," Quinlan said, glancing at London. "She's here with me now. I've got you on speaker."

"Hi, Professor Meade," London called, struggling to go through these pleasantries instead of just demanding Tell me everything you know.

"London," Quinlan's mother said, her voice softened now with a hush of sympathy. "Sweetheart. I am so sorry to hear about your father. He was...such a great man. A good friend. A brilliant professor."

London hadn't spoken to any of her father's friends. London had fled before she could have the opportunity. She hadn't had anyone speak to her about her father in just this particular way. It made her want to curl into herself with weeping. And she didn't have time for that, damn it.

"Yeah," she said, stupidly, because it was all she could manage around the lump in her throat that she was trying to fight down. "

Quinlan looked at her, all full of pity and concern, clearly thinking for the 7,315th time that day how she was a basketcase.

"Mom," Quinlan said, while London struggled to compose herself. "The people who broke into our house last night. London thinks they were looking for her."

"What?" Quinlan's mother sounded bewildered. "But why would they be looking for her?"

"London's got this—"

"I need to know what you know about my father's research," London cut Quinlan off. She wanted to keep the fact of the USB as quiet as possible. It was bad enough that these people had clearly found her, she didn't want to advertise that she probably did have what they were looking for.

"Well, I mean, London, David and I hadn't really been in contact in years—"

"You used to review his papers," London pointed out. "I know you did. You're thanked in his footnotes."

"But, London, that's just—"

"I need to know what he was researching."

"Climate change. You know that. All the weird weather that's been resulting. The heatwave going on in New England right now. The enormous hurricane working its way up the coast. The growing occurrence of sudden isolated storms through the American South. London, you know that's what he was working on, if you've read his papers enough to know I'm thanked in them."

London shook her head, even though she knew Quinlan's mom couldn't see her. "There was something important about what he was doing. Something important enough to get him killed."

There was a pause. "London," Quinlan's mother said, patiently, carefully. "Even if your father's research got him killed—even if you're right on that—"

"His lab was ransacked," London almost snapped, and then took a deep breath and twisted her hands together to keep herself from entirely losing her temper.

Another pause. London had the impression that Quinlan's mother was trying to determine how to handle her. "Alright. I admit that does look damning. But even if you're right, that wouldn't explain why anyone would be after you."

"Why did you tell me not to go to the police?" Quinlan asked, suddenly.

London looked at him in surprise. He was peering out the window, toward the picnicking family, their dog frolicking through the burnt grass, happy to be released from the confines of the car. He was frowning a little bit, absently, and there was a bit of sweat on his brow from the sun beating down on him through the windshield.

His mother said, "Quin—"

"When I called to tell you London was with me, you said not to go to the police. Why?"

"Because why would you? She's a grieving daughter, not a murder suspect."

"But surely people must be looking for her. Surely people will have realized she's gone missing, will be worried she's dead, too. I should have gone to the police to let them know she's safe and sound and with me. Why did you tell me not to?" Quinlan looked at London now, holding her gaze.

London listened for the answer. There was a long moment of silence.

"London," said Quinlan's mother. "I don't know why your father was murdered. I really, sincerely don't. If I did, dear girl, I would tell you. But I don't know. But what I do know is that I wanted to give you room to grieve without dealing with the murder investigation, with all the things it would dredge up."

"What things?" London asked, confused, breaking Quinlan's gaze to look down at his phone.

"Well, the fact that your mother was murdered, too."