Chapter 4 Keeping Up Appearances

The Fairchilds were rich—so even a maid’s room was decent. It was just sparsely furnished, with a bed, a wardrobe, and a table. Still, it was much better than anything she had in prison. Quinn didn’t complain. She set her bag down on the table and plugged in her phone. Even though the model was from three years ago, she had barely used it when she first got it. After sitting untouched for so long, it was a surprise the number hadn’t been deactivated. But hardly anyone ever tried to contact her. Except for one unknown number. Every year during New Year, she’d get a single message. Happy New Year. She knew the number by heart. It was Zayden. He couldn’t stand her, but he still insisted on keeping up appearances. Quinn sat quietly for a while, then deleted the message and blocked the number. After that, she slowly sent a few texts of her own. No one responded. She didn’t mind. She scrolled through some recent news until it was time for dinner. In the dining room, Betty sat at the head of the table. Olive hadn’t come down yet. Zayden and Xavier sat on either side, each with an empty seat next to them. Quinn didn’t take any of them. She walked straight to the end of the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Betty was just about to call her over when Olive came down the stairs in a new outfit and sat beside Betty. She looked at Quinn and smiled. “Quinn, Mom hasn’t cooked in ages. She made this just for you. You should eat more.” She sounded like she was the one running the house. Betty immediately forgot about Quinn. She turned to Olive, laughing and teasing her sweetly. It went on for a while before she finally turned back to Quinn. “Quinny, try it and see if it suits your taste.” Quinn didn’t answer. She just lowered her head and started eating her rice, fast. She used to get scolded for bad table manners. Every time she ate with them, she kept her movements small and careful, always leaving the table hungry. But now, she was starving—and couldn’t care less about manners. The clatter of her utensils hitting the plate made everyone frown. Betty was bothered too, but her heart ached more. She pushed a bowl of celery toward Quinn and said, “Slow down. Eat some vegetables.” She sounded like a real mother. Quinn barely glanced up before pushing the bowl aside and continuing to eat. Betty froze, unsure whether she should push another dish over. Xavier, already losing his appetite, put down his fork with a sharp clang. “What’s that supposed to mean? Mom spent all day making this for you and even served it herself. And you can’t even say thank you? You just eat plain rice and act like we owe you something?” Quinn paused, placed the last grain of rice into her mouth, and spoke calmly. “I’m allergic to celery.” Betty’s face was full of guilt. “I’m so sorry, Quinny. That’s my fault.” She immediately took the dish away. But Xavier couldn’t stand the way their mother was tiptoeing around Quinn. “Why take it away? Just because she’s allergic, we’re not allowed to have celery in the house anymore? Why didn’t you say something before Mom gave it to you? What the hell did you learn in prison?” He didn’t stop there. “What happened to all those table manners you learned? What, the orphanage habits are back? You know people are gonna laugh at you if you go out acting like this, right?” Quinn almost laughed. She had nearly suffocated once from drinking vegetable juice with celery in it. But since Olive liked celery, it had been on the table every day. The smell alone made her sick, but she never once said it shouldn’t be served. Now, just because she refused to eat it, suddenly she was the problem. Even the way she ate was an issue. How was it that they were always the ones who were right? Before Quinn could speak, Betty jumped in with red eyes. “Enough. Let your sister eat in peace.” Quinn had already set down her fork. She looked up, her eyes calm and clear. “I didn’t learn any manners in prison. Once I got in, not having food, not being allowed to use the bathroom, sleeping on a wet mattress—that was daily life. Just staying alive was hard enough. Who the hell had time to think about manners?” She looked at the table full of food, and something bitter crept into her chest. Every dish was tailored to Olive’s and Xavier’s tastes. Even Zayden’s favorite stuffed bell peppers were there. But not one thing she liked. There never had been. They didn’t even know what she liked to eat. Betty looked stunned. “We thought you were doing okay in there. How could it have been that bad?” Quinn’s lips curved slightly. They thought? The Fairchilds were businesspeople. Social connections were second nature to them. When Olive went to college, they even donated a building just so the school would take care of her. How could they not know what prison was really like? If they hadn’t pulled strings or greased palms, it wasn’t because they didn’t know how. It was because they didn’t think it mattered. Which made their concern now even more ridiculous. “Because I was the one who hit someone with a car. A murderer.” Quinn’s voice was steady and flat, but her eyes were locked on Olive. “There were always people trying to mess with me. Going hungry was normal. Getting locked in the bathroom in the middle of winter, having cold water dumped on me at night—also normal. If I couldn’t ‘pay tribute,’ I’d get beat up every other day.” She had been young and easy to bully. No one came to visit her. And… there were other reasons too. Olive’s eyes darted away for a second before tears spilled down her face. “Quinn, don’t blame Mom or Xavier. I was the one who was sick. They couldn’t leave me alone. If we’d known what you were going through, of course we would’ve done something.” Betty’s voice cracked. “We really didn’t know. If we had… how could I bear to let my own daughter suffer like that?” Right. As if none of it was their fault. As if the real mistake was made by her—the one forced to take the fall. Quinn had thought she’d moved past all this. After all, she’d gained things in prison too. But now, looking at this mother and daughter racing to shift the blame, something hot and heavy swirled in her chest. Like lava about to erupt. There were moments—when she was hanging by a thread—when she wondered. Was I really their daughter? Olive was the outsider, the one who didn’t belong here. So why was it her who got framed? Why was it her who got tortured? Xavier looked uncomfortable, his voice stiff. “Didn’t they let you contact family once a month? Why didn’t you ever call us? If you’d said something—” Quinn knew this was coming. Her smile turned cold. “Mr. Xavier, are you really sure you never got a call from the prison?” Xavier looked at her calm, steady eyes—and something snapped in his mind. Everything went blank. He had gotten a call. Second month after she went in. A number he didn’t recognize. But the voice on the other end hadn’t been hers. It was a woman saying Quinn was about to die. Asking if they wanted to come see her one last time. He’d thought it was a scam. Or maybe Quinn trying to guilt them into bailing her out. But back then, the whole scandal was still fresh. There was no way they could bring her home. Olive had developed depression and locked herself in her room, crying all day. The whole family was on edge. Xavier, never the patient type, had snapped. He’d said, Then let her die, and hung up. That was the last call. He never imagined it had really been Quinn calling. His chest tightened, like something was being ripped out of him. His hands clenched into fists. “It was you? Why didn’t you say anything?” Quinn tilted her head, looked right at him, and smiled. “Because I was dying. Someone stabbed me through the chest with a rusted steel bar from a bunk bed. My mouth was full of blood. I wasn’t asking you to get me out. I just wanted to go to a better hospital. I didn’t want to die.” But maybe dying would’ve been better. Xavier’s face turned ghost white. He couldn’t say a single word.