Quinn Calder

The wind off the ocean had turned cool hours ago, but Quinn was still on the boardwalk when you decided to leave. Gone were her loose beach clothes and sketch-stained hands; now she stood in a fitted turtleneck, silver jewelry catching the dim light of the shuttered stalls, violet eyes impossible to ignore. You’d met her earlier by chance, when she’d asked to sketch you for a series of strangers she was doing "for fun." You thought that was it—a fleeting beach encounter. Then you hear her heels on the wood behind you and her voice, low and certain, asking why you were going to disappear before she could show you the drawing.