Omens (27 page)

I walked back to the entry hall and opened the door. The cat didn’t follow. I returned to see it crouching in the middle of my kitchen floor, ripping into the mouse, tiny bones crunching.

“Lovely. You’ll let me know when you want to leave?”

The cat continued to ignore its host as it chowed down. I shook my head and started working.

R
ose watched the cat cleaning itself in the girl’s apartment window. She’d seen it around before, sneaking and slinking and killing, as cats were wont to do. So the girl had taken it in? Surprising. She didn’t seem the type. No more than Rose herself. Maybe the girl was lonely. She’d noticed that earlier, when she’d offer more tea and the girl would hesitate before sheepishly accepting. Staving off the return to her empty apartment. Rose knew what that was like.

The girl.
She shouldn’t call her that. She had a name. Two, in fact, which was the problem. Olivia was too haughty. Pretentious. It suited the daughter of the man who owned the Mills & Jones department stores. And it suited the coolly beautiful girl Rose had seen in society page photographs. But it did not suit the young woman who’d been in her house an hour ago. Cool, yes. Self-possessed, yes. But not haughty, not pretentious enough to be an Olivia. An Olivia was all surface, an empty shell of sophistication. With this girl, the shell was a veneer. One that was slowly beginning to crack.

Eden suited her better. It wasn’t perfect. A little too cute, conjuring up images of idealistic young parents searching naming books to find just the right one for their little treasure. Still better than calling her “the girl.” As long as she remembered not to say it aloud. She couldn’t afford to alienate Eden. Not now.

Speaking of alienating…

Rose looked over at her cell phone and stifled the overwhelming urge to call Gabriel and deliver a verbal smack upside the head. That was the price of having her grandnephew in her life. She must not meddle. A lesson she’d learned when he was fifteen, after his mother left.

A deplorable situation. Her niece had the parenting skills of a … Rose didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Any creature in nature so incapable of caring for its young would have died out centuries ago.

Rose pushed the phone aside, then swept the last hawthorn petals from the desk. A test for Eden. There were others, but this was the one she’d noticed. The power to innately detect and decipher omens was a strange skill, one that most psychics would deny even existed. And yet Rose had seen it once before—an old woman who could read omens. She’d been accepted and even quite celebrated in the community; Cainsville was an odd sort of place that way.

Rose had been only a child at the time, the woman merely a vague memory now, and she knew no more about her and her power. But when she’d seen signs in Eden, she’d set out the tests and Eden had detected one. Only one, though, meaning it was an ability as yet undeveloped. Rose could help with that, and she would, because it was in her best interests. For a Walsh, that’s what it came down to. Eden Larsen or Olivia Taylor-Jones or whomever the girl was becoming would be useful, and it behooved Rose to take advantage of that.

T
he cat never did leave. When he finished his mouse, he started meowing at me. I opened the door. He ignored it. I quickly laid out newspaper. He kept meowing. I got a towel—one of only two I owned—and reluctantly surrendered it. He curled up on it and went to sleep.

My Internet access wasn’t smoking hot, but it was decent enough if I set up close to the front window. I spent the evening scouring the web for anything on Jan Gunderson, Christian Gunderson, Tim Marlotte—anyone and anything that might help me make a case against Christian. Or proved he was innocent and the Larsens had been rightfully convicted. I found nothing.

I woke up, let the cat out, and went to work. Or something like that. I attempted to let the cat out. But he had apparently stuffed half the dead mouse behind my stove, and when I tried to kick him out, he recovered his breakfast and set about eating it. Then he jumped into my sink and meowed until I got him a bowl of water. At least he didn’t expect cream.

When I was ready to leave for work, I opened the door again, and even prodded him in that direction. He pretended not to notice. So I scooped him up and carried him out.

I reached the front doors just as Grace, dressed in a housecoat and a scowl, was retrieving her morning paper.

She glowered at the cat. “No pets allowed.”

“Tell that to whoever let him
in
.” I shifted the cat under my arm. “Also, you have mice.”

She squawked as I left. Once I reached the sidewalk, I put the cat down. He gave me a baleful look, then tore back into the front yard, leapt onto the porch, and crouched behind a stone urn, gaze fixed on the door, waiting for it to open.

“So that’s how you do it,” I said. “Just don’t let Grace catch you or you’ll end up baked in a pie.”

As my shift ended, Gabriel called to say we had evening interviews with one of Jan’s old friends and a former teacher of Christian’s whom the police had questioned about his association with the first female victim, Amanda Mays. It seemed like retreading well-trodden ground, but nothing else was popping up. Should I really expect it to? How many professionals had taken a crack at this case? I sure as hell wasn’t going to prove the Larsens were innocent by questioning two people.

Gabriel knocked at my door at ten to six. When I let him in, he sniffed the air, frowning slightly. Then he noticed my guest.

“You have a cat.”

“Not by choice.” I shut down my laptop. “He came in last night chasing a mouse and apparently he likes it here. I kicked him out in the morning and found him at my door when I got back. I left him in the hall, but he started caterwauling. Grace came. She tried taking him outside. He scratched her arms, so she threw him in here and told me I have a cat.”

“I see. Does he have a name?”

“That would imply I’m keeping him.” I scowled at the cat, who simply tucked his paws under himself and continued ignoring me. “He gets a towel, some kitty litter, and that empty tin can for a water dish.”

“From the looks of him, he’ll settle for that. And maybe a flea collar.”

On cue, the cat scratched behind his ear.

“Great,” I muttered. I started for the door, then I handed Gabriel a box from the counter. “My thanks for getting me through the interview.”

He took the box gingerly and stood there looking down at it.

“What? Is it ticking?” I reached over and pulled off the lid. “Cookies. That’s what you smelled earlier—I hope. My first batch ever. Well, actually, my second. There was a test run. I’ll feed them to Grace.”

He looked down at the cookies.

“I asked your aunt what I could do to thank you,” I said. “She gave me the recipe. Said they were your favorites.”

“Ah. Yes. Well … this … wasn’t necessary.”

“Shit,” I said, leaning back against the counter. “Too personal, isn’t it? I told her that, but she insisted you wouldn’t take it the wrong way.”

“I’m not. It’s … very thoughtful.”

“Guess I should have just gone for a card.” I slapped the lid onto the box. “You can throw them out when you get home, but they are edible. I ate two.”

“They smell good.”

“Whatever.” I waved him out the door.

Gabriel drove into a largely residential neighborhood near Garfield Park. He pulled in between two beautifully restored greystones. The lane was clearly marked “Private parking. Violators will be towed.”

As we got out, I noticed a video camera aimed at the spot where he’d parked.

“Um, Gabriel?” I gestured to the camera.

He nodded and ushered me along the lane. We came out between the greystones. In New York, they’d be brownstones. Same concept, different colored brick.

Gabriel led me up the wide front steps to the front door. As he opened it, I saw a small bronze plaque affixed to the stonework: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law.

“This is your office?” I said.

Obviously it was. When I’d pictured his office, though, I’d imagined something unrelentingly modern. A sterile chrome and marble suite on the fortieth floor of some skyscraper.

He hesitated on the stoop, frowning at me slightly. Then he nodded. “Ah, I neglected to mention the pit stop, didn’t I? I need to sign some papers before my secretary arrives in the morning.” He hesitated. “I suppose you could have just waited in the car.”

He glanced back toward the road. He looked faintly confused, as he had when I’d asked about his office. No, not confused. Distracted. He had my cookie box in his hand and was holding it out awkwardly, as if it might leak and stain his jacket.

I was about to say I’d go in with him. Seeing the outside of his office made me curious about the rest. Then, before I could speak, I caught a movement down the road—someone getting out of a car—and suddenly I was the one forgetting what I was doing as I stood there, gaping. Luckily, Gabriel was still too distracted to notice, and I recovered before he did.

“Maybe I’ll walk around a bit out here,” I said. “Stretch my legs after the car ride.” As he reached for the doorknob, I said, “Take your time. I’ll probably go around a block or two.”

He nodded absently. “I should make a couple of calls.”

I waited until he’d gone in. Then I hurried down the steps. I paused at the bottom. The car I’d seen was only about fifty feet away. The man who’d gotten out was even closer, coming toward me. There was no doubt who it was, yet I paused there, sure I was mistaken, as I had been once before.

He’d been smiling when I first came down the steps. As I paused, worry flickered over his face, as if I might dart into the office instead.

When I continued toward him, the smile returned, blazing bright now.

“Liv.”

James covered the last few paces with his arms out, hesitating just before he reached me. I walked into his arms and hugged him back.

“You look good,” he said into my hair.

“No,” I said, backing up to look at him. “I look like shit. But thank you anyway.”

A sputtered laugh as he hugged me again.

“I saw the article,” he whispered as we separated. “I came by to speak to Mr. Walsh, hoping he was working late. I was just about to leave when you drove up.”

“Howard did warn you about the article, didn’t he?”

“Yes, I got his message. I got yours, too, from last Thursday night.” His hands rested on my hips. “I’ve been forwarding my line to my cell ever since, in case you called again.”

“I—”

“I didn’t really expect you to. I made a mess of things. I know that.” He took my hands, holding them and looking down at me. Then he glanced over my shoulder. “Can we go someplace? Talk?”

I wanted to say yes. Absolutely yes. Then I imagined telling Gabriel I was bailing on the interviews he’d arranged so I could spend some quality time with my ex.

“I can’t,” I said, then quickly added, “I will. We will. But…” I gestured back at Gabriel’s office. “He’s on the clock. He’s helping me sort things out with the Larsens.”

A faint tightening of James’s lips. “Yes, I read that. You need to be careful of men like that, Liv. I’m sure he told a good story when he tracked you down, but he’s only after your money. You really should have checked him out before hiring him. Or at least spoken to Howard. Walsh has a reputation—”

“For getting the job done,” I said. “For being a helluva good lawyer.”

I hadn’t meant to defend Gabriel, but this was about me. My ability to exercise common sense and good judgment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, moving forward again to take my hands. “I just thought that, under the circumstances, you might not be … yourself.”

A brief hug. I didn’t fall into it as I had before. He noticed and let me go awkwardly.

“So can we get together later? For a drink? A coffee?” A faint smile. “I promise not to question your choice of legal counsel.”

His smile was genuine, but his tone rankled. I told myself to relax. I was on edge, surprised to see him, happy to see him, but nervous and anxious, too.

“I can’t do it tonight,” I said. “I have to work early.”

“You got a job?”

I told myself that what I heard in his voice was surprise not shock. His smile seemed to confirm it as he said, “I should have known you wouldn’t be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Charge into action. That’s my Liv.”

There was nothing wrong with his words. Or the sentiment. So why did I feel that old prickle at the base of my neck, like a starched tag left in my shirt?

“It’s manual labor,” I said. “But it pays the bills.”

“Like I said, you always do what it takes. I’m proud of you. But I suspect that if you do come out with me tonight, you won’t need to go to work tomorrow.” He met my gaze. “We can work this out. Just meet me after you’re done with Walsh and…” He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm was my engagement ring. “Give me an hour, and all this will be over. You can come home.”

“I
can
come home?” I stepped back. “I was the one who left. No one—”

“That came out wrong. I’m…” A twist of a smile. “I’m a little nervous here, Liv. There’s a reason I have you write all my speeches, remember? I just meant that you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t need to stay away. Come back, and I’ll take care of you.”

That scratching again at my collar. “I don’t need—”

He lifted his hands. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I’m just saying you don’t need to.”

“What if I want to?”

His forehead furrowed. “Why?”

“Because I think I need to. I’m figuring out who I am, and that’s important right now.”

He stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re still hurt and confused. There’s no need to punish yourself—”

“Punish myself?”

“Whatever the Larsens did has nothing to do with you.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” I snapped. “I was a toddler. I’m not punishing myself. Like I said, I’m figuring things out and I need time—”

“You’re still angry.” He sighed. “Are you punishing
me
because I didn’t—”