Omens (28 page)

“No,” I said, my voice ringing along the empty road. “It is not about you. It’s about me. Just me. I—” I stopped. Took a deep breath. “I’m going to walk away now. I think you need to keep that ring.”

“Olivia…” There was a warning note in his voice that made my hackles rise. I resisted the urge to turn and kept going.

“Olivia.”
Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. “I came after you once. I’m not doing it again.”

No, James. You didn’t come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.

I didn’t say that. I feared if I tried, I’d end up snarling it, and I didn’t feel like snarling. I felt like … Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn’t really over, I realized now that it was.

I turned slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can’t give me that—”

“You can’t expect me to, Liv.”

I swallowed a small surge of anger. “You’re right,” I said, my voice soft. “I can’t. I don’t. I never did.”

I turned and walked away. He let me go.

The exterior door to Gabriel’s building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door let to Gabriel’s office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I’d been running.

The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.

“Ah, good timing,” he said. “How was the walk?”

“Fine.”

Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed—unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.

T
he interviews did little to improve my mood. With Marlotte, Gabriel had begun introducing me as “Ms. Jones.” I never did figure out whether Marlotte understood who I really was. I suspect he didn’t care. Same went for the teacher we interviewed that night. Jan’s friend, though, knew exactly who I was, though I told myself that she only herded her teenage daughters away because she didn’t want them hearing any gruesome details.

The teacher barely remembered who Christian Gunderson was. Jan’s friend recalled more, but it quickly became apparent that Anna was right—Jan’s friends had elbowed their way into the investigation because the cops were cute, not because they knew anything.

I struggled to hide my frustration, acutely aware of Gabriel’s time clock ticking. It didn’t help that I was worried about Pamela and how she was recuperating. I didn’t want to. Yet the more I saw her, and the more I remembered of our past, the harder it was to see Pamela Larsen as a serial killer, not as the mother I’d once adored.

I stayed in my funk until Gabriel drove me to a shooting range and announced he had my gun. Had anyone ever told me I’d one day be cheered up by getting a handgun, I’d have laughed. The old Olivia might have wanted one, as a purely practical matter, given some of the places she went for her volunteer work, but she’d never have suggested it or she’d have been told simply
not
to go to those places.

Chances were I’d never fire this gun outside a range, but I liked having it. Gabriel seemed less happy. He clearly didn’t like being the one to put a lethal weapon into the hands of a former debutante—or the child of serial killers. If something went wrong, he might feel responsible, and I got the feeling Gabriel Walsh preferred a life where he felt as little responsibility for others as possible.

So as we checked into the range, he turned into a walking, talking safety poster. Treat every gun as a loaded gun. Never point it at anything except your target. Keep your fingers away from the trigger unless you plan to pull it. When you are not carrying the gun, store it in a safe place.

“I was thinking of keeping it under my pillow. Is that okay?”

The look on his face made me wish I was faster with my cell phone camera.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll keep it in my bedside drawer, in case I’m woken in the middle of the night and mistake the cat for an intruder. An honest accident.”

“You’re not shooting the cat. It would leave a mess.”

“True. Also, the killing of small animals is the entrance ramp onto the serial killer superhighway.” I paused. “Damn. I bet the cat knows that. He picked me because I can’t hurt him, or I’d be fulfilling my biological destiny. So I’m screwed. The cat stays. Unless you’ll kill him…” I glanced at him. “How does fifty bucks sound?”

He shook his head and ushered me to a spot on the range. “So where on the target do I aim?” I said after enduring another lecture on gun safety and a demonstration on weapon loading. “They don’t have any arms or legs, so I can’t just wing him.”

“Which you wouldn’t do anyway. If you’re shooting someone, you’re in honest fear for your life, meaning you need to take him down. Aim for the main body mass.”

“How about the head?”

“Your chances of hitting the target at all are slight enough. Don’t push it.”

“Will you give me twenty bucks if I hit the head?”

“I’ll give you ten if you just shut up and shoot.”

I lined up the target and fired three rounds. Gabriel leaned across the barrier, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t imagining the trio of holes.

“It would have been much more impressive if I’d shot out my initials.” I motioned him back, aimed again, and fired three more. “Hmm. You’re right. Best not to aim for the head. Only two out of three that time.”

“You’ve used a gun before.”

“No, I’m just naturally good at killing things. You should see me with a knife.” I reloaded. “My dad kept a gun at home for security. When I was a teenager he decided I should have access to it, and Mum insisted on lessons. Dad and I made an annual trip to the range. Father–daughter quality time.”

“And you didn’t see fit to tell me this?”

I shrugged. “You would have thought I fired a gun once and was exaggerating to avoid paying for lessons.” I pulled the target forward. “Also, having never used this particular caliber or model, I really should practice. So if it’s okay with you, that’s what I’ll do for the rest of my hour.” I unhooked the target, then handed it to him. “But since I’m still paying, you can change the targets.”

He wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.

“Don’t grumble,” I said. “Or I’ll bake you more cookies.”

On Saturday, Gabriel took me to see Pamela. It was a brief visit, barely ten minutes before they kicked me out. She was doing fine. I’d known that—Gabriel had been keeping me updated on her condition. She wasn’t ready to go back to jail yet, though. She’d been spiking a fever. Nothing serious, but enough to keep her in the hospital.

With such a short visit, there wasn’t time for much more than greetings and good-byes. She did ask how I was coming along on turning over her case. Gabriel covered for me there, lying and saying he was setting up the appointments. No way she could call us on it. That’s one advantage to dealing with someone in jail.

After the visit, Gabriel and I went for lunch. We talked. Nothing earth-shattering there, either. Just talk really. About the case and not about the case. I enjoyed his company. There was, I admitted, the possibility I enjoyed it a little too much. I could say I was just lonely, but there were times over that weekend when I was keenly aware that Gabriel Walsh was not an unattractive man.

At Anna Gunderson’s place, I’d acknowledged a physical appeal of a very masculine man, but said I didn’t see it myself. I lied. Or maybe I’d changed my opinion. It could be because Gabriel was so different from James, and I wanted to distance myself from my ex-fiancé. Oh, hell, let’s be perfectly honest. It was probably just hormonal. I like sex. A lot. Two weeks of chastity wasn’t exactly torture, but after all I’d gone through emotionally, I really could have used the distraction. Put a good-looking, virile man in prolonged close contact with me and even if I’d never thought of him as my type, a primitive part of me still occasionally shouted, “Hell, yeah!”

With Gabriel, the attraction only blazed in blessedly brief flares, usually when he came close enough for me to be physically aware of him. Then that would pass, and he’d revert to being simply a guy I found fascinating. Yes, I found him fascinating—his world, his thoughts, his opinions, his entire way of looking at life.

However I felt, though, I knew better than to take that fascination or that attraction beyond a business relationship, even if he had been interested, which he gave absolutely no sign of being. And I was glad of that. As much as I enjoyed sex, I’ve never been able to manage it without emotional involvement. Gabriel didn’t do emotional involvement.

I’m sure there were many women who’d made the mistake of thinking they’d be the one to break through that ice and make a connection. I wasn’t ever going to join them in their delusion.

G
abriel Walsh leaned back in his office chair, fingers drumming the arm while he scowled at his laptop, as if its failure to automatically write briefs was inexcusable. It was Monday, and his murder trial had just wound up. The jury had retired to decide on a verdict and it looked like a long wait. His client didn’t need hand-holding, so Gabriel had come back to the office to get some work done. Or that was the plan. He had yet to actually accomplish anything.

It wasn’t that he was anxiously awaiting a verdict. He knew what it would be. Guilty. And that didn’t bother him, because his success could be measured by the very fact that the jury needed time to deliberate at all. When the case hit the papers, it was presumed his client would plead guilty. Anything else would be a waste of taxpayers’ money since the outcome was inevitable.

It was the idiot’s own fault. Dissolving a corpse in quicklime? Any fool with a basic knowledge of chemistry knew quicklime was a preservative, and it could only be used to destroy a body if done with extreme care. His client had not taken extreme care. The result was a corpse that was only superficially burned. His client was guilty and would go to jail, but Gabriel had given him a hell of a defense, one that would bolster his own reputation better than any easy victory.

So what was keeping him from his work? That box of cookies.

Damn Rose. She swore she wouldn’t meddle, but she always found a way. If he confronted her, she’d snap back, “I told the girl you like cookies. Is that a state secret?” It wasn’t, of course. It had been a very thoughtful thing for Olivia to do. But under the circumstances, such a show of appreciation was a direct jab at his conscience.

He had nothing to feel guilty about. If he knew one thing about life, it was this: look out for yourself. No one else would do it for you. If you were cheated or tricked, it was your own fault, and a lesson best learned before the world devoured you. So he had done nothing wrong. And yet…

He eyed the box. He should just throw the damned thing into the trash. But he couldn’t, because it would suggest he felt that prickle of conscience. So he should eat them. But if he did, and he couldn’t get them down, that, too, would suggest guilt.

Or it might suggest inedible cookies. Olivia had said it was the first time she’d baked. She’d seemed so pleased with herself, too. Perhaps that was what really bothered him. The smug joy she’d taken in doing a task that was for many a chore.

His efforts to mask his annoyance with Olivia’s “life choices” had been less successful than he’d like. That irked him. His clients routinely made decisions he found repugnant. Olivia’s choice was, in contrast, a minor thing, but he found himself unable to hide his response.

He suspected that Olivia’s particular life choice hit a little too close to home. Olivia “giving up” her life of privilege reminded him of his mother and Lent. They’d never set foot in a church—he didn’t even know if they were Catholic—but every Lent, she gave up something, just for fun. While one could argue there were many things Seanna Walsh could give up that would improve her life—and her son’s—it was never any of those, but something frivolous, like chocolate. A meaningless sacrifice. She’d made him do it, too. He’d cheated, sneaking candy bars into his room, but those stolen snacks had been as bitter as a guilty conscience, made all the more stomach-churning by the conviction that he had nothing to feel guilty for.

Olivia giving up her life of privilege was just as meaningless. She should accept her advantages and be grateful for them. But no, she’d voluntarily walked away, taken a smelly apartment and a menial job, and it was, for her, a grand adventure. Like a suburbanite roughing it in a cabin without electricity or running water. If it got too rough? Pack it in and go home.

Real poverty was not a choice. If you knew what that was like, then you would look at Olivia Taylor-Jones and you wouldn’t be impressed. She had everything she wanted. Turning her back on that was the foolish act of an immature, spoiled child.

Except that Olivia was not particularly immature or spoiled. Which, he could argue, only made her decision all the more repugnant.

Still, it wouldn’t last much longer. One of these days, she would wake up, go to ring the bell for her cappuccino and croissants, remember that she’d voluntarily chosen a life without cappuccino and croissants and maids, say “What the hell was I thinking?” and hightail it home to Mommy.

When she did, he would convince her that she still wanted the Larsen case investigated. Then there would be no waiting for her trust fund—he’d be paid up front. While she hadn’t proved as incompetent as he feared, he worked better alone. For Olivia, the allure of playing detective would wear off soon, taking her enthusiasm and commitment with it.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Walsh?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a Mr. Morgan here to speak to you.”

He hesitated. No, it was a common enough name.

“Morgan?” he repeated.