Omens (49 page)

As for Chandler, he still blamed Will Evans for everything. Naturally. Dead men don’t tell tales—or refute accusations. The truth would come out at trial. All that mattered was that my question had been answered. My parents hadn’t killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.

Did that mean they were innocent of all charges? Not necessarily. But they
could
be. It was a start.

I
sat in the waiting room and tried to keep my hospital anxiety at bay. The paramedics had cleaned my shoulder—a deep graze that would hurt like hell for a while. Gabriel’s leg, though, had needed a hospital visit.

Had they known the man, they’d have realized that the only sure way to get him there would have been to tie him to a stretcher. But no, they trusted that Gabriel was a responsible adult and would seek immediate medical attention. Which meant that it was up to me to get him to a hospital, and as long as he wasn’t bleeding out, he didn’t see the rush.

First, he had to make sure I wasn’t going to be arrested. Then he had to contact the media himself and invite those of his choosing to a late-afternoon press conference. Then he needed Lydia manning the phones, which required stopping at the office to explain the situation.

I let him get there before threatening to induce bleeding if that would get him to the hospital. Lydia helped me cajole and bully him back into the car.

Now I was in the waiting room … waiting. While reminding myself that if a guy took a bullet helping me, I really shouldn’t dump him at the front door and flee.

I sat near a window, legs pulled up, enjoying the midday sun. When raindrops tapped against the glass, they startled me, and I looked out to see the sun still shining despite the sudden shower.

Rain on a sunny day. That’s good luck.

I smiled. I could use some luck.

As for whether I could truly read omens, I knew only that things had changed. That I had changed. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by sights and sounds and smells anymore. I understood it was information my brain needed to process. I was aware of stimuli there, tickling the edges of awareness, but it didn’t bother me the way it had.

I’d changed in other ways, too. Maybe I was still changing. I knew one thing—I wasn’t hiding anymore. I wasn’t going to start calling myself Eden Larsen, but I wasn’t going to pretend I’d never
been
Eden Larsen.

Gabriel stepped from the back room, looking annoyed, as if the visit had been a dreadful inconvenience. When he saw me, the scowl smoothed out.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“They said I need this.” He nodded down at a cane.

“And the fact that you took it suggests walking is more painful than you let on.”

He held the door for me. “I’ll use it for a few days.”

A woman bumped into him, so intent on texting that she just kept walking.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” I said. “Really. It’s okay.”

Gabriel gave a half smile.

“Yes, I’m a whole lot braver when they can’t hear me,” I said.

“We’ll work on that.”

As we stepped out, I spotted a child standing in the ambulance lane. A dark-haired boy no more than three, frantically looking about.

I glanced back at the woman who’d bumped into Gabriel, still visible through the window, still texting.

“Are you looking for your mommy?” I called to the boy.

He nodded, solemn faced.

I put out my hand. He didn’t take it but let me lead him into the hospital. Gabriel followed. When we got to the waiting room, the boy let out a breath of relief and ran to the woman. She shot him a glare of annoyance, gestured to a chair, and told him to be quiet.

“Bitch.” I looked at Gabriel. “I’m ready to say that to her face now.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” he said.

I was holding the door when I realized he was still inside, watching the little boy. He noticed me and strode out.

We were at the car before he spoke. Even then he cleared his throat twice—pausing for a few moments after the first time, as if reconsidering. When we were in the car, he cleared it again and said, “At Evans’s house. You said he had photos of my mother.”

“Or someone he claimed was your mother. I wouldn’t know, of course, and I suspect it was just a lure to get me there—”

“Olivia?”

I glanced over.

“You don’t need to make this easier for me. If he knew about my mother, he knows about my past. I’m presuming he hired an investigator. I’m presuming he told you what that investigator discovered.”

“He really didn’t say—”

“Olivia.” He waited again for me to meet his eyes. “I would like to know what he told you, in case there are any lies that need correcting.”

“Like I said, he claimed you killed your mother, which I didn’t believe. I thought she OD’d, and you hid the body to avoid going to children’s services. From your reaction earlier, I know that’s not true, either.”

“And the rest?”

“He said that you pretended she was alive and lived on your own.”

He nodded. He put his sunglasses on, despite the dark parking garage, and faced forward, starting the car.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was completely unsolicited information, and I know you’d rather I hadn’t heard, but I can promise that I will never pass it on.”

“It’s a matter of record, if one digs deeply enough. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“You don’t advertise it, either. Nor will I.”

“Thank you.” He started to back the car from the spot. Then he looked over. “And thank you for not believing I killed her.”

I nodded and waited for him to finish backing out. He didn’t, just let the car idle there.

“The police will have the photos,” he said. “I’ll need to see them.”

“You will. And if you want company…” I felt my cheeks flush and was glad for the semidark. “Not to presume, of course. I just meant that someone should go with you. I’d be happy to, but you’d probably prefer Rose.”

“No. You’ve already seen the pictures, so that would be easiest.” He cleared his throat. “You should be there anyway, to confirm they’re the ones Evans showed you.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Just set up a time, and we’ll do that.”

He nodded and backed the car out.

We didn’t speak anymore of Gabriel’s mother. We had another parental issue to tackle. I needed to see Pamela. To tell her what had happened, what we’d found.

When we arrived at the jail, Gabriel asked me to wait in the car for a moment. He had another call to make. A
very
private one, apparently, because he didn’t even take out his phone until he’d walked several cars away. He wasn’t gone more than a couple of minutes before coming back for me.

We were about a dozen steps inside the prison doors when Gabriel’s phone rang. He checked the screen and frowned.

“Blocked,” he murmured. He started to put the phone back into his pocket, then hesitated and answered. “Gabriel Walsh.”

A voice replied. I could only catch the sound of it, no words.

Gabriel’s frown deepened into a scowl. He waved at me, telling me to stay put while he took the call outside.

“I believe my message was very clear,” Gabriel said. “Our business is at an end. I wish to return your—”

The heavy doors cut his voice short. A few minutes later, he came back. I couldn’t read anything in his expression. He just limped in, motioning for us to carry on. It wasn’t until he was through the next set of doors that he paused. He looked around, as if confused. Then he took off his sunglasses.

“That helps,” I said.

He only grunted, his gaze distant.

“Having second thoughts about this visit?” I asked.

“Of course not. Pamela should hear the news from you.”

We got another few feet before he stopped and turned to me. “We need to talk.”

“Change of script?” I said.

He frowned.

“For speaking to Pamela,” I said. “You want to change what we discussed.”

“No, no. This is—” He shook his head and resumed walking before continuing, “Did
you
want to change anything? I understand this will be difficult. If there’s anything you want to discuss, now is the time.”

Will you tell me what you really think? Did my parents kill those other three couples? Am I chasing a fantasy?

Is there a chance they’re innocent? Or could Todd Larsen have done it alone? Could Pamela be innocent?

I’d like your professional opinion. No, I’d like your personal opinion, Gabriel, and I’d like your advice, and I know I can’t ask for either, because you’ll only give me the professional line—how you have no opinion as to their guilt or innocence and pursuing this matter further is entirely up to me.

He looked over. “Olivia?”

“Let’s do this.”

We reached the visiting room. Pamela was already there when we arrived. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of me.

Dr. Evans had told me to be wary of Pamela. To remember that I could be dealing with a sociopath who would show me whatever facade would get her what she wanted. When he’d said it, I’d looked back on my encounters with Pamela and wondered if I’d already seen proof of that.

But her anticipation and delight as I walked through that door wasn’t feigned. She loved me. I might wish she didn’t, but that wouldn’t change the truth of what I saw in her face.

I saw more, too, as I walked in. I saw the pale, faint lines around her mouth and eyes, and I knew she hadn’t fully recovered from the attack. She was still in pain, maybe not sleeping, and I wanted to back out and demand to get a doctor and make sure she was still being treated. Make sure she was healthy and comfortable and safe.

I’d loved Pamela Larsen once. Adored her. That doesn’t go away. It can’t, even when you think it should. Like my feelings for Lena Taylor. Or for James. However much they’d hurt me, I still loved them.

I should have raced in to tell Pamela the news. Seen her face light up with hope. Hugged her as we celebrated. While I could imagine the scene playing out in a TV movie—heartwarming and heartrending at the same time—I could not imagine myself in it.

“You were right,” I said to Pamela. “You didn’t kill Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”

She went still. Stared. “You … you found…”

“There’s another man in custody,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll tell you about it soon. His name is Edgar Chandler. He claims William Evans confessed to killing his son and Jan Gunderson years ago. Unfortunately, Evans is now dead and Chandler will likely be charged with his murder. But whether Evans did it or Chandler did it, that should clear you and … and my father.”

She collapsed then, her shoulders falling as she slumped forward, eyes filling. “Oh my God. All these years … And you…” She reached out and clenched my hands so tight it hurt. “So many people tried, and
you
did it.”

“Not alone,” I said, with a glance toward Gabriel.

Her gaze flitted his way. She went still. Then she inhaled and looked at him.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

She tried to be gracious, but I could tell the words hurt almost as much as that knife wound in her side.

“There will be an appeal now, naturally,” Gabriel said.

“And I suppose you want it.” She glanced at me. “You haven’t promised him anything, have you, Olivia? I know the Taylor-Jones family has money, but—”

“Olivia has not offered to pay for your appeal,” Gabriel said. “Nor would I allow her to. I have no expectation of representing you.”

She released my hands and eyed him to see if he was bluffing. The fact that she even bothered trying proved she didn’t know him very well.

I continued, “Finding another killer for two of the victims is a good start, but…”

“It’s two of eight,” she said, turning back to me. “Only a quarter of the way there.”

“And having Chandler say that Evans copied the earlier crimes doesn’t help. It’s unlikely he killed all eight, which is what we were hoping for—a single killer. This complicates things.” I paused. “It further complicates things because you asked me to investigate those two.
Specifically
those two.”

She paused, as if processing my meaning. Then she shook her head. “I picked them because they didn’t fit the timing pattern. It was a place to start.” She met my gaze. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“But it could have been my father.”

“What? No.” She clutched my hands again. “That’s not the way to go, Olivia. My lawyers wanted to use that angle, to raise the possibility that your father acted alone. I refused because I have no doubt—
no
doubt—that he isn’t responsible. If you’re even entertaining the idea, you need to see him. Either way, you need to see him.” A wistful smile. “You loved your mommy, but you were Daddy’s girl.”

Just like at home, with my other parents.

I pulled back. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll be watching the Chandler case, and looking for a connection to the other victims. You also need to think of anything else I can use. I’m sure you’ve done that a million times in the last twenty years, but I’m going to need more.”

“I’ll put together everything I can.”

I stayed for a little longer, just talking. Then the guard came to say our time was up. As Pamela rose, I said, “One more thing. I’m trying to get my medical records. Do you remember who I saw after Dr. Escoda?”

“Escoda?”

I spelled it. She said the name didn’t ring a bell.

“You should ask your father,” she said. “He took you to most of your appointments, and he has a much better memory for dates and names. Is something wrong?”

“No, just checking.”

“So you’re all right?” she asked, waving off the guard’s attempts to lead her away.

“I am.” I walked over and tried to give her a hug, but the guard wouldn’t let me. I stood there as she walked away, looking over her shoulder, watching me until the door closed between us.

T
hat evening I was sitting in my favorite Chicago restaurant, attacking a T-bone like it was my last meal. Dinner was Gabriel’s treat. A celebration. I could argue—and had—that he should be resting, but that was like jumping in front of a train and ordering it to stop. He had his cane, and that was the only concession he’d make.