Omens (6 page)

“Something—” I said against his shoulder.

“I know. I’ve been trying to call you for the past half hour. I was just coming down to drive over to your place.”

I pulled back so I could see his face. “So you … got my message?”

“Yes. And several others. I know everything, Liv.”

Everything.

His expression didn’t change. No hint of disgust or distaste. I wanted to take that. Just take it. Don’t question. Don’t probe. Accept.

Only I couldn’t.

“About my … biological parents,” I said carefully, my gaze fixed on his. “You heard—”

“The Larsens. Yes. That’s what they’re saying.”

“It’s not just a rumor. There’s DNA.”

He nodded. “All right.”

I looked at him. He looked at me. Patient. Concerned. Just what I needed. What I’d expected. And yet, seeing it, I realized I
had
doubted, deep down. I still doubted.

“You know who they are, right? My parents?”

A faint smile. “Yes, I’ve met them many times, Liv.”

“You know what I—”

“Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor are your parents. They’re the ones who raised you. If you mean the Larsens, yes, I know who they are. Convicted murderers. As for what they are to you? Genetic donors. They’re responsible for the color of your hair, the shape of your mouth, the length of your fingers. Nothing more.”

I kissed him. A quiet thank-you. Only he didn’t let it stay quiet. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me onto his lap in one of his usual oxygen-stealing kisses that left me gasping. Then he put his hands on either side of my face and held it up to his.

“I love you, Liv. You haven’t changed. So that hasn’t changed. Got it?”

I nodded and eased back, legs still stretched across him as I reclined against the corner of the sofa.

“It’s still on, then?” I said. “We’re getting married?”

He laughed. “Did you think you could get out of it that easily? You’re stuck with me. This is just a bump in the road. It’ll go away soon enough.”

“It better be very soon,” I said. “Only a month until the wedding.”

He dipped his chin in something that could be taken as a nod.

“We
are
getting married next month, right?” I said.

“We’ll…” He stretched his arm around me, gathering me in. “We can talk about that later. For now—”

I shrugged out from under his arm and swung my legs off him. “We
are
getting married next month, right?”

“We’re getting married. Absolutely. The timing may need to change, but that’s a conversation for tomorrow. Right now, we need to get you out of Chicago.”

“Out of Chicago?”

“Of course.” He straightened. “This is going to be an absolute media nightmare. Do you remember those reporters hanging out at the dinner tonight? And did you see the ones at the end of the driveway? You need to go someplace safe. Get away from these vultures.”

“For my sake? Or yours?”

“For you, of course. To protect you.”

“But I can handle it. You
know
I can handle it. The question is: can you?”

He looked away, shaking his head, saying something about how I shouldn’t need to handle it. But all I noticed was how fast he’d looked away.

“You’re postponing the wedding,” I said.

“I’ve been advised—”

“You’ve been
what
?” I scrambled to my feet. “You’ve talked to someone about this
before
me?”

He stood, began to pace. “Neil called when I was trying to get in touch with you. He advised me to postpone the wedding and, honestly, I agree. Can you imagine what kind of circus it would be?”

“You mean what kind of senatorial-dream-killing circus it would be.”

His expression hardened. “No, Olivia,” he said, barely opening his jaw enough to get the words out. “I’m thinking of you. Of the kind of wedding you deserve—”

“Deserve? Hell, I don’t even want a wedding. I’ll settle for a justice of the peace. Or Vegas. Let’s fly to Vegas and get married.”

He hesitated. For a second, I thought he was going to say,
Yes, let’s do it.
Then his face went still, eyes clouding and he reached for me, ignoring my struggles as he pulled me into a hug.

“I love you, Olivia. And I wish we could get married right now. Tonight. But your mother—”

“Which mother?”

The flash of anger again. “Don’t pull that, Liv. You know what I mean. I’m not going to start our marriage by upsetting your mother and doing something you’ll eventually regret. We’re going to wait.”

“Until when?”

“I don’t know. I have to—”

“—talk to Neil?”

“Olivia
.
” His tone was curt now. Losing patience. Damn it, why didn’t I understand?

I did understand. I understood that he could pretend nothing had changed. He could kiss me as if nothing had changed. He could say all the right things to convince me nothing had changed.

But
act
as if nothing had changed? No.

I wanted him to say he didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought. Didn’t care if it put his political future in jeopardy. He loved me and he was marrying me now or a month from now, as we planned.

That’s what I would do if the situation were reversed. To hell with the road of caution. I’d go my own way.

But he just stood there, frustrated and impatient. Wanting me to meekly accept his reasoning, tell him I understood. I’d go away and hide until this was over. Then I’d wait until he was ready to marry me.

Like hell.

“You want to save your political future? Here, let me help you.” I wrenched off the engagement ring and whipped it at him. “You’re free. Go find a sweet little wife and get yourself elected.”

“Olivia…”

I stalked to the door.

“Olivia!”

The cool night air slapped me so hard my eyes stung. I jogged until I reached the end of the garden walk.

The front door creaked open behind me.

“Olivia?”

I raced across the lawn. James’s sigh wafted across the quiet yard. Then he padded back into the house, leaving the door open. Getting his shoes. Because the grass might be wet and running after me in stocking feet was foolish.

I wouldn’t have stopped for shoes.

I circled back into the shadows beside the house and waited there, hidden. He came out, looked around, then jogged in the direction I’d been heading.

When he disappeared through the hedge, I exhaled and glanced toward the road. My cab was long gone. If I went out there, I’d have to face the reporters.

I really wasn’t in the mood to face more reporters.

But I wasn’t sticking around here, either.

As I shifted my purse, my keys jangled inside. Keys to my house. Keys to my gym locker. And keys to…

I glanced toward James’s bedroom window and remembered lying in his bed a month ago, as he handed me a garage key and a car fob. “Yes, I know you love mixing it up with your dad’s old cars, but I’d really like to see you in something with air bags, Liv. Take my car out a few times. If you like it, I’ll know what to get you for a wedding present.”

I’d never actually driven his car. It was a Volvo. Very nice but really not my style. Now, though…

I pulled out the keys and sneaked around the house to the garage.

I
walked into O’Hare airport, stopped in front of the departures board, and thought,
What the hell am I doing
?

Honestly, I had no idea. I’d driven here on automatic and now, looking at the board, I think if I hadn’t been too late to
catch
a flight, I might have proceeded on autodrive and boarded one. Done exactly what James wanted. Fled Chicago.

What good would it do to lie low for a few weeks? I couldn’t escape this. I shouldn’t try. Now that I was alone, my adrenaline had plummeted, and all I could do was stare at the board and think,
Now what
?

I had no idea.

After I checked in to the airport hotel, I called Howard. I wasn’t surprised when it went straight to voice mail. I asked him to tell my mother that I needed some time to process all this. Please trust that I’d be fine and I’d call tomorrow.

I was heading to the elevators and saw a sign for the bar. I didn’t know if it would be open, but I considered checking. I’ve never drunk for the sake of getting drunk, but there’s a first time for everything. There was just one problem—I didn’t know how much alcohol it would take to pass out. That’s what I wanted really. Oblivion. For all I knew, I’d have a few drinks and drift off into nightmares.

Instead I went into the gift shop. Not many gifts in it—just lots of overpriced items for travelers, including over-the-counter sleeping pills. I bought a bottle, went up to my room, took a double dose, and prayed for a dreamless night.

I’d lived the first years of my life with Pamela and Todd Larsen. I’d been there at the heart of their killing spree. What living nightmares had been shoved deep into my subconscious, ready now to worm their way out when I surrendered to the deepest sleep?

Or dark desires. Deeply buried lusts and needs and fantasies, coming to the fore when my conscience slumbered. What did I—?

Nothing.

That night, I dreamed of nothing.

Even with the pills, I was up by six. I waited until seven to call my mother. I had my speech all rehearsed.

She didn’t answer her cell phone.

I hung up and told myself I’d call back in an hour. I lasted five minutes. I got her voice mail again and spilled my speech onto it instead.

I told her I’d decided to stay away for a while. For her sake. I knew how hard this would be on her and I didn’t want to put her through even more by hanging around. I’d stay away until things died down. I didn’t know what I’d do or where I’d go, but I’d figure out something.

That last part hadn’t been part of the rehearsal. Even as I spoke the words, I felt ashamed of myself. It didn’t sound strong. It sounded like a little girl, desperately hoping for Mummy to call back and tell her not to be silly. I belonged at home. With her. We’d handle this together.

Two minutes after I hung up, my phone rang. I hit the answer button so fast, it didn’t connect and I had to hit it again.

“Olivia.” It was Mum. “Howard says to tell you that you shouldn’t be using your cell phone. These tabloid people can get your records. They might even be able to record your calls.”

“Right.” I swallowed. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Do you, um, want me to call back on the hotel line?”

“Yes, and I’m going to give you the number of the new cell phone Howard gave me, in case they’re monitoring my usual one as well.”

She did. I phoned it.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted when she answered. “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

I waited for her to insist it wasn’t my fault. Instead, she said, “It’s out now. There’s nothing we can do except deal with it.”

I nodded. “That’s what I want to do, Mum. Deal with it. Maybe hire a media consultant or a PR firm. We’ll figure out how to handle this head on. Get past it.”

Silence. Then, “I thought you were going to sit it out. That’s what your message said.”

“Sure. I could. If that’s what you want. But I really think it’s best that we face this—”

“I was nearly killed by those reporters last night, Olivia.”

I bit my tongue before continuing, “All right. I’ll handle it. Tell Howard to phone—”

“Howard thinks you were right. You should go someplace. Wait this out. I agree. That’s best for everyone.”

Now it was my turn for silence.

Mum didn’t seem to notice, pausing only a moment before saying, “I suppose you’ll need money.”

“Suppose?”
A white-hot grain of fury ignited behind my eyes. “My God. You hand cash to street people more graciously than that.”

“Then I misspoke.” Did I imagine a chill in her voice? “You’ll have whatever you need. I’ll write you a check today.”

“Write me a check? I thought that was
our
money. Family money. No, wait. That doesn’t apply now, does it? If I want an allowance, I’ll need to visit the Larsens.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re family. This business has no effect on that. Your trust fund is intact. Along with … everything else.”

Everything else. The store. The estate. I remembered sitting in Howard’s office after Dad died, struggling to listen to him read the will. With the exception of my trust fund—which I’d get when I turned twenty-five—everything went to my mother for use during her lifetime. When she passed, it went to me. All of it. At the time, I’d been so numb with grief that the arrangement had only sparked a faint, “Why did he do that?”

Now I knew.

She knew it, too. After Dad had found out who my parents were, he’d made sure my mother couldn’t decide part—or all—of the estate was better off going to charity.

“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I’ll have my trust fund in a year. In the meantime, I’ll get a job. I’ll pay my own way.”

“A job?”

“Mmm, yeah. It’s that thing people do to make money.”

Definite frost in her voice now. “I’m well aware of what a job is, Olivia, but I fail to see how you would get one, under the circumstances.”

She had a point. Just yesterday I’d been wondering what sort of career I’d be qualified for with no paid experience. Today, that was the least of my worries. Even if someone didn’t mind hiring the daughter of serial killers, they wouldn’t want the kind of publicity that might come with having me on staff.

“I won’t use my full name. Or my volunteer references.”

“Then how on earth do you expect to find a decent position?”

“I don’t. I’ll take what I can get. Just like everyone else. I’m sure there’s a McDonald’s hiring somewhere.”

“I hope you’re joking, Olivia. This is silly. When you decide where you’re going, I’ll wire you money.”

“No.”

“I understand you’re upset, but if you think I’m going to let a Taylor-Jones—”

“But I’m not a Taylor-Jones, am I? Not really. I think a Larsen would work at McDonald’s. Mmm, yes. Pretty sure she would.”

My mother started to sputter. I hung up. Then I stood there, holding the phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. Smash it to bits. Better yet, put a hole in that wall, on a bill that would go to my mother. Damage a hotel room so she’d have to pay for it? Was I really that petty?