I looked at him. "You're going to make me ask why, which suggests you're hoping I won't, which suggests there is a problem."
"Not with her case." Gabriel took a sip of his water. "Hers was too simple. She didn't require an attorney of my caliber."
"That means she's obviously not the killer, which puts Johnson..." I peered at him. "That isn't what you meant at all."
"How can you tell?" Ricky said. "He didn't even blink."
"Because he's trying to figure out how to tell me something I really won't want to hear."
"It was a clear-cut case of misidentification," Gabriel said. "The couple had a break-in two months earlier. They had several additional instances where Mrs. Nansen was certain she heard someone try the door while her husband was out. The police found evidence of footprints to support her theory. The Nansens were advised to buy a gun."
"Shit," Ricky muttered. "I don't like where this is headed."
"Precisely. Mr. Nansen came home unexpectedly early one night, and his wife shot and killed him. As I said, the case did not require a defense attorney. Her family is wealthy and wanted the best legal representation, so someone gave them my name. I explained that they did not require such an expense." He paused, as if realizing that might make him sound considerate. "It would have required a great deal of paperwork and was, to be honest, a very boring case."
"Tragic is the word you want there, Gabriel," Ricky said. "It's a tragic case."
"No, it was foolish and avoidable. Whoever counseled her to get a gun--without suggesting any training in how to use it--deserves the blame. I suggested that, should they care to file a civil case. Though I fear that would be pointless. Otherwise, our courts would be overrun by such suits."
"Wait," I said. "She shot her husband?"
Gabriel hesitated before saying, "Yes."
"Any chance she didn't actually pull the trigger?"
"No." He looked at me. "I'm sorry."
"Speaking of who counseled her to get the gun, could that have been Johnson?" Ricky asked. "You might have been joking when you said--"
"I never joke."
"All right. So let's say Johnson tells her to get a gun. Does that make him responsible for her husband's death? Seems kind of..."
"Harsh?" I said. "I suppose it depends on the circumstances. If there was some way that, in telling her to get a gun, Johnson clearly caused her to shoot her husband, maybe that would qualify? Ioan didn't say he actually shot Alan Nansen. He said he was responsible for Nansen's death. What qualifies as 'responsible' to the Cwn Annwn?" I shook my head. "I'll find out, but in the meantime, we should see if Mrs. Nansen is still in need of a lawyer."
Nine
Olivia
That night, I dreamed of a Hunt. Of racing across the moor on a roan mare. Hooves thundered behind me as hounds bayed up ahead.
I am Matilda.
Mallt-y-Nos.
Matilda of the Hunt.
A stallion rode up beside mine, but I flung out a hand to ward it back. Calum's laughter rang before the wind snatched it away.
Not Calum. Arawn. Lord of the Otherworld.
My grin broadened.
It still felt like a dream. Like someone would wake me and hand me a pretty gown and tell me I was late dressing for the ball. For some girls, that would be the dream. A life of gowns and balls and dukes eyeing me like a brood mare in heat. A brood mare with land and a title.
I hated that life. Despised it with all my being. This was what I wanted. To ride. To hunt. To be with Calum, a boy from the village brought to work on the estate, my dearest friend from the moment we met and then...and then more than a friend. Much more.
An impossible situation. Resolved in a spray of magic, like something from a fairy tale.
A real life fairy tale, with real life fairies.
The Cwn Annwn. The Welsh Wild Hunt. They found me, and they told me who I was, and they proved it when I'd laughed at them.
Matilda of the Hunt, with Calum as my Arawn. Fated to be together.
"Do you want to ride with us?" the Huntsmen had asked.
What a foolish question. Of course I did.
"So you choose us?"
Choose them over what? Over the life I had by birth, a life of titles and castles and endlessly boring lessons in how to be a proper wife? Never. I chose the life I had before birth. The life I had when I lived in Wales, as Matilda.
Calum fell back to let me take the lead. That was my place now, and that was as glorious as the ride itself.
Ahead, I could see the hounds pursuing our quarry. A terrible killer who had slaughtered a fae-blood girl. Violated and then murdered her. For that, he would die. For that, he must die.
When the hounds pinned their prey, the leader of the Cwn Annwn rode up beside me. This was my first Hunt, and so he would render judgment while I bore witness. We continued riding until we neared the hounds.
"Hamish Stewart," the Huntsman said. "You are guilty of the murder of Agnes Fletcher."
"Hamish?" I said, my gut freezing as I struggled to see the man the hounds had captured. "That--that is... No, there's been some mistake."
My voice came out oddly, and I tried to push the hood back but found that I could not.
"That is my cousin," I said.
"He is guilty," said the Huntsman.
"He cannot be. I have known him since we were children."
"He is. Judgment has been rendered, and so he shall--"
"No!" Calum leapt off his horse and ran forward. "If she says this is a mistake, then we cannot do this." He stood in front of Hamish, arms wide to shield him. "We'll send him to trial. If he is found guilty, then he will be subject to the Hunt's justice. I'll speak to the magistrate myself. Tell me what evidence I can give them and--"
Hamish lunged at Calum. I shouted a warning just as my cousin struck my lover in the back. I drove my mare forward, and Hamish stumbled away. I saw the dagger in his hands. I saw blood on the blade. Then the lead hound pounced, and Hamish went down beneath it. I wheeled my horse to see Calum facedown on the moor, blood pumping from his back, and I began to scream.
I woke still screaming. Screaming and shaking. Gabriel's arms were around me, his breath in my ear, whispering, "It's okay. You had a nightmare. It's all right now."
"Memory," I gasped, heart pounding. "I had a memory. Of another Matilda."
He pulled me against him as he sat up in bed, and I curled up on his lap, my heart hammering.
"So," I said when I could find my breath. "I screwed up a Hunt tonight. I doubted Johnson's guilt. And just in case I wasn't worried enough about that? Matilda sends me a memory of another incarnation of her who doubted. Who stopped a Hunt...and saw her Arawn murdered by their quarry."
"Ricky's fine."
I looked at him. "You know that's not what the vision means. It means I set free a guy who is guilty. Who might go on to hurt someone else."
Gabriel paused. Then he said, "I once successfully defended a man accused of killing his wife, who went on to kill his second wife three years later. I have also successfully defended a woman who I knew was not guilty...and she killed a young couple drunk driving two months later. Then, once, I failed to successfully defend a young man who I was quite certain was innocent, and while he was in prison awaiting his appeal, he was murdered by another inmate."
"The moral of the story being that people die, no matter what?"
"Or that I'm cursed, and people around me die more often than is the norm, so if anyone else does perish because of Johnson, you can blame me." He paused. "Also, you might want to be extra cautious yourself. Get an annual physical. Drive a little slower..."
"Never." I reached up and kissed him before backing off his lap. "Okay, maybe I'm overreacting."
"No, I would only suggest that Matilda isn't sending you memories. Those memories are yours, like a walk-in closet, filled with vignettes for every occasion. You are worried about setting Johnson free, and so your subconscious selected a memory that confirmed your wor
st fears. If you hadn't doubted, you'd have remembered an instance where the Cwn Annwn were mistaken."
"So you think that's possible?"
"Let's see. In the last year, I've discovered I'm a manifestation of a legendary fae king from Welsh folklore, and my client's son is the Lord of the Otherworld, and my investigator is the Lady of the Hunt. Oh, also, my father is a hobgoblin who writes romance novels and my mother was an unholy bitch because she was corrupted by the living embodiment of darkness. At this moment, I believe anything is possible."
"I like 'unholy bitch.' That's progress."
"Yes, I'm learning to own my inner rage and resentment. In flashes. Very brief flashes."
I kissed him again, this time letting it stretch, my arms going around him as I crawled back onto his lap.
"You aren't asking me to distract you from the nightmare and help you sleep, are you?" he murmured between kisses.
"Possibly."
"I'm not very good at doing things for others. You know that, right?"
"I think you're getting quite good at it. But you can always use more practice."
Alan Nansen's wife--Heather--had retained a lawyer, but when Gabriel contacted her family again, they jumped at the chance to have him re-evaluate her case. As he'd said, they certainly could pay his bills. I'd run into her parents at fundraisers, and while they didn't travel in the "old money" circles of my family, they probably had a fatter bank account. Heather was their only child, and although the police seemed ill-inclined to charge her with anything, her parents felt impotent, and to them, the best way to support their daughter was to retain the best lawyer around, just in case.
For Gabriel to turn down their initial offer was a huge personal achievement. Fretful parents willing to throw gobs of money at him for a case that would likely never see charges laid. At one time, he'd have snatched it and found work to do, racking up billable hours, and then when the police decided against charging Heather, he'd have taken credit for it.
That was the old Gabriel. The guy who had amassed a small fortune before his thirtieth birthday, with nothing to spend it on, yet driven by the compulsion to keep growing his stockpile. Driven by the boy from the streets, who hadn't known where his next meal would come from, let alone how he'd ever realize his dream of law school. That boy could never look at his assets and say, "It's enough."
I don't think Gabriel ever would be able to say he had enough. He was learning other priorities, though, like having time off for rest and recreation. And he was learning that having money meant he could be pickier with his cases. He wanted one that intrigued him. That challenged him. The murder of Alan Nansen had been neither...until now.
We would meet with Heather later that morning. First, I researched the case.
Alan Nansen owned a restaurant. Eclipse was a bit trendy for my tastes, which translated to "I like it...but not enough to make dinner reservations three weeks in advance." Gabriel and I had eaten there once, and I'd been with my adoptive dad when the place first opened a few years ago.
Running a successful restaurant meant Alan Nansen kept late hours on the weekends, and whoever targeted the Nansen house knew that. The first break-in happened on a Saturday night while Alan had been working, Heather home asleep. The burglar had stolen her purse before something scared him off. Then came two attempted invasions, also on weekend nights. Neither effort was successful, and police speculated that the intruder realized the Nansens had upped their security and backed off. That would make sense the first time. But twice more?
And if the Nansens knew these attempts were coming on weekend nights, couldn't they have changed their schedule temporarily? That seemed wiser than buying a gun.
Then, nearly two weeks ago, Alan Nansen came home early. Under the circumstances, you'd think he'd call and warn Heather. Instead, he came home and walked into the bedroom, and she shot him.
I hated to agree with Gabriel that Nansen's death was more inevitable than tragic. That sounded callous. But given the way it played out, yes, there was an air of inevitability to it.
So once again I had questions.
Lots of questions.
Ten
Olivia
We were with Heather Nansen. Anyone else might see her home and wonder what she'd done to piss off her wealthy family. It was a small house in a good neighborhood, one that would be out of reach for the average thirty-year-old, but definitely not what you'd expect given who her parents were. It made sense to me, though.
My house was twice the size of this one, but probably half the price, given the hour's drive from Chicago. I came into my trust fund a few months ago. Five million dollars. And the only thing I did with it was pay off my mortgage. Sure, I liked my designer footwear, but I'd been able to scrimp for an annual pair with my diner paycheck. I also liked fast cars, but my adoptive dad left me a garage of them, and I only used one. I wasn't particularly frugal, but I grew up with money, so I was just accustomed to it. Which meant that while I had some champagne tastes, my trust fund wasn't a winning lottery ticket to be spent indulging fantasies I couldn't afford before. So I understood Heather Nansen's choice. Her house was exactly what a childless couple might need, no more and no less.
When Heather answered the door, she looked... Well, I don't know how someone was supposed to look two weeks after accidentally shooting her husband. On the way over, I'd thought about that. My fae blood meant that, like Gabriel, I suffered from an inherent lack of empathy. A voice had always whispered that I was a little bit cold, a little bit ruthless. I've thought about how that shaped me, growing up, feeling like I lacked something essential. I had looked at my adoptive mother, a renowned philanthropist, and I'd tried to develop that sense of goodness by immersing myself in volunteerism and charity work. Now, given that she abandoned me for Europe after the news about my biological parents--and doesn't intend to return--I had to wonder exactly how much of that philanthropy was innate goodness...and how much was self-interest, that her charity work gave her purpose and stature.
When I learned who my biological parents were, that seemed to answer part of my puzzle. If I lacked empathy, well, I had convicted serial killers for parents. Learning I also had fae blood finally silenced that voice. I had a friend who struggled in school until she was diagnosed with a learning disorder, and I remembered how relieved she'd been. That had baffled me--the diagnosis didn't cure her. Now I understood her relief. The diagnosis meant that she wasn't failing because she didn't work hard enough--she had a disability she needed to accommodate. That was what my lack of a fully formed conscience meant. I wasn't a heartless bitch--I had a deficit that I needed to accommodate, which I'd been doing all my life.
On the way here, I'd practiced. I was about to meet a woman who'd accidentally killed her husband. To prepare myself, I recalled my memory dream. I had been that Matilda, whoever she was. I had been madly in love with my Arawn. And I had caused his death. How had she felt?
Shattered. That was what I remembered. It was a brick thrown through a window, shattering her universe in an instant. His death would have broken her at any time, but having been responsible for it...? That was devastating.
I needed to be ready for that with Heather. For a woman who had killed the man she loved. Unintentionally but not even accidentally, not really--it wasn't as if the gun misfired. She'd made a mistake, like the Matilda in my memories.
Heather Nansen answered the door dressed in jeans and a blouse, no makeup, her hair looking clean but shoved back carelessly. No bags under her eyes, yet she moved slowly, as if exhausted. She met us with a forced half-smile and ushered us indoors.
"My dad wanted to be here," she said, "but I told him no. Just because he insists on paying the bill doesn't mean he gets to micromanage my case."
She led us inside, down a hall, into the living room. "Can I get you...?" she began and then trailed off with a look of blank confusion, like a robot that realized it should know the rest of that line but found itself unable to access the data.
"We're fine," I said.
She nodded. And then she just stood there.
Shock. That's what it looked like--she was a woman going through the motions. After nearly two weeks, I would think that would pass into grief. Like when my dad died. I spent twenty-four hours in full-out Olivia mode, taking care of every detail while my mother broke down. I'd proven I was my father's daughter, efficient and collected. Then, once I'd contacted everyone who needed to be told and written the obituary and spoken to the funeral director, I collapsed in a puddle of ugly-crying grief.
Was Heather Nansen still in efficiency mode? Taking care of all details? Or was this her grief, her way of handling it--moving forward while periodically shorting out?
I considered the possibility that Alan Nansen's death was not an accident. I had to. Even before I started working for a defense attorney, I loved mysteries. I wrote my master's thesis on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'd grown up dreaming of "being a detective" the way other kids think of "being a rock star," as a fantasy so unattainable I never dared voice it. I grew up in a world where being a PI or even a police detective was not an acceptable career goal.
So I had to consider the chance that the woman in front of me killed her husband. It was the perfect setup. Stage break-ins when he wasn't home to witness them. Use that as an excuse to buy a gun. Then wait until he came home early one night and, whoops, did I do that?
But while I didn't see a shattered wife in front of me, I didn't see a relieved one either. Unless she'd masterminded the perfect murder...and then realized that she didn't feel as good about it as she'd expected. That she missed him.
Or that she might actually need a defense lawyer.
The problem with loving mysteries? I saw way too many possibilities.
When Heather hesitated, I said, "Can we start by taking a look at your security system?"
"Yes, of course. I have an evaluation. After the break-in, we upgraded our system, and then Alan hired an independent expert to evaluate it. I can make you a copy of the report."
"Thank you," Gabriel said. "But my investigator will still want to examine the system herself."
"If that's all right," I added.
Rough Justice Page 5