When I found that corpse in my car, I'd paid little attention to what she was wearing--not surprisingly, perhaps. Seeing those missing person posters brought it back, though. I'd noticed the corpse had been wearing a green shirt. I'd packed a green shirt. Now it was gone.
As I twisted, my gaze caught on the row of shoes. Four pairs. Trainers, heels, pumps, and boots. There was one missing. My Jimmy Choo green lace-up sandals. Completely impractical, but I loved them, and I was absolutely certain I'd packed them.
I took out my cell phone. Then I set it down. Picked it up. Set it down. Finally I gave in and hit speed dial.
The phone went straight to voice mail and I remembered why I wasn't starting my new job with Gabriel today--because he had business at the courthouse.
"Sorry," I said when his voice mail beeped. "It's nothing important. Talk to you later."
I'd just hung up when I had a call from Howard, my mother's lawyer. He was checking in on me, which would have been very sweet if it hadn't been a duty call on behalf of my mother. That might also have been sweet--of her--if she were the one actually calling. Still, I know better than to read too much into it. My mother doesn't handle stress well. Hell, my mother doesn't handle life well. Having the world find out her daughter's birth parents were serial killers? Then having that daughter insist on investigating their crimes? That kind of stress could drive my mother to a heart attack . . . or so she seemed to think.
When our early calls had proven difficult, she'd turned them over to Howard. Once she's ready to speak to me again, she'll be ready to come home. For now, she's hiding--in every way.
I told Howard to let her know I'd been to the house for my things and I'd borrowed the Jetta. If she wanted to talk about any of that, she could call. She didn't.
--
Next I researched the case of Ciara Conway, what little "case" there was. As Veronica said, Ciara had been reported missing Saturday. As for when she'd actually disappeared, that was harder to say. Until a month ago, she'd been a twenty-two-year-old Northwestern student, living with her long-term boyfriend. Then she'd left him.
Neither her parents nor her ex could provide a list of friends she might have couch-surfed with, and I got the impression Ciara hadn't actually "left" her boyfriend. I'd worked in shelters long enough to recognize the clues. Ciara had a problem--drugs or alcohol. Her parents and boyfriend had finally resorted to tough love. He kicked her out and told her to clean up. Her parents wouldn't take her in. She found places to stay, while her loved ones made daily checkin calls, until last Wednesday, when she'd stopped answering. By Friday, her phone was out of service, the battery dead. Now her parents and boyfriend were racked with guilt, frantic with fear, and the police weren't much help because they'd seen this scenario a hundred times and knew it was just a matter of time before Ciara came off her bender, borrowed a phone, and called for money.
She wouldn't. Ciara Conway was dead. And the only people who knew that were me and her killer.
--
I was still searching when Gabriel called back. Street noise in the background meant he was hurrying--or hobbling--somewhere.
"I'm sorry I called," I said. "I forgot you had a trial today."
"No trial. I'm simply at the courthouse speaking to a few people about your mother's new appeal, which we'll discuss later. What is it?"
"Nothing urgent. Go ahead and do whatever--"
"I'm not doing anything right now except obtaining dinner."
I told him about Ciara Conway, and my missing shirt and shoes.
"I didn't see my shoes on her," I said. "Hell, I could be mistaken about the shirt. And maybe the dead body only resembled Ciara--"
"Olivia."
I inhaled. "Stop backpedaling, I know. The body was Ciara Conway's and she was wearing my shirt, which I know I'd packed. Still, I can't see how anyone could dress her, stage her in that car, and take her away again."
"How long were you in the pool?"
"Maybe an hour."
"And twenty minutes in the house afterward, waiting for me. The yard is private, with both a fence and greenery blocking the road and the neighbors. It's risky but not impossible. Without a body, there is little we can do, but I want to speak to Chandler."
"Chandler?"
"If you found a dead body dressed to look like you, that isn't a portent. It's a threat. Edgar Chandler made a very clear one against you Sunday. Ergo, I'd like to speak to him. In the meantime, you need to talk to Pamela about omens."
CHAPTER FIVE
All my life, I've had superstitious ditties stuck in my head, popping up on cue. I'd thought I'd picked them up from a nanny or other caregiver. Then I met Pamela Larsen, heard her voice, and knew exactly who'd planted those rhymes. Speaking to her about it had been at the top of my to-do list. Yet while I'd visited Sunday night to tell her we'd proven she and my father hadn't killed Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, it definitely hadn't been the time to say, "Oh, and by the way, I can read omens."
Gabriel picked me up at six. He wanted to accompany me and drive me to my parents' afterward, to make damned sure I took that VW. On the way, I told him I wanted to make another prison visit. One that had proved impossible when I'd attempted it myself. Visiting my biological father, Todd Larsen.
I struggled with seeing Todd. My newly risen memories of him were mingled with ones of my adoptive dad, the one I grew up with, perfect memories of a perfect father, and that made it all sorts of complicated. I'd resolved a few days ago to see him. Telling Gabriel was the first step toward making that happen.
Seeing Pamela had been much easier. I'd needed Gabriel's help the first time, but since then I could visit when I liked, and we had no problem getting in today. When I arrived, she was watching the visiting room door, and as soon as I walked through, her face lit up and she rose, arms going out. We couldn't hug--that wasn't allowed--but she still reached out as if we could.
I grew up not knowing I was adopted, with people always telling me how much I looked like my parents. I had Lena Taylor's ash-blond hair, slender build, and green eyes, and Arthur Jones's height and features. They hadn't adopted me until I was almost three, and by then they'd have known I could pass for theirs. Yet after meeting Pamela Larsen, I realized any resemblance between me and my adoptive parents was purely superficial. Though Pamela is dark-haired and dark-eyed, our facial structure is the same. She's an inch or so shorter than my five-eight and about forty pounds heavier, but there's little doubt we're mother and daughter.
As I walked over to her, I smiled, which made her light up all the more. Even the sight of Gabriel didn't elicit the usual glower. As soon as we sat, though, her gaze went to him.
"If you're here to convince me to hire you again--"
"I am not. I'm accompanying Olivia."
Her lips pressed together. "I don't appreciate you using my daughter to get to me. I haven't decided who'll represent me. When I do, I'll let you know. I'm interviewing other lawyers now."
"Excellent."
Her lips compressed again.
I cut in. "As entertaining as it is to watch you two outstare each other, that's not what I'm here for. Gabriel is your best chance for an appeal, but ultimately it's your choice."
"Has he asked you to pay for my defense?" she said.
"I would not," Gabriel said. "While I have made initial inquiries on your behalf, testing the waters for the appeal, we can discuss those later. For now, Olivia has unrelated questions."
"I . . ." I took a deep breath. "There's no way to say this without sounding like I'm nuts, so I'm just going to go for it. I can see omens. See them, read them, interpret them."
I explained what had been happening. I didn't get far before her eyes widened. She turned to Gabriel. "I'd like you to leave." She paused and, though it seemed painful, added, "Please."
He glanced at me. I nodded. When he was gone, I finished my explanation. Then she sat there, saying nothing.
"You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" I said.
"No, I don't think I do, Olivia."
I leaned forward, my voice softening. "I know this isn't easy to talk about, but I have to understand. It's . . ." I tried for a smile. "It's freaking me out a little, and I could really use some help."
It took a lot to admit that. I'd proven my birth parents innocent of two murders, and I wanted to seize on that and declare them innocent of all. But I couldn't. I didn't dare, because if I did, I don't think I could handle finding out I was wrong.
For twenty years, I'd had a father I adored and a mother I loved. Then I'd discovered the Larsens, and all those lost memories flooded back. I'd had another father I'd adored, in Todd. And a mother who'd loved me with a fierce and deep maternal passion that Lena Taylor could never quite manage.
I kept my distance now, as a cushion. Protecting my sanity and, yes, my heart--though I squirmed at the notion. I'm not an emotional person. But I am someone who loves deeply and completely. Someone who can be hurt just as deeply and completely.
I was taking a chance by letting her see how much I needed her answers. A chance by letting her see how much I needed her.
When I said the words, I saw something inside her reach out--then shut down, as hard and as fast as Gabriel could, that wall dropping behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry, baby." She reached out as if she could take my hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I jerked back as if she'd slapped me. "You're the one who taught me all those superstitions. I hear your voice in my head, saying them."
Her lips worked as if preparing a lie, but after a moment she said, "Yes, that was me." She leaned across the table, her manacled hands resting on it. "I was young, Olivia. As young as you are now, and not nearly as educated or as worldly. My mother had filled my head with those superstitions, and I thought they were fun. Silly and fun and harmless. So I passed them along to you."
"What about the fact that the omens I see really do predict future events?"
She shifted, as if uncomfortable. "The thing with superstitions is that it's very easy to find justification. If you search hard enough--"
"I know. Find a lucky penny and win two bucks on a scratch card. Voila, it worked."
This was exactly what I'd been telling myself all my life. Omens were like horoscopes--if you want to believe, you can find "proof." I had expected this very argument from Gabriel, always logical and rational. I had not expected it from Pamela, and it was made so much worse by the fact that I could tell she was lying to me. Lying after I'd opened myself up to her.
"I know that's why people believe in superstitions and petty magics," I continued. "If I see a death omen, though, someone dies. But I'm the only one who sees it. I notice eight crows on a wire and everyone else sees six."
Her head jerked up. "You've spoken to someone about this?"
"No," I lied. "I've only asked what they see."
She leaned even farther across the table. "Do you know why I'm in here, Olivia? Because I was a foolish girl playing at being a good witch, with amulets and brews to protect my family from colds and misfortune. Then someone tipped off the police, claiming we were responsible for these ritualistic murders, and my silly Wiccan baubles damned us more than DNA ever could. Whatever you think you're experiencing, you must tell no one. For your own sake."
I met her gaze. "What am I experiencing?"
She pulled back. "I have no idea. You've been under a lot of stress, and--"
"I'm sorry I bothered you with this," I said, rising stiffly.
She put her hand on mine as the guard cleared her throat in warning. "Don't be angry, Olivia," she said. "I know that look. Your grandma used to call it 'getting your dander up.' You'd do it every time--"
"Don't."
"I'm just saying--"
"I came to talk about this. If you won't help, I'll go."
I could hear the hurt in my voice and I could feel it in the way I hesitated, waiting for her to change her mind. A few seconds passed, seemingly endless, and I realized I had to follow through, had to leave. Then her mouth opened and my heart jumped in relief.
"I'd like to speak to Gabriel," she said.
Another three seconds of silence before I found my voice, as steady as I could manage. "You want to speak to--?"
"He knows, doesn't he? You've told him about these omens."
My disappointment burned away in a flare of anger. "Whether I--"
"He knows. I can tell." She leaned over the table. "I've been trying to stay out of this, Olivia, but I need to ask. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with him?"
"I hired him to help me investigate your case."
"And otherwise?" she asked.
"Otherwise what?"
"There's something going on between you two, and I'm going to be blunt, because I need to ask. Are you sleeping with him?"
"No."
"Is there any romantic--?"
"No. Gabriel has never made anything even resembling a pass at me. Whatever you think of his ethics, he knows the grounds for disbarment. Hell, he probably has a laminated list in his wallet."
"So it's a simple client-lawyer relationship?" She waved at the door with its small glass pane, blacked out by the wall of Gabriel's back. "He's right there. He's been there since he left, and he only left because you wanted him to go. He jumped to do your bidding. Now he's hovering there, waiting for any sign that you need him."
"Gabriel doesn't jump. Or hover."
"Nor does he give up his evening to accompany a mere client on a visit to her imprisoned mother. Is he on the clock now, Olivia?"
"You're right--I'm not just a client. We worked side by side on your case. I wouldn't presume to call him a friend, but he offered to come with me and I'm happy for the company." I looked at her. "Is that what you want to talk to him about? Our relationship? Because if it is--"
She shook her head. "I want to talk about the case. My case."
I nodded brusquely and left.
CHAPTER SIX
As I waited for Gabriel, I fought against disappointment and hurt. Pamela was the only person who could help me understand what I was going through. And she'd refused. Not only refused, but acted as if I was an overimaginative child.
I thought I felt my cell phone vibrate in my back pocket. Which was impossible, because I'd left it in the car to avoid turning it in at security. Still, the sensation startled me enough that I turned and . . .
I saw the hound. The big black dog from yesterday, crossing a hall junction ten feet away. It was on a leash, being led by a woman. It turned and fixed its red-brown eyes on mine. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, I was looking at a black Lab in a harness. I blinked again, to be sure, but it was definitely a Labrador retriever, probably being brought in for prisoner therapy.
I watched the dog and its handler go. Then I paced outside the visitors' room until the door opened. As Gabriel stepped out, I motioned that I'd be another minute. He nodded, and I slipped back into the room as they were taking Pamela away. The guard warned that my time was up.
"I know. Just one last thing I need to tell her."
Pamela gave me a wary look and tried to cover it with a smile. "What is it, baby?"
"I've been seeing a dog. I saw it twice yesterday. The same dog, fifty miles apart. About this big"--I lifted my hand above my waist--"with black fur. I think it's some kind of hound."
As I spoke, Pamela's eyes widened, her face filling with horror and dread. Before I could say a word, that expression vanished, replaced with feigned confusion and concern.
"That's odd," she said, her voice strangled.
"You don't know anything about it?" I asked.
"No, I don't."
I met her gaze. "Don't do this, Pamela. Please. Something's going on and I need--"
"You need to forget it," she said. "You've been through a lot, baby, and the best thing you can do right now is look after yourself."
"That's what I'm trying--"
"No, you're not. Go home. Tur
n off the phone. Take a hot bath. Relax and try to forget all this. That's the best thing you can do. The only thing you can do."
She let the guard lead her away and never looked back.
--
On the drive to my parents' place, I told Gabriel what Pamela had said. As I spoke, his hands tightened on the wheel.
"She knows something," I said.
"That goes without saying. She admitted to teaching you about omens, and there is no doubt you can read them. Therefore a connection exists."
We drove in silence for a few minutes.
"I practically begged," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "No. Forget 'practically.' I did beg. I told her I needed it. And she turned me down. Flat. Made me feel . . ." I settled my hands in my lap. "I'm going to stop seeing her."
He glanced over.
"Until she agrees to talk about the omens," I said. "If she contacts you asking to speak with me, will you tell her that?"
"I will. It is, quite possibly, the one thing that will force her hand. As for getting help elsewhere, you still need to talk to Rose about the hound and the body."
"I know."
"I tried to visit Chandler yesterday. He won't see me. Not surprising, I suppose, given that we put him in there. That will change. He'll eventually decide he can manipulate me to his advantage. In the meantime, I'll visit Anderson."
"His bodyguard." I paused. "Former bodyguard, who may not be any happier with you, considering you blew off half his foot."
"I'm going to offer to defend him."
I glanced over. "Seriously?"
"He will be more forthcoming with his lawyer, and he might be able to tell me whom Chandler would hire to put that body in your car. As for his foot . . ." He shrugged. "It was business. He was acting on his employer's behalf; I was acting on my client's. I'm sure he'll see reason."
"Good luck with it."
"Luck has nothing to do with that. He will hire me, and I will find out everything he knows about Edgar Chandler's associates."
--
My dad kept the labeled keys for his car collection in a garage safe. I was grabbing the set for the Jetta when Gabriel reached past me and took the ones for the Maserati.
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