"I saw her light on. We should speak to her anyway, about your vision."
I sighed. "I'm not running to her every time something strange happens to me."
"Why not? She enjoys the challenge. This isn't like running to a fortune-teller every time you have a decision to make. You are experiencing events with a clear preternatural origin. You can't simply ignore them."
He looked impatient, a little annoyed, as if I was refusing to visit the dentist for a sore tooth.
When he checked his watch, I said, "Go on home. I'll be fine."
"That wasn't what I meant."
"You were reminding me that I'm being unreasonably stubborn, while you're here, helping me, out of the goodness of your heart."
A flicker in his eyes. My darts rarely pierce Gabriel, but every now and then they manage.
"You got my messages to turn back," I said. "You didn't come out here to help me. You came because I'm not sure I made the right choice agreeing to work for you, and you wanted to seal my employment, through obligation if necessary."
"That's ridiculous." The words were said with the right degree of scorn and affront, but if you hang around Gabriel long enough, you learn to detect the tonal shifts that give lie to his words.
"I would like you to speak to Rose," he said. "It's not yet ten. Come along."
I considered letting him go out the door first then locking it behind him, but that was petty. Besides, he could pick the lock.
"At least call her first," I said. "She did have a date. Just because she's home doesn't mean she's alone."
He gave me a perplexed look.
"Call," I said.
He did.
--
Rose didn't have company. And she wasn't particularly happy about it.
"Waste of my night," she grumbled when I asked her how it went. "We're still on the appetizers, and he asks if I know how to bake banana bread. Can you believe that?"
"First dates are awkward," I said as we walked into the front room. "He was probably struggling to make conversation."
She snorted. "Conversation, my ass. I can tell you why he was asking. Because his late wife baked banana bread and he misses it. For date number two, he'd invite me to his place, where I'd find all the ingredients and her old recipe. Widowers. They aren't looking for companionship; they're looking for a new housekeeper. This is why I should stick to women." When I looked surprised, she shrugged. "I'm flexible."
"Widens the dating pool," I said as I sat.
"It does. I'm updating my profile tonight. Widowers--and widows--need not apply."
"You found him through an online service?"
She scowled at me. "Ask me in that tone again when you're no longer a skinny twenty-five-year-old, and we'll see if your attitude changes, missy."
"I wasn't judging. I'm just not sure that's safe."
A grunt from beside me elicited a glare from Rose.
"Don't start, Gabriel," she said. "I'm well aware of your views on the subject."
"Because I've defended two clients accused of crimes committed against women they found through an online dating service. Neither was guilty, of course--"
"Of course," I said.
"But the fact remains that it does not seem a safe way to find a relationship. With either gender."
She turned to me. "So you've stumbled into trouble again. Shouldn't the omens warn you against that?"
"I don't know. Shouldn't the cards warn you against bad dates?"
She grumbled under her breath. "All right. Explain."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rose handled the discovery of Ciara's body as matter-of-factly as her nephew had. To them, the point was what it meant for me--why the corpse was being used to threaten me, and whether tonight's events were a continuation of that threat or mere happenstance.
I showed her the photos of the dining room and parlor friezes.
"Where is this?" she asked, her voice tight.
"Beechwood Street. It's a Victorian with leaded windows--"
"The Carew house," she said. "I wasn't sure which empty house you meant. There are probably a half-dozen in Cainsville at any time, owned by the town. They aren't an easy sell to newcomers between the commuting issues and the approval committee."
"Approval committee?" I said.
"For new purchasers."
"Is that legal?"
"It's been challenged a few times," Gabriel said. "But race, religion, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic status play no role in the process, so it isn't discriminatory. It's all about whether you're suitable."
"Which is a very nebulous determination," Rose said. "As off-putting as it sounds, the average prospective home owner does pass, and those who don't? Do you really want to live in a town that doesn't want you? They move on. All that, however, means that sometimes houses don't sell, and the homeowners won't be happy if it's because of local politics. So if a house is on the market more than six months, the town buys it. Then they keep it for someone from Cainsville. Usually a young couple who grew up here."
"Chief Burton thought there was a legal issue holding up the sale."
"There was. Years ago. But the town owns it now."
So I could buy it? The words were almost on my lips before I realized how horrible they sounded. Ciara Conway's body had been found there only an hour ago. And my first thought was, "Really? It's for sale?" Yet there was something about the house, a pull I couldn't shake.
Rose continued, "The reason I recognize the house is these." She pointed at the photos I'd taken of the friezes. "I remember going there as a very young girl. My mother would take me for readings."
"The owner was a psychic?"
"Not . . . exactly." Rose's gaze rose to meet my eyes. "She could read omens."
I opened my mouth to say, "What?," but nothing came out and I sat there, goose bumps rising on my arms.
"You knew someone who could read omens?" That was Gabriel, a chill creeping into his gaze. "I think Olivia could have used this information sooner."
"There wasn't any information to give her. I vaguely recalled a woman in Cainsville with the same gift. I've been going through my old diaries, trying to remember details. I also wanted to speak to the elders, see if someone remembered her. When I had more, I planned to tell Olivia."
"That's fine," I said, ignoring the look on Gabriel's face that said otherwise. "This woman who lived there--she could do what I do?"
"I believe so. From what I recall, my mother would go to her for guidance. The woman would ask questions, interpreting omens that my mother had seen, and suggest a course of action. A variation on what I do. She died before I came into my own power. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have had more dealings with her."
"Then she's not the woman who lived there last."
"Oh, no. The one I knew was at least ninety, and I wasn't even school age yet. As I recall, her husband built the house for her, which explains the friezes. I vaguely remember a grandson and his wife who lived there when I was growing up. At some point it was bought by the last owner."
Gabriel cleared his throat. "The point is that this house was owned by someone with the same ability as Olivia. That is worth looking into, as someone using that house is threatening Olivia. Show Rose the triskelion."
I did, and I told her about the vision.
"Bean nighe," she said as she rose. "The washerwoman."
"So not a banshee?"
Rose took a book from her shelf, flipped through it, and laid it open for me at a folklore encyclopedia entry on bean sidhe.
"Banshees," she said. "Bean sidhe is the Irish Gaelic spelling of the word. It's been anglicized as banshee."
"And a bean nighe is a form of bean sidhe," I said as I read. "It's an old woman who washes the clothing of the dead. Which isn't quite what I saw--No, here it is. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Is that how it's spelled? That's worse than bean sidhe. It's the word from the vision, though, and the description matches. Ugly old woman washing in a stream while wailing death warnings. A Wels
h cross between the bean nighe and the traditional bean sidhe. It's not a fetch, though. She's warning me of death in general. I'm guessing it was an omen telling me Ciara's body was upstairs. As for why I saw it when I stepped onto the triskelion . . ."
"I'm presuming it has something to do with the original owner," Rose said. "It seems to be some sort of conduit, possibly activated by those three lights. I'll look into it. Now, tea?"
"Olivia was hoping for--" Gabriel began.
"I'm fine. I should get back home."
"Not tonight, after what happened," Rose said. "You'll go back with Gabriel and pack an overnight bag while I make tea."
I argued. It didn't help. So I shut up and got my bag.
--
Gabriel left at midnight. I stood in the front room window as the taillights of his Jag vanished into the darkness. When I turned, Rose was there, watching me.
"He should have left when I got my bag," I said. "He really didn't need another late night like this. He's tired. Overworked."
"You'll be helping with that."
"With his workload, yes. But I'm the reason he'll be getting home at one this morning when he has a court appearance at nine."
"He'll be fine. I don't think he sleeps more than five hours under the best of circumstances. What you're seeing isn't exhaustion. It's strain. The situation with you is part of it. Gabriel isn't accustomed to personal drama. It's untidy and it confuses him."
"Uh-huh." I turned back to the window.
"I'm serious, Olivia. He is accustomed to clients being angry with him. Furious, even. It's part of the process--they're fighting for their freedom and they never think their lawyer is doing enough. Gabriel knows he will be vindicated at trial, when they see him perform miracles. If they do remain angry--and I'm sure some do--he doesn't care. It's a business relationship. Yours is more than business. Your opinion of him--and your continuing relationship with him--matters. My nephew is not accustomed to that, and he's struggling with it."
Be patient with him. That's what she meant. Except that, with Gabriel, excuses felt dangerous. Cut him slack and he'd haul in as much rope as he could, then think you a fool for letting him.
I thought of another reason he might be exhausted, another source of stress. One I was much more comfortable with, because it had nothing to do with me.
I turned from the window. "Has he identified the photos of his mother yet?"
"Photos of his mother?"
"At the police station."
As a crease furrowed between her eyes, I realized he'd never told her.
"Sorry," I said quickly. "I thought--You should ask him about it."
I started for the stairs, mumbling about my morning shift. She stepped into my path.
"Olivia. What are you talking about?"
"I shouldn't--"
"Yes, you should. And you will. What is this about Gabriel's mother?"
I hesitated, but I could tell by her expression it would be cruel to walk away without explaining. So I told her.
"It might not have even been a photo of Seanna," I said as I finished. "Will Evans was clearly trying to separate me from Gabriel and--"
She walked to her desk and opened a drawer.
I continued. "Gabriel might have already established it wasn't Seanna, which is why he never mentioned it to you, and--"
She handed me a small photo album, opened to photos of Gabriel. He couldn't have been more than thirteen. He had his wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and strong features--too intense for a gangly, acne-pocked adolescent. What I recognized most, though, was his expression. Wary, as if he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. But there was challenge there, too, a hardness already. As if he was hoping for provocation. An excuse to run. To escape.
The photo Rose wanted me to see, though, was in the top corner.
"Seanna," I whispered.
"Is that who you saw?"
I nodded. Rose lowered herself into a chair.
"Dead," she whispered. "All this time, she was dead." Grief crossed her face, but she blinked it back. "This would explain some of the strain."
"Maybe a lot of it."
She shook her head. "It's not as if this means he'll now realize his mother was a good woman who didn't abandon him. How much do you know about the situation?"
I told her.
"I suppose you're wondering how I let it happen," she said.
"No, Evans told me Gabriel didn't let on Seanna had disappeared, and when you found out, he ran. He kept going until he was over eighteen. Too old for anyone to put him in foster care. Presumably you wouldn't have gotten custody. That's what Evans said."
"I wouldn't. I have a criminal record." She glanced over, as if gauging my reaction. When I gave none, she continued, "I was also living with a woman at the time. I'd have given her up in a heartbeat for Gabriel, but the fact remains that I would not have been deemed a suitable parent. As for Seanna, I knew she wasn't making an honest living, but for a Walsh, I'd have been more shocked if she was. There'd been drugs in her youth, but she told me she gave that up when Gabriel was born, and she hid the signs from me. I only knew she was not a good mother. She neglected him. Yet even there, I couldn't prove anything. There was no obvious physical abuse or anything like that. She was just a lousy parent, and there are plenty of those."
She fussed with the blinds before continuing. "Gabriel certainly wouldn't give me more ammunition. He was as stubborn as a child as he is now. If I interfered, Seanna would refuse me access to him. So I told myself that being a good aunt was enough, that taking him when I could was enough. After she disappeared, I learned the rest, from the police. The addictions--to drugs, to alcohol, to men. And the disappearances. By the time she left, she'd been taking off for weeks at a time. Even now, Gabriel won't confirm that. He doesn't talk about it. Refuses. Push, and I'll stop hearing from him for a while."
"So about this . . . confirming her death. I shouldn't push?"
"No, he has to do it, which means he'll need a push. You might be the only person who can get away with it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I expected my diner shift to be stressful, given that I'd found the body of a former resident the night before. The elders did speak to me about it, expressing their horror and grief in whispers, along with sympathy that I'd had to go through that. The others didn't mention it. I supposed that wasn't so shocking. Chief Burton had said Ciara's body would be transferred to the city for the autopsy. That meant the news wouldn't hit the Chicago papers until tomorrow. Apparently, the elders weren't breaking the news until the city did.
Gabriel presumed the CPD would want more than the statement I gave Burton, but he was their contact, and he was in court all day, so I heard nothing.
When three o'clock came, I was in the back with Susie for our shift change. The idea is to update the evening server for a smooth handoff, but there's usually nothing to say, so Susie tells me about her day. One of her kids had won the school spelling bee--they still have spelling bees?--and I was listening to her story of the victory when the diner doorbell jingled. There wasn't any need to cut her short for that--it's a "seat yourself" kind of place.
When the bell dinged, the diner had been buzzing with the tea-hour crowd. Now it went silent. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.
"Can we help you?" I heard Ida ask.
"Is Liv around?"
I recognized the voice but stood there for a second, trying to figure out why Ricky was here.
Because I'd invited him.
Shit. I'd totally forgotten. Normally we texted a few times a day, but he'd had a full schedule. Susie was still talking, and I didn't want to interrupt. The elders would make him feel welcome.
"How do you know Olivia?" It was Walter . . . and his tone was not welcoming.
"Don't you read the papers?" Patrick cut in. "There was a nice photo of them in the Post yesterday. Rick Gallagher, isn't it?"
"Yes . . ." Ricky said warily as I mentally willed Susie to hurry u
p with her story.
"He's one of Gabriel's clients," Patrick said. "A Satan's Saints biker. See the patch on his jacket? That says he's a certified motorcycle gang member. Excuse the old folks, Rick. We don't get many bikers in Cainsville."
Patrick's tone was breezy, but he had to know he was being offensive.
"Is Olivia here?" Ricky asked again.
"In the back," Patrick said. "Have a seat. So where'd you park your bike?"
Susie was close enough to being done that I was able to blurt a quick "That's so great. Tell her I said congrats," before racing out.
Ricky stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, responding to Patrick's needling with clipped answers. If he was nicer, he'd look like a fool. If he got pissy, he'd seem to be overreacting. So he stayed neutral, but I could tell by the set of his jaw it was a struggle.
"Hey," I called as I walked in. "When did you get here?"
Ricky relaxed. "Just arrived," he said as he strolled over. "Ready to go?"
"I am."
As I turned toward the door, I caught Ida's disapproving frown. I stifled the urge to stiffen. Really? This was where they passed judgment?
I ignored her and the looks from the others, and let Ricky hold the door for me as we left.
"Not having coffee there, I take it?" he said.
"I am so sorry," I said. "If I had any idea they'd do that--"
"It's fine. I'm used to it. They aren't as much concerned about me as they're concerned for you, and I can't argue with that. Good to live in a place where people give a shit. I just hope I didn't cause you any trouble."
"Never," I said emphatically.
He smiled. "Good. So where to?"
--
We walked and talked. I showed him the park and the gargoyles, because he seemed genuinely interested. Then I told him what had happened to me last night, because it was going to be in the papers. I skipped the part about the triskelion and the vision, of course. And the part about finding Ciara's head in my bed earlier.
One thing we didn't talk about? My breakup. What if I said, "I ended it with James," and he said, "That's nice," and we continued on as we were?
When he suggested we grab dinner, I said I had to get home--work to do for Gabriel. He escorted me to my apartment. Grace was on the front stoop. She did a double take when I walked up with Ricky. Really, it wasn't as if he looked like a biker. Sure, the leather-jacket-in-June could be a giveaway, but he'd slung it over his arm as soon as we'd set out.
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