I waited until he was gone, then handed Gabriel a hairbrush and tissue I'd dug out of my bag. I gave him my makeup compact, too, for the mirror.
"Since I'm guessing there's no back way out . . ." I said.
"Right. Thanks."
"If you pat some powder on your jaw, it'll make the bruise less noticeable."
He did. Yes, no one except the cops would see him. But to Gabriel, it still mattered. He cleaned up and brushed his hair, and by the time he looked presentable, he seemed a little more himself, reoriented, the usual chill back in his eyes, the steel in his jaw and spine. When we turned to go, that resolve softened again as he glanced over at me.
"Thank you," he said. "For coming. I know I don't deserve--" He cut himself short and pulled up straight again. "We'll talk later."
--
Gabriel's car was where he'd left it--a half mile from James's place. We took a cab and picked it up. I suggested Gabriel drop me off at the office, where I could hang out with a coffee while he went home and cleaned up.
"There's coffee at my place," he said.
I tensed. "That wasn't a hint."
"I know. I'm offering. I would be fine with it."
I looked across the car at him. "No, you wouldn't, and I'd like you to stop pretending otherwise. Your place is your place. I get that. You aren't inviting everyone else over and telling me I'm not welcome, so I'm not offended."
"You are welcome."
"Can we drop this, please? Last night was not fun. I feel like I overreacted, and that's embarrassing, but I don't understand why you'd invite me--" I stopped and shook my head. "And that's not dropping the subject. If you don't want to leave me at the office, then join me for a coffee. I know a few spots we can hang out and watch the sunrise."
It was almost comical to watch him process why anyone would want to watch a sunrise.
"We could do that," he said at last.
"All right, then. You find me coffee, and I'll show you a scenic parking spot."
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I had a few sunrise spots--places Dad had found where he could drive and enjoy some peace without leaving the city. This one was on a bluff. As we drove up, Gabriel peered around the darkness.
"Yes, I know," I said. "It looks like a make-out point."
"I was thinking more a convenient location for the exchange of illegal goods."
"I'm sure it's both at the right time of night, but at this hour it's always empty. My dad used to bring me up here for hot chocolate before my early morning skating practices."
"Figure skating?"
"Don't give me that look."
"I wasn't--"
"Yes, you were. You are trying and failing to picture me in a tutu on ice. With good reason. It was my mother's idea. Some mornings, if Dad and I got to talking up here, he'd conveniently lose track of time and I'd miss my lesson. When my mother finally realized I wasn't getting better at skating--shockingly--she let me quit. Then I got to take up rowing, which was a compromise. It wasn't quite as feminine as she'd like, but it was a suitably upper-class pursuit. What I really wanted to do was horseback riding."
"I didn't think one could get much more upper-class than that."
"Exactly my point. But she said she had a friend whose child died after being thrown from a horse. Years later, I found out she'd just watched Gone with the Wind too many times."
"So you never went riding?"
"Not until I was old enough to do it on my own, and by then I was driving. Horses don't have quite the same . . ."
"Horsepower?"
I laughed. "Exactly."
He ratcheted back his seat, getting comfortable. I waited until he was settled, then said, "I'm going to have to ask, you know. About tonight."
He grunted, stared out the windshield, and sipped his coffee.
"If you don't tell me, James will."
Another sip of his coffee before he put the cup into the holder. "I made a mistake." A pause. "I made several tonight. I'm not quite sure how that happened. They seemed to . . ."
"Snowball? Yeah. Mistakes are like that. So he called you after I left?"
Gabriel glanced at me as if surprised.
"I know you didn't just randomly go over there and confront him. He must have called."
"He did. We had words."
"I bet you did."
"The call was relatively civil, but it became clear that no matter what I said, he was not going to stop trying to contact you. I decided a personal visit was in order."
"So you snuck past the gate."
"I wouldn't say snuck . . ."
"You found an alternate entrance. You rang the bell, presumably, since the breaking and entering charge was dropped. You then intimidated James into not calling for help."
"I wouldn't say--"
"You made him feel that calling for help would be cowardly."
"I'm beginning to think I don't need to tell you this story after all."
"I'm saving time. You confront him. You 'have words.' He makes the boneheaded move of hitting you in the jaw, so you gut-punched him--"
"Gut-punch is a strong--"
My look silenced him. "Do I have the basics right?"
"You do."
"Good. Anything else I should know?"
He considered, then said, "I am more concerned about him than before. No matter what I do--threats, blackmail, intimidation, or even civilized requests--the situation seems to deteriorate. I will admit that I'm not quite certain how to proceed. I could act on my blackmail threats . . ."
"The McNeil business?"
"No, that was merely a decoy. Morgan plugged the hole while I focused my attention elsewhere."
"Is he really that dirty?"
"He's a successful businessman. He has vulnerabilities. Mostly business problems that were resolved with a bribe to the proper parties. That's common enough. It would, however, damage his political chances."
I sighed and slid down in my seat. "If you'd told me he'd pull this crap a month ago, I'd have said you were delusional. The big question now is how this will affect you."
"I'll resolve it easily enough. It's simply an embarrassing footnote to my career."
When silence fell, I said, "To completely change the subject, I talked to that Huntsman tonight. The one who gave me the tusk."
I told him what happened. Well, most of it. I didn't explain exactly where I'd been or what I'd been doing when I met him. I also didn't tell Gabriel what the Huntsman had said about him.
"It sounds crazy, right?" I said.
"It does."
"What if it is? If I'm being set up with some crazy-assed scheme? Oh, look, I'm a special snowflake, and dark supernatural forces are fighting over me. Maybe I'm just unbalanced enough these days to actually fall for it."
"While I wouldn't eliminate the possibility it's an elaborate scheme for some criminal purpose, that does seem unlikely. And you aren't unbalanced. At least, not enough to fall for such a story."
"Thanks," I said.
We exchanged a smile and then lapsed into silence, watching the sunrise.
--
We were about to leave when James phoned.
"I'm going to answer," I said. "Otherwise, he'll keep calling." I picked up with a warm "Hey, there," which earned me a full five seconds of silence.
Then James said, "I take it you haven't spoken to Richard."
"Ricky? Sure. Thanks for letting me know about Gabriel. He'd have been in that cell until morning if you hadn't called."
More silence. Then, "I'm guessing that's sarcasm."
"Irony, actually, but close enough. I am glad I got the heads-up to bail him out, though I'm not nearly so impressed that you put him in there in the first place."
"That I put him in there? The man put me in the hospital."
"A punch to the stomach for a right hook to the jaw. You reap what you sow. I hope you're okay, but I'm not going to pretend it isn't your fault."
Another five seconds of silence. "W
hat has happened to you, Liv? Is this his influence?"
"Yes. Completely, because I was such a sweet little doormat before."
"I'm concerned about you, Liv."
"You don't need to be. Now--"
"There are people out there who are very worried about Gabriel Walsh and his influence on you."
I gripped the phone. "Who?"
"It's not important. I'm calling because I regret what happened, and I want to make amends. I'd like to drop the charges."
"I would appreciate that."
"Good. Then you'll join me for dinner?"
"Um, no. It's over, James, and as much as I regret how that happened--"
"Do you want those charges dropped, Olivia?"
It was a few moments before I could reply. "That sounds like extortion."
Gabriel's head whipped my way, his eyes narrowing.
"Of course not," James said. "I'm just saying--"
"That you'll drop the charges if I go to dinner with you."
"No," Gabriel said. "Absolutely not."
"Is that--?" James began.
"Of course it is," I snapped. "You called at two in the morning to tell me he was in jail. Do you think I'm just going to bail him out and take off? If this is about getting me away from Gabriel, it was a dumb-ass move, wasn't it? The more you threaten him, the closer I'll stick to watch out for him."
"And the same for threatening you," Gabriel rumbled. "Tell him I don't want the charges dropped."
"James? I'm sure you caught that."
No answer, but I swore I could hear him seething.
Gabriel continued, "Tell him that dropping the charges suggests they had merit, and that he was coerced into withdrawing them. I will get them dismissed instead. The only question is whether he wishes to go public with them."
"Hell, yes, I'm going public," James said as I put the phone on speaker.
"Excellent. I will save you the trouble and place the calls myself."
"So you can lie to the press?"
"No, so I can tell the truth. About the harassment my client and employee is receiving at the hands of her ex, and how my attempt at a private discussion, following a documented late-night call from him, resulted in a physical altercation. I regret what occurred, but I would strongly suggest that the other party seek counseling, as he presents an obvious danger to others, most alarmingly the ex-fiancee who is struggling to rebuild her life after the tragic revelations of the past two months." He paused. "How does that sound?"
"If you--"
"If you run with your story, they will contact me for a quote, and that is the one I will give. Now, it's late. Or early, as the case may be. Good day, Mr. Morgan."
I hung up.
CHAPTER SIXTY
I went in to work with Gabriel. I didn't have an official shift, but I'd sent out some feelers, building those victim profiles for my parents' case, and I hoped one of them might have paid off in the form of a possible interview. Calls would come to Lydia. I didn't even get a chance to ask her about them. As soon as we walked in, she stood, motioning that she needed to speak to me. Gabriel continued on to his office.
Once the door closed behind him, Lydia picked up an envelope off her desk. "This came for you."
It was a letter-sized white envelope. On the front, it read OLIVIA TAYLOR-JONES in careful block letters. As soon as I saw those letters, I went still. I saw that handwriting, and I flashed to a Christmas gift label. My name on it, in the same printed letters. TO EDEN. LOVE DADDY.
"Todd," I whispered.
My gaze shot to the return address on the back, which confirmed it. Lydia caught my elbow, and I realized it was shaking. She nodded toward the meeting room door. I let her usher me inside. I made my way blindly to the table, dropped the letter on it, and sat there staring at it.
"I could call Gabriel in, if you'd like," she said. When I shook my head vehemently, she said, "That's what I thought. Not exactly Mr. Empathy. He means well . . ." She trailed off, then checked that the door was closed before sitting beside me.
"Todd's probably telling me why he won't see me," I said, indicating the envelope. "He doesn't think it's wise. Or he just doesn't want to, after all these years."
I thought of what Gabriel had said, that Todd had kept looking for me long after Pamela had given up. Now that I'd turned up, had he realized he wasn't going to get that fantasy reunion with his little girl? That I wasn't his little girl anymore, but a grown woman, a stranger?
I remembered going to a state fair with my adoptive dad when I was eight. It was magical--all bright lights and whirling rides and delicious treats. I'd returned at eighteen and wished I hadn't--the lights had been garish, the rides dilapidated, the treats seeming to guarantee food poisoning. Memories forever tainted. Is that what Todd feared?
"That might not be why he's writing," Lydia said.
I nodded and dropped the envelope, unopened, into my bag. "I'll read it later."
"If you want to talk about it . . ."
I smiled wanly. "Thanks. I might take you up on that. Not a lot . . ." I trailed off. Not a lot of people I can talk to about it these days. That sounded sad. Pathetic, even. The truth was that I'd never had a lot of people I could unload on. I was the shoulder to cry on. I'd never needed that myself, because I'd always had it, with my dad. Then he was gone, and . . .
And no one was there to replace him, and maybe I was looking for that in Todd. Which was the worst possible thing I could do. Not because he was a convicted serial killer, but because it wasn't fair to Todd. Expecting him to take the role of my beloved dad would be like him expecting me to take that of his two-year-old daughter.
"I'll let you know what it says tomorrow," I said. "If he doesn't want to see me, you can stop trying."
"If you want to talk before that . . ."
I smiled at her, more genuine now. "Thanks."
--
With the arrival of that letter, my enthusiasm for work soured. There were no calls on my leads, and I wasn't sure I'd have set up an interview even if I could. I finished what I could do, and at eleven I was rapping on Gabriel's office door.
"Come in," he called.
He was at his desk, surrounded by papers.
"I'm taking off."
He looked up, as if startled, and checked his watch.
"I wasn't scheduled to work today," I said. "If you need me to do something, I'm happy to stay another hour or so, but otherwise I wouldn't mind getting home and grabbing a nap before my diner shift."
"Yes, of course."
I turned to leave.
"Olivia?"
When I looked back, he waved me in. I closed the door and he said, "Have you given any more thought to quitting the diner?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to be considering it."
"I'd like you to. Yes, you don't want to depend on me for your income, but your trust fund comes due in a few months. Your expenses are low. I suspect that, in a crunch, you would be fine until then." When I didn't answer, he said, "You also mentioned applying for your private investigator license."
I made a face. "I was just talking. I'll get it if this works out, but I'm not in any rush. The real issue is those few months until my trust fund. I'd rather keep my job at the diner. It's not interfering, is it?"
He hesitated.
"You don't want me working at the diner," I said. "Why?"
"Because it puts you at their mercy and under their watch."
"The elders, you mean."
"Yes. I know they don't pay your wages, but I've seen the way Larry treats them. If they wished you gone, he'd do it. Of course, that would leave you no worse off than if you quit, but . . . The balance of power makes me uneasy."
I wasn't eager to quit the diner. It felt like saying two months as a server was as much "real-person life" as this former socialite could bear.
"I'll think about it," I said. "Do you want me to check in later--?"
His phone rang, Lydia patching in a call. He glanced at it.
>
"Take that," I said. "Just call me later if--"
"Hold on."
He answered. It was a short call. His end was just "Yes" and "No" and "Are you certain?" and "Please send the results to my office."
"That was the laboratory," he said.
"With the results already?"
"I put a rush on them."
Which would have cost extra. Another time, I'd have joked about him docking it from my wages, but now that seemed uncharitable.
"Your theory was correct," he said. "Macy and Ciara were, indeed, switched at birth."
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Using hairs from Macy's brush and from one in her parents' room, the lab confirmed that the familial match was reversed. Macy was the Conways' daughter. Ciara was the Shaws'. As for how that happened, it did no good to speculate. We had the information. Now I had to figure out how to act on it.
I went home to think. And to nap, though I got little sleep. I tossed and turned until I gave up and went to my laptop and started punching in terms.
It took nearly two hours of searching before I found it. Not a connection. Not a direct one, anyway. But another case, pulled from the archives of a Chicago newspaper. In the late sixties, a family claimed their young son was a changeling. The boy was "severely troubled," according to his grandmother. The child told intricate stories of "another world," a fairy realm, ergo he must be a changeling.
People had been sensible enough to dismiss the idea as amusingly primitive. The boy's grandmother was a first-generation Irish immigrant. Clearly, she'd brought some of that old-world nonsense over with her. After all, she was the one who made the claims by taking the child to the local priest. The priest had refused to help, so she'd found another, and somehow--to the parents' shock and dismay--the story leaked to the paper, where it seemed to have been included merely for entertainment. Or to show how much more progressive Americans were, dismissing old-world nonsense and superstition.
So what caught my attention in this tale? The grandmother claimed that her real grandson had been switched with a fairy child from Cainsville. Her daughter-in-law had family there, and the parents visited often. That, she said, was where it happened. And her proof? Well, she had none. Only that there was "something wrong with that town." Something she felt every time she visited. The town took far too great an interest in her grandson and his problems, and the old folks there went out of their way to convince her that the boy was fine, and that if she loved him and raised him well, he would grow into a strong and capable young man.
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