Omens Page 12

  Gabriel Walsh. He was opening the door, one hand on the knob, the other on his sunglasses. Seeing me, he left his glasses on and stepped back to wave me out.

  I took a moment to regain my composure before looking up at him. "I told you I didn't need a ride."

  "No, you said you didn't want one. Considering the cost of a fare and the fact that you're apparently working as a waitress"--did I imagine it or did his lips twitch?--"I decided you do need it."

  "I have a cab coming." The only vehicle in sight was his Jag, purring in front of the building.

  "I told him you wouldn't be needing his services." He closed the door behind me. "Our appointment is at four. That's the latest I could make it."

  In other words, ride with him or don't go at all. Damn him.

  I looked up. He hadn't gotten any smaller. I'm not usually intimidated by men of any size, but those sunglasses made me anxious. Silly, I know, but unsettling all the same. As was the hint of a smile on the visible part of his face. Amused? Mocking? Insolent? I couldn't tell without having his eyes to complete the picture.

  He reached into his suit pocket, took out his cell phone, and handed it to me.

  "You can put 911 on speed dial."

  Okay, definitely mocking.

  He steered me toward the car. "If it makes you feel better, you can call the CPD and ask about me. You won't hear anything flattering, but they'll admit I've never been accused of assaulting anyone." A pause as he opened the passenger door for me. "Well, not any clients."

  I slid into the cool interior. The sharp smell of new leather and strains of Bach swirled around me. As Gabriel got in, I braced myself for the sales pitch, but he only turned up the stereo and roared from the curb.

  He didn't say a word for the first half of the trip, which was good because, considering how fast he drove, I really preferred he kept his attention on the road. When he whipped past a cruiser, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  "We're fine," he said. "I drive this route regularly. They used to pull me over, but it got tedious. Now I offer a generous contribution to their annual fund-raiser, and we call it even."

  "Nice."

  "Efficient."

  We fell back into silence.

  Zooming along the highway, I managed to close my eyes and soon realized I was enjoying the rumble of the road beneath me, the sensual perfection of Bach coming from the car's stereo, the rich smell of fine leather. I also realized I felt safe for the first time in four days. Cocooned in a world I knew.

  "Safe" probably wasn't the right word to use with a man like Gabriel in the driver's seat, but even he seemed to add to the ambience, like a tacit chauffeur who could play bodyguard in a pinch.

  He didn't speak until we were within sight of the prison gates. Then he pulled onto the shoulder and sat there, hands on the wheel, gaze forward, car idling.

  Now it was coming. The sales pitch, delivered before we passed those gates. Damn. I'd gotten so close, too.

  After a moment, he said, "What do you know about Pamela Larsen, Ms. Jones?"

  "Olivia, please."

  He glanced over then. Even if I couldn't see his eyes, I knew the look--telling me he wasn't falling for that. This was all business, and if I was being friendly, I had an ulterior motive.

  "Olivia, then," he said. "What do you remember of your mother?"

  "A week ago, I'd have said nothing. But I've been remembering things. I'm not sure if they're real."

  "And you want to see if she's what you remember?"

  "I want to face her."

  "Face her." He rolled the words out, considering them. "Yes, I suppose so."

  "You think I shouldn't?"

  "That wouldn't be in my best interests." He swung the car back onto the road. "And clearly you are resolved on the matter."

  Gabriel said nothing as he parked. Nor as we got out of the car. He just silently steered me in the right direction.

  Having him beside me was a comfort as I approached the looming jail. Again, I knew that was silly. I was hardly in danger of being jumped by rioting prisoners. But right or wrong, as I listened to the distant clang and imagined a cell opening, imagined Pamela Larsen coming out to meet me, having a silent monolith at my side did make me feel better.

  As we approached the doors, I said, "You asked what I know about her. Is there something you want to tell me?"

  He said nothing. I thought he was considering, but we went through two doors and he didn't say another word.

  "If there's something I should know about her, I'd like to hear it."

  He made a noise in his throat, as if he preferred to keep silent on the subject but couldn't quite bring himself to say there was nothing I should know. I glanced over, in the vain hope of seeing an actual expression. Instead, I forgot what I'd been asking.

  He must have taken off his sunglasses when we'd come in. To say he had blue eyes sounds so innocuous that I'm reluctant even to name the color. They were ice. Not cool in that sexy way that sends delicious shivers down your spine. I mean cold. Completely and utterly cold.

  The irises were such an unnaturally pale blue that for a second I thought they weren't real. Couldn't be real. They must be colored contacts meant to throw a prosecutor or reluctant witness off balance. But this wasn't the kind of color you could get from contacts.

  The edges of the irises were dark. Blue, I suppose, but I didn't look close enough to be sure. The impression I got was of black rings around pale irises. Black lashes, too, so thick and long that they should have been gorgeous frames to a pair of remarkable eyes. They weren't. The contrast between the dark pupils, the dark lashes, and those odd dark rings set against the pale irises and whites was too unsettling.

  Dear God, was I crazy? This might be the most terrifying thing I'd ever done in my life, and the only person I had for support was this man? This complete stranger I couldn't even look in the eyes?

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Nothing."

  I let him take the lead.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Getting inside took a while. Finally they escorted us to a room with a table and three chairs.

  I paused inside the doorway. "So she'll just ... come in here?"

  "Is that a problem?" Gabriel asked as he headed for a chair.

  "No, I just thought there'd be a barrier."

  He turned those cold eyes on me. I must have flinched. I saw it on his face, and I was sure what would come next. A look of amusement for a reaction he must get all the time. But his brows drew together in a frown, as if he didn't understand why I'd pulled back. Then he turned away and sat before he said, "Would you like a barrier?"

  "No. I just..."

  "Expected more security for a woman convicted of horrifically murdering eight people? If it was your father, yes, you'd never get so close to him. But in situations like this, the woman is seen as the lesser threat."

  "Bullied and pushed by the real killer. She's the weak partner."

  "Weak..." He rolled the word out, tasting it.

  "I don't mean--"

  "No, I understand. You're correct. The woman is always seen as the follower."

  "And is--?" I began.

  When I didn't finish, he looked over. "Hmm?"

  "Never mind."

  He waved me to a chair. "They do still take precautions. She'll be cuffed and allowed no physical contact."

  "Good."

  I took my seat. Then we waited. He kept looking over at me, and it wasn't in any way a woman likes to be looked at by a man. His gaze was impersonal, yet all too personal, too probing, too intense. I told myself he was just concerned that I'd break down and, God forbid, he might have to deal with it. But it felt as if my every twitch was being studied and evaluated.

  It didn't help that there wasn't even a poster I could pretend to read. Just a stark, white room that smelled of chemicals and body odor. Overhead, a fan turned, catching on each revolution. I'm sure I jumped with every click. I'm equally sure Gabriel noticed. I wanted to leap
up and shout, "Yes, I'm nervous. In fact, I'm about five seconds away from hurling my lunch onto the floor, so stop looking at me like that or if I do hurl it, I'll aim for your lap."

  That made me smile. He noticed and arched his dark brows. I met his gaze. It wasn't easy, but it gave me something to do. Look him straight in those cold eyes and don't back down until--

  The door opened. I jumped. Gabriel stood, partly blocking my view.

  A guard entered first. Then a woman. No, not just a woman. Pamela Larsen. My mother.

  After hearing how much I looked like her, I was braced to see a face that would ensure I wasn't going to regain my comfort with a mirror anytime soon. She was shorter than me by a couple of inches. Heavier, too, almost plump. Dark, gray-laced hair to her shoulders. Eyes of an indeterminate blue-green shade. Maybe there was a resemblance, but I didn't see a carbon copy of myself.

  What did I see?

  My mother.

  I recognized her. I felt a leap in my gut, the burst of joy that a two-year-old might feel. I felt it, and I disowned it. Looked away and shut down that part of myself, hard and fast.

  She hadn't noticed me yet as her gaze fixed on Gabriel. That made it easier.

  "Gabriel," she said. "I should have known." She stepped closer. "Are you trying to get your money again? You scammed me, you bastard. You stole my appeal, and you expect me to pay you? The fact I didn't gouge out your eyes with your gold pen should prove I'm innocent."

  She turned to the guard. "Take me back. We're done here."

  "Oh, I don't think you want to do that, Pamela," Gabriel said. "I brought someone to see you."

  "I don't care who--"

  Gabriel stepped aside. She stopped. Her cuffed hands flew to her mouth.

  "Oh." She inhaled. She rushed toward me, but the second guard yanked her back.

  She spun on the woman. "That's my daughter, you heartless bitch. My little girl."

  "You know the rules, Pamela."

  She pulled away from the guard's grip, but made no move to come closer.

  "Eden," she breathed.

  "It's Olivia."

  She flinched. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Olivia. Look at you. So beautiful."

  That voice. Dear God, that voice.

  Thursday's child has far to go.

  Was the rest of it from her, too? All the rhymes and superstition I couldn't pry from my brain? Not from some long forgotten nanny. From Pamela Larsen.

  And what else? Forget the silly rhymes. What else had she taught me? How much more of me came from her? How much of me was a lie? Even something as simple as my birthday was obviously false.

  Thursday's child has far to go.

  Pamela had turned to Gabriel.

  "I'd like to speak to my daughter alone."

  "You know that isn't possible," he said.

  "I don't know how you tricked her into coming here, but if you made her pay you a dime--"

  "She didn't even contribute gas money. She asked to see you, and I thought it might be a good opportunity to remind you of my outstanding bill."

  She turned back to me. "You asked to see me?"

  Did I imagine it or did Gabriel wince? I opened my mouth to say it wasn't exactly like that, but her face glowed and a little girl inside me basked in the radiance, and wouldn't--couldn't--do anything to bring back the shadows.

  Damn. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

  I took a deep breath and straightened. "We'll be fine, Mr. Walsh. Thank you."

  He nodded and went to stand by the door. Pamela shot him a look, but he only glanced at me, brows arching to ask "Is this okay?" I nodded.

  "You are so beautiful, E--Olivia," Pamela said. "Your father would--" Her hands flew to her mouth again, head dropping, eyes squeezed shut. "I wish he could see you. He'd be so happy. So proud."

  She took a moment to compose herself as the guards ushered us to the table. I could feel Gabriel's gaze on me, but didn't look over.

  "The Joneses have treated you well?" she said after a moment.

  "My parents have been great."

  She flinched at "parents" and I felt a pang of sympathy, as hard as I tried to fight it.

  "Tell me about yourself," she said. "Your life."

  I managed to give her a brief biographical sketch, the kind I'd provide a stranger. When I finished, she leaned forward, her cuffed hands reaching across the table.

  A throat-clearing from the guard stopped her short, but she stayed bent forward as she lowered her voice and said, "I know this is a huge shock for you. They--they tell me you didn't even realize you were adopted."

  "That's right."

  "So you don't ... remember us?"

  "No."

  The grief on her face cut through me and I wanted to say I did remember her, snatches of memories, good memories. I clamped my mouth shut and struggled to keep my face as expressionless as possible.

  She leaned toward me a little more. "We didn't murder those young couples, Olivia. If you remember anything about us, you know we didn't."

  I glanced at Gabriel. I didn't mean to. His face gave nothing away, but I knew what he was thinking. My parents had been convicted by a jury of their peers. They'd lost their first appeal and several subsequent attempts. Was I desperate enough--foolish enough--to entertain even the slightest doubt of their guilt?

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't come here to..."

  I couldn't finish that. What would I say? I came here because I already know you're a monster and I needed to see you so I could believe that in my heart, too. Except now ...

  It wasn't supposed to be like this.

  I looked at her and the temperature in the tiny room seemed to jump twenty degrees. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek and I had to struggle for breath.

  I got to my feet. "I need ... I have to step outside."

  Pamela leapt up. "No, please, E--Olivia. I didn't mean--"

  "I'll be back."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Gabriel held open the door and I hurried out over Pamela's protests. Once I heard that door close behind me, I stopped, facing the corridor wall, breathing in and out.

  I was smarter than this. I knew she was guilty. I wanted to come here and feel that, and instead the doubt had crept from my heart to my head.

  "Oh God."

  My hands flew up. I had a mental flash of Pamela's hands going to her mouth and yanked mine away.

  I'd lived with her for the first few years of my life. When I'd seen her, there'd been no doubt how I'd once felt about Pamela Larsen. How much of her had I absorbed? How much did I still unknowingly emulate?

  "Stop. Just stop," I muttered, then wheeled and found Gabriel right behind me.

  "Oh," I said.

  He didn't speak. Just stood there, as if patiently waiting for me to finish my breakdown.

  After a moment of silence, he said, "Would you like to...?" and waved to a chair down the hall.

  "No, I'm okay."

  "Take a moment then."

  "Really, I'm fine. She's just not..."

  "What you expected."

  "Not what I wanted."

  "Ah." Another nod.

  We stood there for a minute, then I said, "She thinks you ruined her appeal chances on purpose, doesn't she?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you?"

  "That wouldn't be in my best interests."

  "So why does she think it?"

  He shrugged. "I didn't win."

  "But you gave it your best shot."

  I expected another brow arch, to say of course he had, but he just stood there, cold eyes betraying nothing.

  So what should I do? I wanted to ask. The impulse shamed me. Yet I suddenly felt very young and very lost and very confused. And Gabriel Walsh happened to be the only person here.

  "Yes?" he said.

  I shook my head. "I should get back in there."

  "If you like."

  He didn't move, as if to say the choice was mine. We could still leave, despite my promise to
return. I could run. Hide. Refuse to hear anything else she had to say.

  I took a deep breath and said, "I'm ready."

  "I'd like you to do me a favor, Olivia," Pamela said after I sat down again.

  I tensed.

  "I have a list of names. People who might be interested in fighting for a new appeal for your father and me."

  "Lawyers."

  She shot a pointed look at Gabriel. "We're done with lawyers. We need help from someone less opportunistic. It's a list of journalists and organizations who might be willing to take up our cause."

  "Nonprofit organizations?" I said carefully. "Like the Innocence Project?"

  "Not them specifically. They only deal with wrongful convictions based on DNA. But nonprofit, yes. Specifically, the Center on Wrongful Convictions out of Northwestern, but I've listed some national organizations as well. I'd never ask you to spend a penny on us, Olivia. You've already lost too much by being our daughter. I'm not even asking you to plead our case with these people. Just to pass along the information."

  "Is there something specific you need them to look at? That's how it works, isn't it? There needs to be a specific problem with the conviction."

  Another glance at Gabriel. "It seems my daughter knows more about law than some who've passed the bar." She turned back to me. "Yes, I have something specific for them. The murder of Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson."

  Niles Gunderson's daughter. An image of the old man flashed in my memory, his eyes wild with crazed grief.

  She continued, "There's a reason we couldn't have done it, which was overruled because of the other evidence that tied the cases together. It goes both ways, though. Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples." She leaned forward. "Can you do that for me, Olivia? Just pass on the case to these people? I've tried, but it's so difficult contacting anyone from in here."

  I had to hold every muscle tight to keep from glancing at Gabriel for his opinion. I didn't want to do anything for her. I shouldn't. And yet, if these people could prove her innocent ... If she could be innocent. Yet I shouldn't think that. Shouldn't dare to hope that.

  For at least two minutes, I couldn't answer, mired in doubt and fear. But then I realized it wasn't about hoping she was innocent. It was about doing whatever it took to be sure that the jury had made the right decision, beyond doubt--reasonable or otherwise.

  "Yes," I said.

  I wrote down the names of the organizations she wanted me to contact. Then our visiting time ended.