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  "I don't intend to."

  "Because you can't prove it? That's a ridiculous excuse and you know it. Tell her and--"

  "No. This is better."

  "Better? How is this better, Gabriel?"

  "I should go."

  "You're not driving back to Chicago tonight."

  "I need--"

  "It's four A.M. You'll take the other spare room."

  "I have to work--"

  "It's Sunday."

  "I've been busy with Pamela Larsen's case and falling behind on paperwork."

  Rose sighed. "Fine. Go. I'll speak to Olivia in the morning."

  "But not about--"

  "Of course not."

  "She needs to see a doctor. She'll argue--"

  "I will look after Olivia for you, Gabriel."

  "That's not--"

  "Yes. I know. Now go."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After I finally did fall asleep, Rose came in every hour to ask the date and my name and how many fingers she was holding up. I played along without complaint. This wasn't how she'd planned to spend her Saturday night, so I was grateful . . . until 7 A.M., when I recited a dozen Sherlock Holmes quotes, back-to-back, and she declared I was clearly not suffering from a concussion and we could both get some sleep. Which would have been lovely, if my phone hadn't buzzed an hour later.

  Gabriel.

  "Where's your cat?" he said in greeting.

  "Wha--?"

  "TC. Your cat." He bit the words off, impatient. "I just realized I didn't see him at the apartment last night. Where is he?"

  "Gone. The accommodations were not to his liking, apparently."

  "When?"

  I rubbed my face as I sat up. "Yesterday after my shift. He must have slipped out while I was taking the trash--"

  "Did you see him leave?"

  "No. I'm just presuming . . ." I realized where this was going. "You think someone took him?"

  I must have sounded alarmed, because his voice smoothed out. "No, that'd be too much trouble. It seems unlikely, though, to be a coincidence that he vanished hours before this happened. I suspect someone was testing the door and let him out. I'm sure he's fine. However, that would mean the intruder was at your apartment earlier that day. I'll question Grace about that. Nothing escapes her notice, and she's usually forthcoming with me."

  --

  After talking to Gabriel, I tried to sneak home, but Rose caught me. We had breakfast. We talked. There wasn't much to discuss. Yes, poppies were a death omen. Yes, the most common hound folklore was the Black Shuck. Yes, finding a dead girl in my car--and her head in my bed--was terrible . . . and clearly an omen of the "you need a security system now" variety. She promised to read the cards and see what came up.

  In the meantime, I had to see the doctor. Rose had set up the appointment. Dr. Webster made house calls, even on Sundays. She checked me out and decided I might have suffered a mild concussion but nothing requiring more than rest and painkillers.

  After Dr. Webster left, I covered every inch of my apartment, looking for clues. There wasn't so much as a stray hair from the wig. All I had were the photos, blurry from my hands trembling.

  I made notes from my memories of the night before. Then I looked up Ciara Conway on the Internet again and found nothing new. She was still missing, and would remain so until her killer decided to part with her corpse, which he or she seemed in no hurry to do.

  That was the hardest part of all this to wrap my head around. Her killer was storing her body, toting it about, using it to scare me, as if it was a plastic tarantula. There was something truly chilling about that. What complete lack of respect for life would allow someone to cart a body around like a prop, would allow someone to say, "You know, I can't sneak the whole body into her apartment, so let's just chop off the head"? And what did it have to do with me?

  Someone had murdered a young woman, one who resembled me in a very superficial "height, weight, body shape" way, and had a family connection to the tiny town where I now lived. As much as I wanted to believe my assailant had just . . . oh, I don't know, found Ciara dead from an overdose and decided to use her body, the chances of that were infinitesimal. She'd been selected. Killed to warn me not to dig deeper into my parents' crimes or deeper into Chandler's crimes or . . . Oh, hell, I didn't even know what the warning meant. I supposed I'd find out, whether I wanted to or not.

  --

  The next morning, I was in a coffee shop, sitting across from a guy getting nonstop stares from the businesswomen, as much for his biker-patch leather jacket as for his rugged good looks. The first time we'd met, I thought Ricky reminded me of a blond young Marlon Brando without the angst. I'd even speculated there'd be a cleft chin when he shaved his stubble. There was. There was also a dimple, showing up when I walked in and he fixed me with a grin that made me stutter-step . . . and nearly bolt back out the door.

  Lydia had said that Ricky was even harder to resist in person. She was right. Fortunately, that grin, as dazzling as it was, said only, I'm glad to see you.

  "Hey." He stood as I walked over. No hug. No squeeze on the arm. Just standing, as if that's what you should do when a woman walked to your table, though you didn't go so far as to pull out her chair, suggesting she couldn't handle it herself. I swear every woman around us sighed a little.

  I just smiled and said, "Hey," back.

  "What can I get you?" he asked.

  "I can--"

  "My invitation. My treat. And if you feel guilty about that, you can get it next time." Another flash of a grin. "Which means there has to be a next time. See? I have it all worked out."

  "A mocha, please."

  He was back in a minute, setting it down and swinging into his chair with, "So you have to work at three, right?"

  "I do."

  "Plenty of time, but I'll watch the clock to be sure. What are you up to these days?"

  I told him, and he earned the distinction of being the first person who didn't react like I was punishing myself by working in the diner. He understood. His life might seem radically different from mine, but it wasn't really. We'd both been raised in a successful family business, where it was expected that if you wanted a job, that's where you'd work, and if you wanted to just focus on your studies, that was fine, too. We were also both only children raised by a devoted father--as healthy a father-child relationship as you could ask for, whether Daddy owned a landmark department store or ran a notorious biker gang. Ricky's mother wasn't in the picture. He didn't go into detail, but it seemed she was a doctor in Philadelphia. He saw her now and then, and they had a good relationship, but she was more like a distant aunt.

  The only thing that kept it from being a perfect coffee break was Ricky's phone, which kept buzzing. He hit Ignore every time, but it was almost nonstop, and he finally apologized.

  "I'd turn the damned thing off, but my dad needs to be able to get hold of me at any time. Club rules. If he calls, I have to take it. Otherwise, it's just birthday wishes."

  "Birthday? You mean it's your . . . ? Shit. I'm sorry. I would never have suggested today--"

  "Um, pretty sure I suggested it. I don't have plans until tonight, and then it's just take-Ricky-to-dinner-and-embarrass-the-hell-out-of-him."

  "Do they make the servers sing 'Happy Birthday'?"

  "Probably. Most of the guys have known me since I was in diapers. To some of them I still am."

  "And how old are you?"

  A pause.

  "Ah, so you aren't telling?"

  "No, just . . . I'm probably not as old as you think I am." When I didn't reply right away, he said, "Uh-huh. That's what I thought."

  "Sorry, I'm . . . just surprised. It doesn't matter, of course."

  "Because you aren't planning to go out with me. But if you were considering it, that would be fine, because two years is not a big age gap. And yes, I know how old you are."

  "So you just turned twenty-three?"

  "That's not two years."

  "Wel
l, I'll be twenty-five this fall, so if you're twenty-two today, that means you're actually two and a half years younger--"

  "You stop counting half years at three. That's the rule."

  "Is it?"

  "It is. It'd be fine if I was two years older than you, right?" He knew the answer to that, considering I'd been engaged to a thirty-year-old. "In fact, one could argue that this would be all the more reason to go out with me, while you decide whether you want to recommit to James. What better way to explore your options than to date a guy who has nothing in common with your former fiance."

  "James has an MBA."

  "And I don't yet. See? Totally different. So I would suggest we go out if I hadn't already promised not to bring it up. Now I'll drop the subject by asking you the topic of your master's thesis. Also? It's one."

  "I wasn't checking--"

  "Yes, you were. Subtly. I promised not to push for a date, and when I veered off track, you checked your watch, seeing if it was late enough to bolt, should I continue. I promise no more pushing, prodding, or even hinting. We have thirty minutes. I've already set the alarm on my phone."

  --

  At 1:30, Ricky and I were walking into the parking lot behind the coffee shop. His motorcycle was right up front, squeezed into a spot too small for a car. I was parked at the far side.

  Beside the lot was a playground. Empty swings twisted forlornly in the brisk wind. Brightly colored ride-on animals rocked, riderless. There was an air of desolation here, of abandonment. Kids in this neighborhood had better things to do than ride smiling purple hippos. I thought of the park in Cainsville, clearly beloved for generations, and I felt a pang of sympathy for this one, and for the kids here. Silly, I know, but I thought, I'm glad I live in a place where kids still want to ride purple hippos.

  We were saying our goodbyes when Ricky trailed off midsentence, staring at something over my shoulder. I turned and saw . . .

  The hound stood in the park, watching us. Ricky was staring, but not in the way one might look at a big dog on the loose, with concern or trepidation. He looked as I imagine I must have when I saw it the second time--in confusion and disbelief, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me.

  "Wow, that's a big dog," I managed finally.

  "Dog . . ." His voice was oddly hollow, distant, and uncertain. "Yeah. That's . . . a dog?" His voice rose as if in question. A hard blink, followed by a short laugh. "Obviously." He rubbed his thumbs over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Clearly I've had too much caffeine."

  "It is a very big dog." Standing there. Staring. At Ricky.

  "An unaccompanied and unrestrained big dog. I should walk you to your car."

  "It's right over there. I'll be--"

  "No. I'll walk you to your car."

  His voice had taken on a tone I'd heard in the clubhouse with one of the girls and, later, with Gabriel. A reminder that while he was charming and easygoing, he was still a gang leader's son. He followed it with a softer "This way?" and I nodded.

  As we crossed the lot, he kept his gaze on the beast, and I could say that was just common sense--don't turn your back on a threat--but Ricky still looked confused, as if trying to figure out what the hell he was seeing. I wanted to ask: Exactly how big is it? Does it have reddish-brown eyes? What really made my stomach twist, though, was the way the beast stared at him.

  "So, Wednesday?"

  Ricky's voice startled me, and I looked around to realize we were at my car already. I glanced back over my shoulder.

  "It's gone." His tone was light, jaunty even. "So, Wednesday, do you want to come here again or someplace else?"

  "Wednesday? I--"

  "Or Thursday. Maybe a walk this time. It's supposed to be perfect weather."

  "You really are persistent."

  "Damned straight. But I haven't heard a no. Wednesday, then? Same time? Coffee or a walk?"

  I paused beside the Jetta. "I can't. I'm sending the wrong message--"

  "The message that you enjoy my company? That you had a hurricane blast through your life a month ago and you're still sorting through the pieces and you could use the occasional coffee break with a normal--well, relatively normal--guy? The rules don't change unless you change them, Olivia. The only message you're sending says I don't bore you to tears."

  "Okay. Wednesday. I'll figure out where and text you. Is that okay?"

  "Texting me anytime, for any reason, is absolutely okay." He opened my car door and I climbed in.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ten minutes into my shift, I got a call from Rose. She left a message asking me to phone back, which I would have, on my break, if her damned nephew hadn't called three times after that.

  After the first time, I'd left my phone in the back--and on vibrate--but it didn't help.

  "Liv . . ." Larry said, bringing my phone out.

  "I know. I'm sorry. It's just--"

  "Gabriel. I saw. Don't apologize. He's your lawyer. Take the call in back, and I'll cover for you."

  When Gabriel answered, I said, "Have I ever told you about Margie? The server I replaced, in part because she kept getting calls during her shift?"

  "I didn't realize you were at work, as I'm no longer in possession of your schedule."

  "And my voice mail wasn't working?"

  "I wasn't about to trust that you wouldn't simply delete the message unheard."

  "Texting?"

  "The buttons do not accommodate larger-than-average fingers." Which meant, apparently, that I'd hallucinated all the times we'd communicated by text message. He continued, "I was unable to arrange for a security system installation today. It will be done tomorrow. In the meantime, you will stay with Rose."

  "I will?"

  "I'll tell her you'll be by after your shift. As will I. We need to discuss a matter relating to both your mother and Ciara Conway. Nothing urgent, but I have a busy week."

  "I don't get off until eleven."

  "I realize that. I'll meet you at Rose's. I presume you'll want to gather an overnight bag from your apartment, and I'll ask you to wait until I arrive to do so."

  "Okay."

  Silence. Then, "I'm serious about this, Olivia. I don't want you going to your apartment alone at night--"

  "Didn't I say okay?"

  "Too quickly, suggesting you're humoring me and have no intention of actually doing as I asked."

  "Mmm, if that was your idea of asking, I'd hate to see how you give orders. I inconvenienced you and Rose last night because I didn't get that security system. Insisting on staying in my apartment tonight without one would be careless and immature."

  "All right. I'll see you at eleven."

  --

  "Gabriel's running late," Rose said as she let me inside. "He had a call from a client."

  "I'll phone him," I said. "We don't need to do this--"

  "He'll be here in fifteen minutes. It'd be a bigger inconvenience if he has to turn back."

  True. A light was on in Rose's parlor, so I headed in there.

  "What's wrong?" she said as I took a seat.

  "Nothing."

  "Do you remember what I said about the key to being a good psychic?"

  "Being willing to make guesses and be proven wrong? Yes, you're wrong this time. Sorry."

  "I meant observation and interpretation." She sat down across from me. "You have never walked into this room and not taken advantage of the opportunity to poke about. Something happened today."

  I hesitated, then said, "I saw the hound again."

  "Where?"

  "In Chicago. The thing is, I wasn't alone, and the person I was with saw it, too. But . . . something about it bothered him, more than it should have, and I'm worried. For him."

  "Was it James?"

  "No. Ricky Gallagher. He's--"

  "Don's son. Does Gabriel know you're seeing him?"

  "I'm not. It was just coffee."

  "I see. While I've never met the Gallaghers, I do follow them in the news, since they are my n
ephew's primary clients. I've seen photos of young Mr. Gallagher."

  "I'm trying to reconcile with James."

  "By going to coffee with an attractive young man? I would offer to do a reading to see where that will lead, but I don't need the cards for that."

  I glowered at her. "Can I talk about the hound? Or are you testing out a career move? Advice to the lovelorn?"

  "That wouldn't help you at all. Love doesn't enter into this choice. Lust versus duty. The perfect conundrum for a student of Victorian literature, though, one would hope, less of a struggle for a modern young woman. May I suggest that James Morgan is a wonderful catch . . . for someone else, and that if you persist--"

  "So Ricky and I saw this hound."

  She sighed but waved for me to continue.

  "It seemed to . . . confuse him," I said.

  Now she leaned forward. "As if he recognized it?"

  "No. And yes. It was like . . . Hell, I don't even know how to explain it. Like when you catch a scent and it's familiar but you can't place it. When I see an omen, I know it means something. What do other people sense? They must trigger something, or there wouldn't be superstitions about them. Ricky did sense something about the hound, which paid no attention to me. It was staring at him."

  "And the other times?"

  "It looked at me. My concern is that it is a fetch. A harbinger of death."

  "Ricky's death."

  "Right. You see it: you die. For me, it's a warning, because I can read omens. But if Ricky saw it . . ." I exhaled. "I texted him, tonight, pretending I just wanted to say I enjoyed our coffee, but I let out a huge sigh of relief when he texted back. Which feels crazy."

  For ten seconds, Rose didn't respond.

  "So . . ." I finally prodded.

  "I'm deciding how to tell you this without giving you ammunition to think you really are imagining things, which is what you'd prefer."

  "I don't want--"

  "I've told you the sight runs in the Walsh family. When I started having prophetic dreams, my relatives all told me how lucky I was, how they wished it was them. They were lying. They were thanking the gods it wasn't them. People think it would be wonderful to see into the future. Just as, I'm sure, they think it would be wonderful to see warnings and signs. But it's not. For every ounce it makes your life easier, it makes it a pound harder. You have a gift you cannot share without being locked in a mental institution. Which is one reason I'd urge you to mend fences with Gabriel. He accepts what you can do, and you will need someone like that in your life. Besides me."