"Oh?"
"Um-hmm."
He walked over, opened the laptop, set it up, and waited for me to flip onto my stomach. Once I did, he retreated. A moment later, the bedsprings creaked. Hands slid over my calves, up to my thighs, squeezing gently before tugging down my panties. The hands again, pushing me up a little, parting my knees, and then . . . a warm mouth, hot tongue, and . . .
"Oh," I said.
"Um-hmm."
I sighed, quietly closed the laptop, and let myself be fully distracted.
--
An hour later, we were stretched out on the bed, naked, talking, drinking beer, and eating leftover nachos he'd brought home. He did most of the eating. I was still stuffed from dinner. He asked where we'd gone. When I told him, he whistled.
"Very nice. Gabriel footed the bill, I hope."
"He did, though he can expense it. Also, he's picking me up at my apartment at ten tomorrow, so I can't sleep in as late as I'd hoped. I suspect he'll want me to do some work after that."
"I'll be home studying. Got a midterm next week. Seems tomorrow's going to be a write-off for us, then. I'm expected to hang at the clubhouse a few nights a week, and I've been remiss. If I don't, my dad will know something's up." He took a last slug of beer and crushed the can. "Once we've gone public--with my dad and Gabriel--I'm going to need to ask you to join me now and then, if you can. Not your scene, I know . . ."
"That's fine."
"I'll make it easy. But if the guys know I'm seeing you, they'll wonder why you're not there with me. Whether you think you're too good for them or I'm embarrassed by them." He made a face as he popped open another beer. "Politics. Motorcycle gang or country club, there's always politics."
"Do you usually date girls from there?" I said. "I know one seemed a little territorial."
He sputtered a mouthful of beer. "Lily? She's eighteen."
"You're twenty-two. It's not cradle-robbing."
"With Lily, it would be. She's a very young eighteen. I don't date girls who hang out at the clubhouse. Ever. Did you actually see them?"
"I'm not judging."
He laughed. "Judge away. That is not my dating pool. I mostly go out with girls from school. Not a lot of that, though. I'm too busy, and it's too complicated. Either way, no one expects me to bring casual dates to the clubhouse."
"If you need me, I'm there."
"Okay. I, um, wouldn't make plans for next Saturday then. If you want me to keep my mouth shut a little longer, I will, but I'd rather come clean with my dad."
"Just warn me, and I'll talk to Gabriel. We can both get the this-is-a-bad-idea speech at once."
"I know." He took a long drink of his beer, then said, "But it's not going to change anything, right?"
"Not for me."
"Good." He put the beer aside and pulled me over.
--
When I told Ricky about his late-night visitor, he didn't seem too concerned. He doubted it had anything to do with the club. There were territorial issues, of course. I'd gotten a crash course on that from Ricky a while back. In Chicago, there were Illinois natives the Outlaws and the Hell's Lovers as well as chapters of other gangs, like the Hells Angels and Wheels of Soul. They were all much bigger than Satan's Saints, and the Saints basically stayed out of their way, having no interest in expanding their territory. As for "territory" in their less-than-legal activities, Ricky said it didn't overlap much with others'. His father had carved out their own niche.
Most likely, Ricky figured, it was exactly what I'd suspected--a third-rate reporter hoping for a story. If the guy came around again, he'd take care of it.
--
It was probably a good thing I'd be spending Sunday night at my apartment. TC was not impressed with my gallivanting. Can't blame him, really. Get trapped in a basement, finally make it home . . . and your damn owner only pops in on breaks to give you food and water before vanishing again.
I got back an hour before Gabriel was due to arrive. I had a call from Howard, which I returned. Just a check-in for my mother--I'd gotten busy and forgotten yesterday. TC spent the next half hour following me and jumping onto the nearest tall object to give me the stink-eye. When a rap came at the door, he planted himself in front of it, as if forbidding me to answer. I moved past him. He stalked back into the living room.
I opened the door to find Gabriel standing there, a coffee in hand. He passed it to me. "Yes, I'm early, but I need to get a photograph of Seanna from Rose. I'll give you this while it's still warm."
"Thank you." When he started to go, I stepped into the hall after him. "Gabriel?"
"Hmm?"
He turned. His shades were on, but I didn't need to see his eyes to know he was still in a good mood. The mocha suggested it. His stance and expression, relaxed and at ease, confirmed it. I hated to screw that up. I really did. But I had to warn him.
"She knows. Rose, I mean. If you planned to grab a photo and not mention why . . . She already knows."
"Ah."
"I'm sorry," I said, setting my drink down. "I asked her if you'd been to the station, and . . ."
"She didn't know what you were talking about. You had no reason to think I wouldn't have told her. I intended to. I just hadn't gotten to it. I'll apologize, then, for putting you in that position."
His face was still relaxed, no sign of concern. When I glanced up, he lifted his shades onto his forehead, and there was nothing more to see in his eyes. Calm and centered.
"Okay," I said. "I just wanted to warn you."
"I'd need to explain when I asked for photos of Seanna anyway. It's not as if I'd want a few for decorating my apartment." A quirk of his lips, no bitterness in his eyes. "This saves me from having that conversation, and since it saves you from having to listen to it, we'll go over together."
SILENCE
Gabriel looked better than Rose had seen him in weeks. Happier than she'd seen him in . . . Well, that was harder. Even as a child, "happy" was never a word she'd use to describe Gabriel. Not angry or sad, either. His emotional continuum seemed to range from content to unsettled. Today, he was closer to happy than she'd have thought possible.
The reason for his mood was obvious. Eden had forgiven him. Oh, Rose was sure there was more to it than that--work must be going well, his schedule easing, his leg healing, life moving back on track. But the reconciliation was significant. The cards had foretold it, in their damnably decisive way. There were, as always, two choices, two paths. Gabriel would win Eden back and ease further out of isolation. Or he would not, and he'd shut down again.
There was no middle ground. There never was. This path, this outcome. That path, that outcome. And little she could do to set anyone's feet on the right one. Like being bound and gagged, watching people you cared about heading to their doom.
But Gabriel was on the correct path now, and she saw that as soon as he came in, barely a word for her, still midconversation with Eden. He'd won her back, and he was happy. Which suggested, she supposed, that he didn't know she'd gotten in only an hour ago, and whose bed she'd come from.
Rose was not about to enlighten him. It was none of his business. When he found out, he'd make it his business. He'd interfere. She didn't need the cards to tell her that. It wouldn't be sexual jealousy. That was still firmly on the other side of the wall, a nonissue for as long as he could keep it a nonissue. For now, it would be jealousy of Eden's time. Of her attention. Sparked by deeper feelings, but that wall would not be breached anytime soon.
Rose wasn't going to interfere. In any of it. Let Gabriel find out about Ricky Gallagher in his own time. Let Eden enjoy her fling, which she obviously was, given her own cheerful mood. As for the cards, they were staying silent on this, which she presumed meant it wasn't worth divining. A minor complication with no major impact either way.
Rose gave Gabriel the photos, and he tucked them into his pocket without a glance. Not intentionally ignoring them but paying them no mind because he was listening to Eden as she pointed
out some interesting artifact in the room. When she finished, Gabriel turned to Rose and said, "You have something you wanted to tell Olivia?"
"Right," Eden said. "You left a message about the boar's tusk. Sorry I didn't get a chance to pop over."
Rose told them what she'd dug up. Wild boars had been native to the British Isles before being hunted to extermination centuries ago. Those hunts found their way into the folklore. Even King Arthur had his boar hunt quest.
They were also linked to the Wild Hunt. In some stories, that was what the riders chased through the ancient forests: a giant ghostly boar. Other times, in pictures, the beasts almost seemed to run with them, alongside the steeds and hounds.
In Celtic lore, the boar's tusk could be a symbol of fertility or protection. Given what the mysterious man had said when he gave it to Eden, Rose was going with protection. That was the sense she'd gotten when she handled the thing as well. She'd also found Celtic and Druidic references to horn amulets, used as protection against the evil eye. This seemed a variation on that.
All that she could have guessed without her books--or even the second sight. The real question was what the engraved symbols meant. She'd managed to identify a few as Celtic, and they supported the protection theory. There were also a sun and a moon, the symbols linked, with writing below. No matter how hard she dug, though, she found nothing that would help her decipher the writing.
When she held the tusk, she felt unsettled. The urge to put it away, hide it away, was almost overwhelming. The thing didn't feel evil. It just felt . . . as if it didn't belong here, in her house, in her hand. In Cainsville.
That's what she felt most of all. That it didn't belong in Cainsville. This was no ordinary town. She'd always known that. As for exactly what its peculiarities hid, she'd been raised not to question, and she didn't. Her soul rested quietest that way. Eden's soul would, too. As would Gabriel's. So she told them about the tusk and the folklore and the symbols she'd deciphered, and as for the rest--her feelings about it and Cainsville and their connection--she said nothing at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The police station wasn't the same one we'd been to yesterday. This one was in an area of the city I didn't recognize. An area I'd never have had any reason to visit. While some of the historically "bad" areas of Chicago had been redeveloped, this one had been left alone. Left well alone.
Was this where Gabriel grew up? I supposed so. It was where Seanna's body had been found, in one of these buildings, probably still empty fifteen years later.
The detective who retrieved us at the front desk was young, new to his shield, given this task because of it. He didn't even seem to notice me. He was too busy sizing up Gabriel.
"You have quite the reputation, Mr. Walsh," he said as we walked through the station. He managed a smile that I'm sure he intended to be confident, but it wavered at the edges. "I expected you to be older."
Gabriel grunted, taking in his surroundings.
"I don't know what all this is about," the detective said. "But it better not be some kind of trick. They told me to watch for tricks."
Gabriel turned his gaze on the young man then, cold blue eyes swinging his way and pinning him, squirming, under that empty stare.
The detective began, "I'm just saying--"
"Nothing new. Nothing interesting. I make you nervous. You're talking to hide it, which only reveals it all the more. A word of advice, detective? If you're given the chance to take the witness stand, avoid it. You're not ready."
"There's no trick," I cut in before the detective could reply. "As Mr. Walsh explained, I was shown photographs by William Evans before he died. They were reportedly from a cold case your department has on file. We'd like to confirm that by seeing the originals."
"You could have asked us to compare them with the ones found at the scene."
"Yes, but given it's my parents' freedom at stake, I'd like to check all avenues myself."
"Parents . . ." He stared at me. Recognition clicked. "Miss . . ."
"Taylor-Jones," Gabriel said. "I mentioned she was accompanying me, did I not?"
"Um, right. I just didn't make the connection."
"Now you have. The photographs, please?"
The young man led us into the bullpen, and I realized he intended for us to identify the photos there--in front of the other detectives. Now, as he saw the detectives at their desks, Gabriel faltered. Just a split-second hesitation before he found his resolve again, his expression never losing that impassivity.
"Can we do this in private?" I asked.
"No," Gabriel began. "This is--"
"May I do it in private?" I met the young detective's gaze with an anxious look. "Please?"
"R-right. Of course. Let me grab the folder."
As he hurried off, Gabriel dipped his chin, saying nothing but acknowledging what I'd done, telling me it was appreciated.
The detective retrieved the folder and led us into another hall. As we walked, he babbled about how he'd be in contact with the detectives in the Evans case, make sure they got my statement regarding the identification and the file if it was a match.
When we reached an open interrogation room, the detective led us inside. He set the folder on the table and motioned for us to sit. I did. Gabriel didn't. He stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder, as if I was the one needing reassurance, and I shifted back, resting against his hand.
The detective kept up a steady stream of chatter as he prepared to open the folder. Telling me how the photos might be disturbing, but if I'd seen them already then he guessed I didn't really need to be warned, blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up. Just shut up. I might have, too, if I hadn't suspected the prattle actually let Gabriel relax as the detective focused on me.
I couldn't see Gabriel's face as the folder opened. I suspect he was happier that way, no one to witness his reaction. I could feel him there, though, his thumb rubbing my back the only sign of his agitation.
"Are these the photos you saw at the scene?" the detective asked.
"They are," I said.
"And I believe I can identify the victim," Gabriel said.
I glanced back. Gabriel's face was blank, his eyes equally blank, fixed on the photographs.
"Her name was Seanna Walsh," he said. "She was my mother."
--
Things went awkwardly after that. Detective What's-his-name--yes, I should really pay more attention--decided Gabriel was launching some scheme. By claiming a long-dead addict was his mother? That wasn't just ridiculous--it was unbelievably offensive. I gave the detective hell. By the end of it, I think he had decided I wasn't nearly as nice as I'd seemed. In fact, given the choice, he'd probably rather have dealt with Gabriel, who took the accusation in stride, calming me down when I lit into the detective.
Gabriel handed over the photographs he'd brought. One was of both him and Seanna. He provided his mother's vital statistics and the name of the detective who'd handled her missing persons report. He did this all with perfect calm, perfect civility, perfect professionalism. By the end, the detective apologized. Gabriel graciously accepted it. I was still pissed.
We were halfway down the hall when the detective came jogging after us.
"Mr. Walsh," he said.
Gabriel turned.
"The remains--" He stopped himself and flushed. "Your mother, I mean. Her body is buried at Homewood. That's--"
"I know what it is."
"Arrangements can be made to move her. To bury her properly, in a marked grave."
Gabriel's perfect calm cracked then, not enough for the detective to notice, just a hairline fracture. I could see the panic in his eyes, as he struggled to give the gracious response, to say yes, that would be fine, thank you very much. But he couldn't. He could not act like he gave a damn where his mother's body lay, like he'd pay a cent to move her. He just froze.
"We'll be in touch," I said.
Gabriel nodded stiffly, put his hand to my back, an
d led me out.
--
As we walked to the car, I kept sneaking glances at Gabriel. I thought I was being discreet about it. He had his shades on, gaze forward, as if lost in thought. As we turned into the lot, though, he said, "You can stop fretting, Olivia. I'm not going to collapse."
"I know. I'm just--"
"Fretting."
"Concerned."
"I'm fine. I've had plenty of time to prepare for it." A few more steps. "This afternoon we could work on the Conway investigation, now that her death is official." He paused, then added, "If you're free," as if just remembering he should check.
"I am. Nothing planned until my diner shift tomorrow."
He checked his watch. "I should get you lunch first."
"Can I buy this time?"
"You can."
"I should probably drive, too."
He bent to open the car door and looked over the top of his shades. "Did I say I was fine?"
"Just to be sure. I'm only thinking of you."
He shook his head and waved me over to the driver's side.
--
We passed the Mills & Jones department store. As we idled at a light, I looked over at the store, taking up half a city block of real estate, a Chicago landmark. I used to be there a few times a week, meeting my dad or hanging out with him. Since his death, I could count on one hand the number of times I'd walked through those massive front doors. I just can't do it anymore.
I felt guilty about that sometimes. Guilty, too, about not taking a hand in the business. I had a seat on the board. Or I did. By now, for all I knew, they'd voted to kick my ass off. Would I care? I don't know.
"Olivia?" Gabriel's quiet voice.
"Hmm?"
He waved at the light, green now. I pulled through.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Under normal circumstances, Gabriel orders an average-sized meal and eats it all, never picking anything out, never leaving anything. But there's no hint of voraciousness. He approaches food the way he seems to approach everything in life: with dispassionate intent.
Usually, he just glances at the menu, and I can never tell if that's decisiveness or a complete lack of interest in the options. Today, he considered. And he ate as if he actually tasted the food.