"So my mother's family is from Cainsville," I said. "Like yours. My grandmother left after she married, according to this announcement." It said the newlyweds planned to move to Chicago, where John was employed as a factory foreman. "Your mother left, too."
"Yes, she moved to Chicago when she was pregnant with me."
"How did you get Pamela's case?"
"I pursued it after someone brought it to my attention. Yes, that someone was from Cainsville. Ida, in fact. I was not, however, aware that Pamela had any connection to the town. It didn't come up in our discussions, and there was no reason to delve that far into her family past."
His fingers drummed the tabletop. Annoyed that he hadn't known. I was still trying to process it all. I had a connection to Cainsville. My mother's family came from here. I didn't know what to make of that, but I had a good idea where to start asking questions.
"Is there any sense speaking to Pamela?" I said. "I hate to, after I said I won't until she'll talk about the omens and the hounds."
"No, this estrangement is wearing her down. She calls daily to see if you've changed your mind. Any information she can give on your omens is worth holding out for. I will mention Cainsville at our next meeting."
"Do you think it means anything?" I asked. "Or is it just a case of townies looking out for townies?"
"I don't know." More finger drumming. Then he stopped himself. "We should learn more about Glenys Carew. Find out if there's anyone here who remembers her. Some of the elders might."
"Okay." I closed the laptop. "It's late."
"It is. You should get to bed. I'll stay."
There was no reason for Gabriel to stay. Did I argue, though? No, I did not. I got out fresh towels for him, said good night, and went to bed.
--
When I got into my room, I texted Ricky.
Heading to bed. Gabriel still here. Sleeping on my sofa bed. Again.
I waited for the reply, wondering how I would interpret a delay. Taking a while to respond because he was busy at the clubhouse? Or because he wasn't sure what to say about Gabriel staying over?
His reply came less than ten seconds later. LOL. Must be comfortable.
I exhaled. He'd given no signs that he was jealous of my time with Gabriel, but I kept waiting for it. I'm not sure how many guys would be fine with their girlfriend's boss sleeping on her sofa. I sent a final text and went to bed.
SECURITY
Gabriel sat on the edge of the sofa bed and looked around the moonlit apartment. The window shade was an inch short on all sides, and he could have blamed his sleeplessness on the light streaming through, but that wasn't the problem.
He opened the blind. Next door was a two-story house, the roofline below the window. There were no larger buildings on this side, no way for anyone to peer into Olivia's apartment. Or so she'd say. He had only to look at the tree between the apartment and the next house to see an easy vantage point for anyone.
TC hopped up onto the sill and peered out into the night with him, their reflections mirrored on the glass. Gabriel closed the blind. Then he turned to Olivia's door. Silent now. He'd heard the tap-tap of texting earlier.
He checked the locks and security system. He'd expected to feel at ease when the alarms were installed. Yet he could still sense a threat out there, and the only thing that helped was prowling the damned apartment. What had Morgan called him? Olivia's pit bull. He bristled at the implication, but that was exactly what he felt like, checking and rechecking the locks.
A dead body outfitted to look like her would seem as overt a threat as one could imagine. But for a threat to be effective, there had to be an "if" attached to it. If you do X, then Y will happen. No "if" had been given. That was not how the game was played.
Was the X somehow implicit? If you continue investigating your parents' case, you'll end up like this girl. But when the body appeared in Olivia's car, Chandler was already in jail. When the head was left in her bed, she had already walked away from Gabriel and the investigation.
Was it the opposite, then? Keep digging or you'll die? If so, the message was far too obtuse.
He needed to speak to Chandler, damn him. He'd been digging for dirt on the man, but it was hard to find blackmail material that would rattle someone already facing multiple murder charges. Until then, Gabriel had no answers. No clear certainty even that Olivia was under a direct threat. Yet a gnawing anxiety said she was and that he needed to do something about it. Which was almost as bad. Why did he need to do something about it?
Caring about her did not explain this obsessive need to look out for her. She could manage that surprisingly well. When she did call him during an emergency, it was only because she needed legal advice.
Olivia was smart. She was capable. She had a gun and the will to use it. So what kept him running to her aid? Making excuses to spend the night and then spending it prowling her damned apartment? He had no idea. And that, perhaps, unsettled him more than anything.
One more check of the windows and then the door lock. He paused there, fingers on the handle.
Check outside.
He growled softly at the urge. Yet he didn't resist it. Once the anxiety settled, he'd be able to sleep. He was halfway out the door when he felt something brush his legs and looked down to see TC. The cat didn't seem to be making a run for it--he was simply accompanying him.
"Stay here," he murmured.
He managed to avoid the ridiculous temptation to add, "Watch over her." TC wasn't a guard dog, and he certainly hadn't protected her from the last intruder. Because he hadn't been there. Because he'd been taken. Someone had known the cat would have alerted Olivia to an intrusion, and so TC had been removed and shut in the Carew house where the killer was storing the body.
On the front stoop, Gabriel looked around. Checking for that sixth sense that told him a threat was near. "Sixth sense" wasn't the right term. That implied a preternatural power. This was an innate ability to survey a situation and note a threat where others saw none. Such as knowing when Seanna had needed a fix and didn't have drugs or the money to buy them, so he should stay away until she scored. Or when she brought home a man, that sense told him which ones wouldn't care if he was in the next room, which would kick his ass onto the street . . . and which might try to crawl into his bed.
The older he got, the more crucial the skill had become. By the time he was eight, he could no longer count on meals from Seanna. She'd deemed him old enough to fend for himself so she could save some precious drug money. When you need to steal everything from food to clothing to school supplies, the threats multiply a hundredfold. It's not just the police or the people you're stealing from. It's older kids, who'll notice the bills in your pocket and try to swipe them. It's teachers, who'll notice if you're exhausted and dirty and call children's services. It's your own mother, who'll notice you have new shoes and demand some of whatever you stole, and lock you out on the street if you don't pay your share of the nonexistent rent for a hole she gets free for banging the landlord.
When Seanna left, the dangers had multiplied again. That's when the games began. Life itself became a game, a con, a swindle. Not just against marks, but against everyone--from teachers to landlords to any person with the power to lock him up, either in jail or in a group home. He'd lived like a shark then, always moving, stop and perish.
So, out here at night, on this empty street, he kept prowling, assessing, trying to pinpoint the source of danger. But there was none. Just a deep sense of unease.
As he walked, he counted gargoyles. Most times, he didn't even look up to see them, just knew where they hid and mentally ticked them off. It helped settle his anxiety, as it had when he was young. A child's game, perhaps the only one he'd ever known. When he'd come here, to Cainsville with Rose, he was able to be just another boy. It wasn't like school, where kids knew where he lived, how he lived, who his mother was, and even if they didn't, they seemed to sense it on him, their own instincts for threat kicking in as they s
teered clear. In Cainsville, Gabriel could play in the same park as other children and count the same gargoyles.
He got to six before he sensed he wasn't alone and noticed Veronica half a block away. Insomnia, he presumed. Instinctively, he turned to head back, staying out of her path so he wouldn't startle her.
"Gabriel?" she called.
He could pretend not to hear. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. He rarely was, though he'd make the effort in Cainsville.
"Is something wrong?" she asked as she approached.
He felt the urge to say, "I don't know. Is there?" but stifled it. He was just feeling out of sorts. No need to inflict it on her.
"I'm staying with Olivia," he said. "We worked late."
Veronica smiled, a beaming smile that crinkled her eyes. She reached out and squeezed his arm. "I'm glad to see it, Gabriel. So glad."
He knew what she presumed, no matter how quick he'd been to add the "working late" part. All the elders presumed it. He'd seen that in their faces at the diner. An unattached young man and woman, spending so much time together. They made the natural presumption. Which did not apply to Gabriel. He was already putting himself out enough with this relationship. Taking enough of a chance.
He murmured a demurral. It didn't matter. Veronica had made up her mind, and his denials were merely sweet and charming. Old-fashioned chivalry.
He tried to leave after that, but it was clear Veronica wanted to chat. He couldn't be rude to her. However, if she insisted on instigating a conversation, there was no reason he couldn't choose the topic.
"You've lived here all your life, correct?" Gabriel said.
It was a formality. All the elders had. They were as much a fixture of Cainsville as the gargoyles.
When Veronica nodded, he said, "Do you remember Glenys Carew?"
Her lips pursed, as if deep in thought. It was too deep a purse, too great an effort to pretend she needed to consider the question. When she said, "No, I don't believe I do," it was the answer he expected. Also, a lie. The fact of the lie didn't bother him. Everyone lied. The important question was why, and that was always more difficult to answer.
"How about Daere Bowen?" he said.
"Daere." She corrected his pronunciation to Day-ree. "Yes, I remember Daere."
"Did you know she was Pamela Larsen's mother?"
Veronica said nothing. She watched him, with a look he could feel in the pit of his gut. The look didn't promise threat. Yet it was a warning nonetheless, and when he met her gaze, he felt a tug, as if she was pulling the question from his mind. His anxiety ebbed. There's nothing wrong. Go back to bed. Watch over Olivia. This isn't important.
"Yes, it is."
When he heard himself say the words aloud, he stiffened, waiting for her to give him a look of confusion, of question. She blinked, then nodded, a smile playing at her lips, almost as if . . . pleased. She looked pleased.
"Olivia's going to want answers," he said.
"Yes, I suppose she will."
That look vanished, but she continued watching him. Waiting. For him to ask the questions? He knew it would do no good. They needed more information first.
"Is she in danger here?" he asked.
Veronica looked surprised. "Danger?"
"Yes, is Olivia in danger? Here. In Cainsville."
"No. Never." Her tone was firm, fierce even. "Neither of you are."
"It's Olivia I'm concerned about."
"I know."
"I won't allow anything to happen to her."
She smiled. Warm. Pleased again. He felt as if he'd given something away, revealed too much. The anxiety buzzed in the pit of his stomach, and he wanted to pull back the words.
"Go inside, Gabriel," she said. "Get some rest."
He nodded, more curtly than he'd intended, and escaped.
As he stepped into the apartment, he heard a meow and an "Oh!" and found Olivia in the middle of the room, her hair falling in a halo of soft curls, eyes wide with sleepy confusion. She wore only an oversized shirt, feet bare, long legs bare. He jerked his gaze back to her face.
"Alarm," she said, and lunged for it.
He made it first, entering the code before it went off.
"I thought you'd changed your mind and gone home," she said. "I was just going to throw the bolt. Is everything okay?"
"I stepped out for some air. Did I wake you?"
She shook her head. "Something . . ."
He tensed. "You heard something?"
She waved off his concern. "No, no. You're okay, then?"
"I am."
"I'm sure that sofa isn't very comfortable. That might be why you aren't sleeping. If you'd like to leave . . ."
He searched her face for a sign that she wanted him gone. He knew he wouldn't find one. Even when she was annoyed with him, she never seemed to really want him gone. Still, he looked. He probably always would, watching for that signal that he wasn't wanted, and if he sensed that, he'd be out the door before she could say goodbye.
"I'm fine on the sofa," he said.
A smile, sleepy but genuine. Happy that he was staying.
"Go on," he said, waving toward her room.
Another smile as she retreated. "Good night, Gabriel. Sleep well."
"I will."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I served Gabriel breakfast the next day--Larry cooked it; I just served. Once Gabriel left, I stepped outside to call Ricky.
"What time do you start work tomorrow?" he asked.
"Ten. Gabriel has a morning appointment and doesn't need me there until then."
"Perfect. I have class at ten. How about an overnight trip to Wisconsin? We have a cabin up there. Monday nights are quiet, and the forecast is clear."
"Sounds good. Are we riding up?"
"I figured you might want the car for this one. It's almost two hours from Cainsville. A bit long for a bike if you're not used to it. I imagine you were a little sore after the other day."
"A little. But I don't think it was the bike."
He laughed.
"Either way, I'm not complaining," I said.
"Are you sure? I could slow down." He paused. "The bike, at least. I'm not sure about the rest."
"I'm not even sure about the bike. You're pretty damned unstoppable either way."
"Mmm, maybe."
"Bring the bike."
--
I'll admit that I'd wondered if the excitement of that first bike ride had been more about the fact that I hadn't had sex in over a month. It wasn't. The rush was still there, in every way, and we made it about twenty miles before pulling off on another empty road for another lust-fueled pit stop. After that, I changed out of my skirt and into my jeans and Ricky made me wear a helmet--he'd brought an extra this time--and we headed onto the highway for the rest of the trip.
Ricky had warned that the cabin was rustic. It was also a bone-jarring five miles down a dirt road that tapered to a trail no car could breach. While our destination wasn't anything like the so-called cottages I'd visited growing up--million-dollar lakefront homes--it was surprisingly nice. A thousand or so square feet of log cabin with a massive deck. The deck did not overlook a lake, but there was a stream burbling past. And trees--lots and lots of trees--with no other dwellings in sight.
"Wow," I said, leaning on the railing, looking out into the endless green.
Ricky came up behind me. "It's okay?"
He wore the same expression he'd had after we first had sex, that uncertainty and doubt, his eyes anxious, hair still mussed from the helmet. It made him look deliciously vulnerable, and I pulled him over.
"Why wouldn't it be okay?" I asked.
"No lake," he said. "No swimming or boating. Definitely no jet-skiing."
"Not really my thing." I leaned back against the railing. "I like this. Completely quiet. Completely private."
A hint of a grin. "It is private. No need to worry about the neighbors."
"Not just that," I said. "It feels like . .
." I looked around and felt the calm of the forest slide over me. "Beyond peaceful. I'm pretty damned sure I can't get a cell or Internet signal. No need to check my phone. No need to feel like there's something else I should be doing. A complete break from everything and everybody."
"Except me."
"You don't count. You are the most low-maintenance guy I've ever dated, and this is the least demanding relationship."
"I do make demands."
"Sex would only be a demand if I didn't want the same, which is never a problem."
"I've noticed that." He slid his hands under my ass, shifting closer. "I'm glad you're okay with coming here." He looked out into the forest, and something glittered in his eyes, a hunger, a yearning. "I love this place. When I was a kid, my dad had to mark our weekends here on the calendar so I'd stop bugging him about when we were going. I still bugged, because it was never often enough. I'd spend hours out there, tramping through the woods. It was like Disney World for me."
"No place like it on earth?"
"Exactly. Even now, I come up here when I need a study break, and half the time I'm out there instead, walking around. It's like . . ." He struggled for the words. "Like recalibrating. After some time here, I'm ready to deal with all the shit in the regular world."
"I can understand that."
He nudged me back onto the railing, hands still cushioning my ass. "I've never brought anyone here before. Not a friend, not a girl. It's like . . . you have a place you love and then you bring someone, and they notice all the flaws and I feel like I'm being judged, too, for liking it. With you, I don't need to be anything. To do anything. I can just say 'this is me' and you seem happy with that."
"I'm very happy with that."
He looked me in the eyes, and that uncertainty flickered again, as if he wasn't sure I could be telling the truth. I pulled him into a kiss, but he resisted, leaning into my ear instead and whispering, "It's the same for me. I'm very, very happy."
I plucked at his shirt. "And there's no way I can make you any happier?"
"There's always a way."
"Good." I pushed his shirt up over his chest. "Then let's get you naked. 'Cause that always makes me happy."
He laughed, the sound echoing through the forest.
--
We'd come in at midnight, after hours of sitting around a campfire, drinking and talking. Lots of talking, one of the two things it seemed we never tired of. The other followed. By one, we were sated and asleep.