"Unless you'd rather I waited," she said. "Or maybe you want to do it yourself?"
"No, of course not. Your plan makes sense."
A wary, "Okay," as if she suspected it wasn't okay at all. "So we'll pop by, and then I'll call you with whatever I learn--"
"No," he said. "I'll be busy tonight." Stop. Damn it. Stop. Reverse. "I'm very busy, Olivia. I'm still catching up from before, and I really don't have time for this case."
"Okay..." Uh, weren't you the one who suggested it, Gabriel? She didn't say that. She would have, a few weeks ago. Now she trod carefully. So carefully.
Back up. Tell her you were joking. She'll laugh and say you need a lot more practice, and you'll insist it's fine for her to conduct that interview with Ricky. Just call when she's done and--
"If you wish to pursue it, you may do so," he said. "I'll let Patrick know. But I don't have the time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."
ELEVEN
GABRIEL
Gabriel was in the gym. He'd been there often enough in the last two weeks for the staff to notice and say it was good to see him coming regularly. One made the mistake of clapping Gabriel on the shoulder. One glance, and the man had pulled away so fast you'd think he'd been in imminent danger of losing the limb. Today, as Gabriel stalked in, the young woman behind the desk hadn't even waited to see his membership card, just pointed mutely at the locker rooms.
He had excuses for increasing the regularity of his visits. With Olivia away, he had more time. And he may, in hauling Ricky onto that balcony, have realized how long it'd been since he'd done more than go for a run or a swim.
There was also the undeniable fact that his physique did not fare well under poor diet and exercise conditions. A large bone structure meant it was easy for him to gain muscle...and equally easy to gain not-muscle. Also easy for him to conceal the not-muscle. Or conceal it until he shed his shirt and proved it had been a while since he could feign a flat stomach without inhaling.
Any impetus, then, to rectify the problem came from a personal desire to get back into shape. Fix the problem before he reached middle age and a soft middle became a spare tire. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Ricky was in excellent shape and in possession of not only a flat stomach but the proverbial six-pack.
That was not what drove him to the gym.
At least it wasn't tonight, because tonight, the very thought of considering how his physique compared to Ricky's was laughable. Rather like worrying that his swimming skills weren't on par with an Olympian's. It wasn't as if he had any chance of joining an Olympic swim team...and at this moment, possibly more chance of that than ever having Olivia see him with his shirt off. He seemed hell-bent on making sure of that.
Which was why he was here tonight--trying to work off the anger and the frustration. If he couldn't focus enough to lose himself in work, he would work himself into physical exhaustion and then perhaps...
Perhaps what? Reach some mental nirvana of clarity? Understand why he seemed determined to sabotage any relationship with Olivia?
It was one thing to not understand what he was doing wrong. In the beginning, he'd had that excuse. When he'd betrayed her, he'd honestly felt--okay, mostly felt--that he'd done nothing wrong. He knew better now, having gained a sufficient grasp of what it meant to hold a person's trust. To betray that trust. To hurt that person.
And yet now he saw the problem...and couldn't stop making it worse. Like watching a freight train barreling downhill and holding up his hands, shouting, "Stop!" only to have it roll right over him.
Olivia wanted to conduct one interview with Ricky, for a very good reason, and the logical part of his brain knew it had nothing to do with him. But it felt like rejection, and his defenses had shot into place.
You won't hurt me.
I won't let you.
I'll hurt you first.
He hefted the barbell over his chest, too much weight, his muscles screaming. He kept lifting, pushing higher and--
His cell phone sounded with a text message. He struggled to get the barbell into the rack and pulled out his phone.
It was Olivia.
Made it to Cainsville. Can come in tomorrow if helps with workload.
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the machine, feeling as if he still held that barbell, muscles trembling, weight threatening to crush him. He mentally repeated the text and heard the hesitation, so very un-Olivia.
Treading carefully. Walking on eggshells around his mood because she had to. Because he was her boss, and she loved her job, and it was his to take away. Because he had, subtly, threatened that before.
Which was not how a friendship was supposed to work.
Not at all.
You're clearly upset, Gabriel, and I'm afraid of losing my job, so I'll come back early to help out.
He started typing a response.
No, that's fine.
Too curt. She'd think he was angry.
No, you don't need to.
Too ambiguous. She might think he was testing her. Or worse, that he was saying he didn't need her at work. Ever.
Stay home. Rest up! You'll need it after that long ride. See you Monday!
Oh, yes. That was perfect...if he wanted her to think he'd been drugged. Possibly possessed.
There was no message he could send that she wouldn't spend far too much time analyzing. He needed to fix this in person. Immediately. Before he lost his nerve.
Gabriel had lost his nerve.
It started partway through the drive when he began worrying that it would seem odd if he drove out to Cainsville just to talk to Olivia. It would look as if their friendship was important to him, and he worried that he'd lost it. Which was clearly true, but the thought of showing up on her doorstep and proving--
No, he needed an excuse.
He would go to Rose's. His great-aunt lived right across the road from Olivia's apartment. He'd stop in for a visit and then, while he was in the neighborhood, he really ought to speak to Olivia and make sure she didn't feel obligated to come to work. And if that led to talk of the ghost, he could say that he had spoken in haste, momentarily feeling overwhelmed by work, and he did have time to pursue it, if she was so inclined.
That's when he drove onto Rowan and saw Ricky's motorcycle parked in front of Olivia's building.
He almost turned around right then. Circled the block and headed home. But two of the elders had waved to him on Main Street. How would he explain that if they mentioned it to Olivia?
So he parked and walked to Rose's door. He'd just rung the bell when a laugh floated out from her open front window. Olivia's laugh.
Gabriel glanced at his car.
Yes, excellent plan. Run quickly, and perhaps they'll only see your taillights as you speed away.
The door opened.
"Ricky," Gabriel said.
"Hey." Ricky stepped back. "Good timing. Your aunt was just making tea."
"I didn't realize you and Olivia were here. I should have called. Tell Rose I'll speak to her tomorrow."
"She's right here. Come on in. Liv will want to say hi."
No, Gabriel was quite certain Olivia did not want to say hello. Not to him. Which Ricky would know, having been party to their last conversation. He was trying to broker peace, as he always did. Trying to do the right thing, as he always did.
I thought of letting you fall off that balcony.
I thought of letting you die.
Gabriel's gut clenched, and he was about to make his apologies when Olivia swung in with her usual grin, her green eyes dancing. Then she saw who was at the door.
That light snuffed out. A moment's pause before she fixed on a smile that made his gut clench all the more. The gracious debutante smile she used for strangers.
"Hello," she said. Not "Hey." Not "Hi." Not some teasing comment about him appearing just in time for cookies.
"I was just--" Gabriel began.
"I should take o
ff," Ricky said. "I can still make it back to the city before dark, and Dad was hoping to talk to me tonight."
"And I have"--Olivia visibly struggled--"laundry."
"I think it can wait," Ricky said. "As bad as it smells, another day can't possibly make it any worse."
"Ha-ha. Yes, I'm making a crappy excuse." She turned to Gabriel. "You want to talk to Rose, so I'll clear out."
"No, I--"
"It's fine. We were just chatting. I'll see you at work tomorrow?"
"That won't be necessary."
He meant it in the most thoughtful and considerate way, but his voice was not accustomed to displaying either tone. Olivia tensed, and Ricky's jaw set in a look that warned Gabriel he was one step from seeing a far less pleasant side of the young biker.
Gabriel hurried on, "You've had a long trip, and you weren't due back in the office until Monday, so you should take the extra day and rest."
Do laundry. That's what he would have added a few weeks ago, with a quirk of his lips, and she'd have laughed. Now he could no more manage it than she could manage her usual grin.
But what he did say seemed enough, Ricky giving a slight nod and easing back, Olivia relaxing and saying, "No, I'll be in. I'd rather get up to speed and ready for Monday."
"All right, then. As for the ghost--"
"No ghost stories. Got it. And I'm sorry if I got carried away. You were humoring Patrick, but this isn't a real case. My undivided attention will be on that: real cases."
Before he could say anything more, she hurried out the door with Ricky. Gabriel stood there, watching them go. As he shut the door, footsteps sounded behind him.
"May I ask you a favor, Gabriel?"
He turned. His aunt's expression was unreadable, which meant she was about to say something that would upset him, and so she tread carefully. He'd left once before, not to return for years, and while that had been about protecting her, it had still hurt, a fact he only realized in retrospect. To Rose, it had felt like rejection, and so, as solid as their relationship might be now, she tread as lightly as Olivia. It was like the punch line to a poor joke. How do you have a relationship with someone who can't fully grasp the concept? Very, very carefully.
Rose walked closer. "It's about Liv."
He took shallow breaths. If he stiffened, she'd back off, and whatever she had to say, he needed to hear it.
"If you're having second thoughts about her job--" Rose began.
He tried to protest, but she held up her hand and continued. "If you are, I'm going to ask that you tough it out for six months, and then you help her find a new position and offer a glowing recommendation. She deserves that."
"I'm not--"
"She gave up her job at the diner to work for you. Yes, that wasn't exactly a sacrifice. She has a graduate degree. She shouldn't be waiting tables. But nor, one could argue, should she be a private investigator. You offered her the job, and she loves it, and no one else is going to hire her until she has more experience."
"Yes, of course. I--"
"Liv doesn't even need to work, but she wants to. And she wants the job you gave her. She's been a damned fine investigator."
"I know. I--"
"So do not let your personal issues threaten that, Gabriel. She doesn't deserve it. Those issues? I'm sorry--you know I hate to say this--but they are yours. Exclusively yours."
He pulled back, and he heard her sigh softly. He steadied himself and said, "I have no intention of firing Olivia. I do not employ her out of charity. She does her job very well, and thus there would be no legal grounds to dismiss her."
"We aren't talking about legal grounds, Gabriel."
"I know. What I'm trying to say is that if she thinks her job is in danger, I will set her straight on that point. We had a personal dispute. I told her not to come into work. I only meant for one day--I was upset. But even that crossed a line. Her job is secure, and if I've made her feel otherwise, I will rectify the misunderstanding."
"Good. Now come inside."
"I should--"
"Does that sentence end with the words 'go and speak to Olivia'?"
He said nothing.
"Then come inside," she said as she headed for the kitchen. "Someone needs to drink this tea now that you've frightened off my guests."
Gabriel followed her. "That was not my intention. I was simply coming to speak to you about..." He thought fast. "Ghosts. I want to speak to you about ghosts."
She glanced over her shoulder. "For this case that you told Liv you don't have time to investigate...after dangling it in front of her like a lollipop."
He cleared his throat. "That too is a misunderstanding. I only meant that she should not feel obligated to pursue this whim of Patrick's when she has just returned from vacation."
"Excellent excuse. Stick to it. Now go sit in the parlor."
He did. As he sat in front of Rose's desk, he saw a new book on top. Discovering Cape Breton Folklore. A gift from Olivia. He was leafing through it when Rose came in with the tea tray. He put the book aside and rose to pour tea, then took a cookie as he sat.
"First," she said, "before we talk ghosts, tell me you aren't wasting my time."
He arched his brows.
"You know what I mean, Gabriel. Tell me you aren't going to pick my brain and then chicken out on pursuing the case."
"Chicken out? That's rather colorful."
"Rather accurate, too, but fine, let me reword that. Tell me you won't waste my time by deciding tomorrow that you are far, far too busy to pursue this case."
"Olivia may not wish to--"
"Then you will. You'll give her that excuse about not wanting to waste her time. You'll tell her you are still pursuing it and that you would appreciate her help--as paid employment. So yes?"
He made a noise.
"Try again, Gabriel. Yes, Rose, I promise I am not wasting your time. I'm asking Olivia to come ghost hunting with me."
"I would hardly call it--"
"Yes?"
"Yes. To...what you said."
"Good. Ask your questions."
TWELVE
GABRIEL
Gabriel rarely regretted his rhetorical style. It was not showy or flashy, and on seeing a lawyer stage the courtroom equivalent of a melodrama, while he could appreciate the effectiveness, it did not appeal to him. He watched lawyers gesture and mug and cast the defendant in the role of saint--or misbegotten sinner--and he felt a moue of distaste. That was showmanship, not skill. Like a pickpocket who shouts, "Fire!" in a crowded room because he's not good enough to empty a pocket with light fingers and a nudge of misdirection.
Gabriel did his best work outside the courtroom. Building the case. Gathering the evidence. Arranging it to fit his narrative and, yes, sometimes filling in the holes with carefully constructed fictions. In the courtroom, while he certainly employed some legal sleight of hand and misdirection, his defense seemed simple and straightforward, and it was given in the same tone. Direct. Economical. Confident. No flourishes or digressions.
That was his natural style both in and out of the courtroom. Which meant that he was not the best person to turn interesting facts into a compelling narrative. As Rose talked to him about ghosts, he imagined relaying the information to Olivia and hearing it sound about as captivating as a graduate-level lecture on cellular biology.
He did take notes, though. Lots of notes.
Gabriel had not yet told Rose the exact nature of the case. Even with a woman who made her living as a psychic, he feared he'd get as far as "hitchhiking ghost" and she'd burst out laughing.
In fact, her career made him even more wary. Rose wasn't some fortune-teller who honestly believed everything she told her clients. She might have the Sight, but she was also a Walsh, which meant she did some "filling in the holes" with her own carefully constructed fictions. Like Gabriel, she took the basic facts and massaged them into a pleasing narrative, one designed to make her point--whether it was that the client needed to give up smoking or kic
k out ungrateful offspring.
So he began by asking about vengeful ghosts in folklore.
Rose did not share his rhetorical style. Nor was she a psychic of the "wait, I see your future, slowly appearing, taking form before my eyes" variety. But the ability to tell a good story ran in the Walsh family, being one of the traits that had apparently bypassed him. So when he took notes, he made a concerted effort not to only record facts--as was his inclination--but to add the more colorful details for Olivia.
The vengeful ghost was a horror-genre staple, and for very good reason. If one was going to postulate the existence of spirits, it made sense that a reason they would return was to avenge a wrongful death. He'd had a case, years ago, involving a cat that did indeed seem to have nine lives, returning after each supposed death to stalk and torment his client--the cat's killer. Gabriel had even used that to convince his client to accept a plea bargain by giving him a choice: prison or the cat. He chose jail time. There are few things as pernicious as a cat that will not stay dead.
Vengeful ghosts, then, made logical sense. Cultures from around the world agreed, each having their own variation on the theme.
In ancient Rome, there were the lemures, angry because they'd been denied a proper burial, manifesting not in physical form but as a feeling of dread, of malignant darkness. China had a type of ghost that would make a defense attorney's job far more complicated: the yuan gui--ghosts with a grievance--wandering endlessly, looking for people with whom they could share evidence that would lead to their killers. China also had the you hun ye gui, seeking terrible vengeance on those who had wronged them. Japan had onryo, spirits returning for vengeance and not particularly concerned with whether they actually targeted the guilty, but acting in blind rage, causing natural disasters like earthquakes and drought.
Of particular interest for Gabriel's case were the stories of vengeful ghosts who returned to seduce men and lead them astray. He could see the sheer breadth of these stories as proof that such a very specific type of spirit must exist, but the truth was that one didn't need to dig far in folklore--as in life--to find examples of men making every excuse possible to explain an extramarital affair. If the folklore was to be believed, half the supernatural creatures in the universe existed solely for the purpose of tricking men into sex.