"Do you?"
"Yes." I reclined my seat, ending the discussion. "I do."
Gabriel bustled me into a side door. His gaze traveled along the corridor and darted into each open doorway we passed. He might not have been thrilled with my decision to postpone my media reveal, but having agreed to respect it, he apparently wasn't going to betray that by letting me "accidentally" bump into a reporter. I appreciated that.
I also appreciated the brisk pace. Nobody loves hospitals, but just one whiff of that smell--antiseptic and overcooked food--and my chest seizes up. Soon I'm gulping air, praying I don't hyperventilate. I've been told it's a panic attack. Which would make perfect sense ... if I wasn't so damned healthy that I'd never spent a day in a hospital. I'd only been to the emergency room once, when I was fourteen and broke my arm playing rugby at school and my parents weren't home. Otherwise, my family doctor came to us; my deep phobia of medical care extended even to office visits.
That day, I had enough else on my mind that I didn't go into a full-blown panic attack. I still had to breathe deeply, and I caught a few concerned glances from people walking past, but Gabriel was thankfully too intent on vulture-watch to notice.
We were near Pamela's hospital room before I saw any sign of added security, and even then, it was only a young officer posted outside her door. He was reading a newspaper, as if his job was more to keep curiosity seekers out than to keep a notorious serial killer in.
When I commented on that, Gabriel said, "True. There will be another one or two inside, though. And they'll be eager to get her back to prison as soon as the doctors say she can be moved. But that's not because they're worried she'll escape. They're ensuring her condition doesn't worsen at the hands of someone who thinks the world would be better off if Pamela Larsen suffered a fatal relapse."
"Oh."
My mother had to be guarded against being murdered ... by a complete stranger who might decide the justice system was better served if she left this hospital in a body bag.
As Gabriel spoke to the guard, I caught the murmur of Pamela's voice, and my shock froze into a moment of perfect clarity. I heard the squeak of a bed being pushed down the hall and caught the faint smell of urine and tasted something cold and harsh and metallic. And pain. I felt pain, a sudden wave of it and Pamela's voice, saying...
Nothing.
Pamela's voice was a mere undertone, nearly drowned out by the squeak of wheels.
I turned to see a nurse pushing a bed with a woman on it, so thin she seemed like a skin-covered skeleton. The woman opened her eyes. They were empty sockets, blood weeping from the holes, spilling over her sunken cheeks.
I wheeled and plowed into Gabriel. He caught me and murmured, "Olivia?" I blinked and turned. The nurse was still there, pushing the bed, frowning at me. The old woman lay on the bed, but her eyes were closed. She wore a white nightgown covered with red flowers.
Poppies. She wore poppies.
"Olivia?"
I struggled to snap out of it, but the halls seemed to sway, everything slightly gauzy, every sound garbled.
I forced my mind back to what I'd been thinking before I saw the old woman and the poppies. Hospitals and Pamela Larsen.
I said I'd never stayed in a hospital, but there were two years of my life I knew nothing about. I must have spent time in a hospital.
I should have felt relieved. All those times I'd chastised myself for such a groundless fear, and it might not be groundless at all. But I didn't feel relieved. I felt angry. Angry with my mother and my dad, who'd known damned well that I must have had an early bad experience before I came to them, but they hadn't told me, fearing it could spark memories of the life they wanted me to forget.
"Olivia?" Gabriel said.
"Sorry," I said. "Are we ready to go in?"
He peered at me, then waved me to one side. "Take a moment."
I stepped away from the guard and motioned for Gabriel to follow. When he did, I lowered my voice and said, "Do me a favor? Erase those words from your vocabulary. At least with me."
A frown. "Which words?"
"Take a moment."
The frown deepened. "I was giving you--"
"--a moment to collect myself. I'm sure you need to do that with your clients. They get angry, emotional, distraught ... But remember yesterday when I advised you not to make physical contact? Same principle here. You can't pull it off."
"Pull what off?"
"Expressing genuine concern. I'm upset, and you see that as weakness, which you make very clear, however inadvertently. You say, 'Take a moment,' but what I hear is, 'Good God, not this again.'" I turned to the hospital room door. "Now let's get this over with."
Chapter Thirty-four
Pamela Larsen lay flat on her back, her skin so pale she was lost against the white sheets. Even her lips looked white. The only signs of color were a yellowing bruise on her cheek and purple half-moons under her eyes.
She's dying.
That's why I'm seeing poppies.
My mother is dying.
I started to turn to Gabriel for reassurance, then stopped myself and looked over at the doctor by the foot of the bed, jotting notes on her chart.
"How is she?" I whispered.
The woman's gaze lifted to mine. I saw nothing in it. No reaction. No clues.
"Eden..." Pamela whispered.
I turned. She lay there, eyes still closed, lips barely parted. One hand clutched the sheets, grip tightening.
"Eden..."
I walked over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she blinked, lips forming an "oh" of surprise.
"Eden?"
I bit back the urge to correct her and nodded.
She smiled and took my hand in a squeeze so weak I barely felt it.
I asked the doctor again, "How is she?"
She told me what had happened. Where the knife went in. What damage it had done. All the coldly clinical medical terms that I didn't give a damn about, and I stood there, nodding, sifting through her words to find the ones I really wanted. When they didn't come, I said, "Can we step outside, please?"
"If you want to know the prognosis, barring any unforeseen complications, she'll be fine."
Emotion finally tinged the doctor's voice. Regret. She'll be fine. This was a doctor. Sworn to heal, not to judge. But judge she did, in the twist of her lips and the chill of her tone.
"Thank you," I said. "That will be all."
A faint widening of her eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're dismissed."
She met my gaze, indignation flashing.
Gabriel stepped forward. "Ms. Taylor-Jones would like a few moments with her mother. As it appears you have completed your visit, we'd ask that you grant her that courtesy."
The doctor's mouth tightened. She said nothing, though. Didn't even look my way. Just returned the clipboard to its place and walked out.
"I want another doctor assigned to her," I said to Gabriel. "Can you do that?"
His chin dipped.
"Thank you."
As I turned back to Pamela, I noticed the two guards assigned to her room. The older woman stood as still as a statue, giving no sign that she'd witnessed anything. The younger man shot a smile my way, then ruined it by checking me out.
"Thank you for coming," Pamela said, her voice a papery whisper.
"How are you?"
A wan smile. "Feeling foolish. I've been in prison too long to be caught off-guard like that. My own fault. I've been distracted."
Distracted by the return of her long-lost daughter. I slid my hand from hers and pulled over a chair.
As I sat, she said, "You don't want to be here."
I shook my head. "I'm fine. Just ... hospitals in general." I hesitated, then plowed forward. "Did I ever stay in one? I can't remember."
"You did. For a fever when you were two. Nothing serious, but you were dehydrated, so they kept you overnight."
"Not a happy childhood experience, I ta
ke it."
Her lips pursed, as if in remembered anger. "You'd never been away from us. Your father wanted to spend the night in a chair by your bed. They wouldn't allow it. We stayed in the waiting room. At two in the morning, we heard you screaming because you'd woken in a strange place. Your father was furious. Tore a strip off the nurse."
The younger guard snickered. "I hear he's good at that."
Pamela turned to him. She said nothing, just met his gaze with a level look. He drew back and muttered something under his breath.
How many other early childhood experiences with the Larsens had formed my character? All the things about myself I would have understood, if only my parents had said, You were adopted.
"I'm sure this is very difficult for you, Ed--Olivia," Pamela said. "This isn't how it was supposed to be. We wanted your grandmother to take you, but she'd had ... problems. In the past. It didn't matter. She was deemed unfit."
"And there wasn't anyone else?"
Pamela shook her head. "Your father's parents had passed. We were both only children. So we were told adoption was the only recourse. The children's services people tried to persuade us to let you grow up not knowing about us, but your father wouldn't listen. That was the one thing he really fought for. Keeping access to you. And they promised it. We would get updates and annual visits for as long as you wanted to see us."
"So what happened?"
"Money. The Taylor-Jones had it and they wanted a little girl on their terms. Which did not include a second set of parents. Particularly ones in prison."
I shook my head. "They didn't know who you were until a couple of years ago."
Her voice came stronger now, anger seeping in again. "Then that's because they didn't want to know. They had custody of you weeks after we were arrested. I swear the adoption went through the same hour we were convicted. That's not normal. They paid someone off. Then there's a so-called bureaucratic mix-up, and suddenly our daughter was lost in the system."
"That's not possible."
"It is if you have money. Especially if the birth parents are serving consecutive life sentences for murder. We hired private investigators, but they took our money and did nothing."
"I'm sorry."
She studied my expression. "But you'd rather I found something else to talk about. Something that doesn't insult your adoptive parents."
"Yes."
Her gaze dropped and her voice lowered. "I'm sorry, Olivia. Obviously, this upsets me a great deal. But it has nothing to do with you, and from everything I can see and everything I've heard, the Taylor-Joneses did a..." She seemed to struggle before saying, "Very good job of raising you." Another pause. Another struggle. "They gave you everything you could have wanted, and if we couldn't be there, that's what we would have wanted, too."
She shifted in her bed. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, the strain of speaking well of my parents past. "On the inside, you meet young women who were adopted, even more with foster parents. You hear stories. Horrible stories. I kept reassuring myself that you were fine, but I still had nightmares. So as upset as I am with the situation, I'm glad that wasn't an issue. Your father will be, too." She looked up. "You haven't been to see him yet, have you?"
I shook my head. "I need to apply for permission."
"Then do that. Please. Nothing would make him happier." A wistful smile. "We both loved you so much, but you were always Daddy's girl. Do you remember anything about him?"
"I..." I wanted to pretend that I didn't. But her expression was so hopeful that I found myself saying, "I remember him pushing me on a swing. I wanted to go higher but he was afraid I'd fall and skin my knees again."
She laughed. "Yes, that would be your dad. You loved swinging and swirling. I used to worry he'd make you sick twirling you around. Or scramble your brains." Another laugh. "Silly first-time-parent worries, I suppose." A wistful look. "We were so young."
I barely heard her. I was still back on what she'd said about twirling. I could still picture that in my memory except I didn't see Todd Larsen; I saw my dad--Arthur Jones--picking me up and swirling me around.
Had Dad done that, too? Or was I really remembering...
My stomach clenched.
Pamela looked over at Gabriel, the first time she'd acknowledged his presence. "You'll handle the paperwork for her."
"Will I?" he said.
"For another five thousand you will."
I swear his icy gaze dropped another ten degrees, but he only said, "If Olivia wishes it."
The door opened and a nurse looked in. "Five more minutes."
When the nurse left, I said, "About your case. You'd asked me to take a look at it."
Her eyes widened. "N-no." Her gaze shot to Gabriel. "You didn't let her see--"
"She was hardly going to turn it over to these innocence organizations without knowing what she was being asked to do. And since I have your file..."
"You bastard."
"I didn't show her anything that was privileged information, Pamela."
"No, just the details of those horrible crimes." Tears sprang to her eyes. She reached out and took my hand. "I'm sorry, Olivia. That's not what I meant you to do at all. What you must have read--" She sucked in air and blinked back tears. Then she met and held my gaze. "We did not do that. None of it. It was horrible. Sick. Disgusting. To even think a sane person could..."
Her hand started to shake. She lifted her other one and wiped away the tears. "We didn't do it, which is why I want you to help us by taking our case to those organizations."
"I will. First, I--"
The door opened again.
"Time's up," the nurse trilled, a little too cheerfully.
Gabriel met my gaze with a faint shake of his head, warning me not to tell Pamela we were investigating ourselves. She was too weak to answer questions anyway.
"I am going to pass on your case to someone," I said. "I'm just compiling what they'll need."
She nodded. Was she disappointed that I wasn't moving faster? I couldn't tell. She only assured me she could answer any questions that arose and would love the excuse to see me again, and then the nurse hustled us out.
We'd barely gotten ten steps down the hall before Gabriel asked me to wait, and he returned to speak to the officer guarding Pamela's room.
Gabriel spoke to the man, then shook his hand. It seemed an odd gesture ... until I caught a flash of green, the officer being a little less proficient at accepting a bribe than Gabriel was at giving one.
When Gabriel returned, he waved me in the other direction.
"Taking the stairs?" I said.
"Service elevators. The officer said two reporters are waiting at the front door, and he believes there's an intern by the stairwell." He paused before pushing the elevator button. "This is your last chance, Olivia. If you'd like, I can go down, see who's there and discreetly arrange a meeting around back."
"Thanks, but no. Not yet."
"As you wish."
He pushed the button.
"About doing that paperwork to visit Todd Larsen," I said.
"Yes?"
"Dealing with one long-lost serial-killer parent is enough for now. But if it's worthwhile for you to make the arrangements..."
"My secretary can handle it. So, yes, it's worthwhile. Thank you." He held open the elevator door and ushered me out. "I don't know if you're feeling up to it, but I did manage to contact Tim Marlotte--Jan Gunderson's ex-fiance. He could meet with us this evening."
"Good." I checked my watch. "If you'd drop me off at a library, I can--"
"Ms. Jones?" a voice called.
Chapter Thirty-five
I froze. The voice had come from my left. I wheeled the other way and--
And do what? Run for the nearest exit?
I adjusted my shirt, fixed on a pleasant look, and turned--to nearly smack into Gabriel's wide back.
"I'm sorry," he said as he blocked me. "Ms. Jones isn't giving interviews right now, but if I can t
ake your card, we'll be sure to consider you."
"I just want five minutes of her time, Mr. Walsh. Please. My name is--"
"I know who you are."
"Then you know I've covered several of your cases. Satisfactorily, I believe. I'd have heard from you otherwise."
Gabriel paused.
"Five minutes," the man repeated. "You're free to advise your client against answering any of my questions. I'd like a picture, but it will be posed. I'm not going to sneak a shot of Ms. Jones racing from her mother's bedside."
Gabriel glanced back at me, then turned to the reporter. "May we have a moment?"
He took me aside without waiting for a response.
"I know, I know," I muttered before he could say anything. "I should do this. It's one guy. A few questions. Posed photos. You can vouch for his rep. I just wish..." I exhaled. "Do I look all right?"
"Yes, but if it'll make you feel better, I can buy you a few minutes in the restroom. As long as you promise not to crawl out the window."
"Tempting..." I glanced around Gabriel at the reporter. A small guy with a potbelly. Well groomed. Unassuming. He met my gaze with a polite smile.
"Two minutes with a mirror," I said. "Then I'll do it."
I didn't ace the interview. My mind was still with Pamela--worrying about her and getting annoyed with myself for worrying. On a scale of one to ten, I'd rate my performance a six. Still, it was a lot better than my earlier encounters.
Naturally he wanted to know my thoughts on my biological parents. An interview without that was useless. So I said I was still processing the news, still in shock, blah blah. Not the most exciting answer but an honest one. My others were less honest. I didn't lie outright, but I hinted--strongly--that I was living in Chicago and looking for work. The only questions I refused were about James. That was one topic I wasn't ready to speak on.
There was a question that I kicked myself for not expecting. What was I doing with my mother's former lawyer? Luckily, Gabriel smoothly covered for me, saying that he was facilitating contact with Pamela Larsen, ensuring that I got everything I needed from my biological mother--medical information and so on. When we finished, the journalist--a freelancer named Martin Lores--exchanged cards with Gabriel and promised to call with publication details.
----
We were in the car before Gabriel spoke.
"You handled yourself very well, Olivia."
I gazed out the window. "I did adequately."