"A big 'Property Of' sign would be fine with me."
He laughed, so loud it startled the cat. "I'm tempted to do that, with a Sharpie, just to see the look of horror on your face." He sobered. "Is that a yes? Or are you kidding in hopes of changing the subject?"
I leaned in to kiss him. "No games, remember? I would be honored to have a permanent place on your body. And, yes, I know the tattoo isn't about expecting anything permanent. It's memorializing me."
He sputtered a laugh. "That makes it sound as if you're dead. It's like the rest of my tattoos--marking someone or something significant in my life."
"I want one, too." I rolled half onto his chest, looking down at him. "Like we discussed."
"You don't have to, Liv."
"I want to."
He studied my face, then gave a slow smile. "Okay. But I'm going to insist you get a small design, something easily hidden. I have an idea, too."
He reached down for my jeans and pulled something from the pocket. It was the boar's tusk given to me by one of the Cwn Annwn.
He'd first seen it the night we'd heard the Wild Hunt, and I remembered the fascination glittering in his eyes as he'd turned it over in his hand. A gut-level recognition that this was significant somehow. Like his grandmother's stories of the Hunt.
I should have known what he was.
The girl was right. I had known. Deep down.
He pointed to a symbol on the tusk--a Celtic-style sun and moon, intertwined. "For my tattoo, I'd like this. It reminds me of you. Don't ask me why. It just does."
The sun and the moon. Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Two halves of my whole.
I ran my fingers over the engravings of the moon. The symbol of the Cwn Annwn. Ricky's symbol. It fit him. It always had, and maybe it wasn't what I wanted for him, but it was him. There was no changing that. For Ricky, then, I chose this design. When I said that, I thought he'd ask why, but he only nodded, looking pleased.
I put the tusk aside. "Okay, so we have the design. Where should I put it?"
His grin was devilish now as he rolled me onto my back. "Well, that's going to take some exploration. If the spot's too hard, it'll hurt too much. Too soft, and it's really not going to look as good in thirty years."
I stretched out, hands behind my head, covers kicked off. "Explore away. I trust your judgment."
--
I woke to the buzz heralding a text message. As I reached for my phone, I glanced out the window. It was pitch-black . . . except for a faint glow from Rose's house. Shit.
Sure enough, I had three texts from Gabriel. They grew increasingly terse as I failed to reply. The last was simply: Are you coming?
I looked out the window at that light. I could feel the pull of it. Go talk to Gabriel. He's waiting for you.
I glanced at Ricky, soundly sleeping, his leg over mine, his hand on my hip.
Patrick said that if I was forced to choose between Ricky and Gabriel, he had no doubt whom it would be. I remembered the smug smile on his lips, the conviction in his eyes.
I cared about Gabriel. Deeply. But we weren't Gwynn and Matilda, no more than Ricky and I were Arawn and Matilda.
I sent back a message. Talk tomorrow. And the light across the road went out.
--
I woke to a message that Gabriel had headed home the night before, so I needed to drive myself to the office. I arrived expecting to talk to him about my vision, only to discover he'd retreated with his door closed. He'd left work for me in the meeting room. Lydia buzzed to tell him I was there. He didn't come out.
Gabriel had left me Pamela's file. The note on top gave me instructions. Or I think they were instructions. It was exactly two words: Inconsistencies. Motive. Motive was underlined twice.
If there were inconsistencies in the Larsens' case, he'd have found them by now. As for motive--seriously? No one had figured out my parents' motive during their trial. How the hell was I supposed to?
More information would help. Hell, actual sentences would help. But I dug in.
--
When a client arrived, I gathered my work and went into the reception area. The client--a guy wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit--glared as if I'd cut him off in traffic. Gabriel ushered him into the meeting room without a glance my way.
It was not a long session. It consisted of a lot of angry words from the client, followed by the only two that counted: You're fired.
The man stormed out. Then his shoes squeaked as he pulled up in front of me.
"Let me give you a word of advice, girlie," he said. "Unless you want your boyfriend defending traffic violations, you'd better back the hell off and let him do his job."
Gabriel beat me to a reply, saying, "Ms. Jones is my employee and my client."
"Really?" The man snorted. "If you aren't at least getting some pussy out of the deal, then you really are an idiot. You want some advice, boy? A couple hundred bucks will buy you better and won't cost you clients."
The man stomped out. Gabriel glanced at Lydia. "Please move Mr. Harris's file to the drawer for former clients and prepare his final bill. How many is that so far?"
"Three, but you've--"
"That's all I asked." He turned his gaze my way, just for a second, empty eyes meeting mine; then he returned to his office.
I slid my chair up to Lydia's desk. "He's lost three clients because of me?"
"Three minor clients, with minor cases. Since Edgar Chandler's confession, I'm fielding a half-dozen calls from potential clients a day. He's not mentioning that part because he's fuming about something. I take it you two had a falling-out?"
"Actually, no. There's a reason he might be annoyed with me, but this is beyond annoyance."
"Then it's stress. It'll pass."
Maybe, but if he was that upset with me, working it out might decrease his stress.
I rapped on his door. When he didn't answer, I turned the handle.
"Yes?" he said, voice crackling with such irritation you'd think I'd pranced in ahead of a marching band.
"Can we talk?"
He waved a hand across his desk, covered in files.
I closed the door behind me. "I wanted to apologize."
"I'm busy, Olivia." An emphatic gesture at his desk.
"If you're upset about last night . . ."
"Why would I be?" He lifted those empty blue eyes to mine. "First I had to stop you from going to the Carew house--"
"No, I was coming back on my own. I realized I was doing something stupid--"
"Then you went and had a vision anyway, knowing how I felt about it."
"I was sitting on a bench. The vision came--"
"I do not have time for this, Olivia. You can see the state of my business . . . in addition to the murder charge I now face."
"After weeks of telling me that you're helping because you want to--and because it'll further your career--you've suddenly decided I'm ruining that career?"
"I did not say--"
"Bullshit." I strode over and put my hands on his desk. "You are in a pissy, pissy mood. Lydia says you're stressed. Completely understandable. But do not take it out on me. Yes, maybe I didn't handle last night as well as I should have. I apologize for that."
"I have work to do, Olivia." His eyes were ice-cold. "And if you intend to keep your job, I might suggest you do as well."
The temptation to quit then and there was almost overwhelming. Instead, I straightened, said, "Yes, sir," and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I pored over Pamela's file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.
I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That's when I kicked a sparrow.
A dead bird in your path is a sign to turn your ass around. There are few superstitions surrou
nding sparrows specifically, though, meaning the warning wasn't exactly a red flag. Maybe burnt orange. I decided it meant there was something worth investigating here.
I knocked on Childs's door. There were no flyers in the box now, but the town house was dark and no one answered. I rapped again . . .
"He's out."
The neighbor had a trowel in her hand and wore knee guards.
"He's back from wherever he went," she said. "But he just stepped out."
"Oh. I . . ." I checked my watch.
"He'll probably be home at any moment. Why don't I fix you a coffee while you wait. I could use a break from the war of the weeds."
"And I'd love to take you up on that, but I was just popping by on my way past. Thank you, though."
My cell buzzed with an incoming text. I ignored it, and thanked the woman again before heading back to my car.
"I spoke to him about you," she called after me.
Shit.
"He said his sister has taken a turn for the worse, and she's in care. He appreciated your concern and said if you stopped by, I was to ask for your number again. He's misplaced it."
So Childs knew my story was bullshit. Huh. I scrawled my number on a scrap of notepaper. As I handed it to her, my cell buzzed with another text.
"I really do need to run," I said, "but please give him that and thank you for all your help."
--
When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was Gabriel. First message: Where are you? Second message: Olivia . . .
I replied with one word: Working.
He responded immediately. Where are you?
Out. Working.
Where?
Chicago.
His response took a moment. I imagined him starting to seethe, possibly hitting a wrong key or two, cursing me as he fixed it.
Olivia . . .
Gabriel . . .
I didn't wait for a reply, just quick-typed: I'm working on the case, as requested.
I didn't tell you to leave.
Am I not allowed to leave?
Pause. Pause. Pause. Thinking through an answer. Well, no, I'm sure he didn't need to think about it. His answer would be that I should be right where he left me just in case he needed me. However, being a smart man, he did not say that.
Where exactly are you?
In my car.
Five seconds. My phone rang.
I sent one last text. Working the case. No time to chat. Talk later.
I turned off the ringer and left the phone vibrating in my bag as I pulled from the curb.
--
I drove to a little bungalow in Brighton Park. A ten-year-old van sat in the drive. I pulled in behind it, walked up to the stoop, and knocked. When the door opened, I was ready to stick my foot in the gap to keep it from slamming shut. I've seen Gabriel pull that trick many times. I suspect it works better with a size-twelve loafer.
Luckily, I didn't need to risk bodily injury. The man took one look at me and said, "I wondered when you'd show up." Then his gaze went to my Jetta. "Walsh isn't with you, I take it."
"He's not."
"Did they deny his bail?"
I shook my head. "He's out. Just busy working on staying that way."
The man nodded. "Strange business. But it always was." He moved back. "Come on in."
He backed his wheelchair into the kitchen. Detective Chris Pemberton. Retired a year ago, having spent eight years behind a desk after getting in the middle of a gang dispute and catching a bullet in the spine. Twelve years before that, he'd been the secondary detective on a career-making case. Ending a spree of horrific murders and putting the perpetrators behind bars. The Valentine Killers. My parents.
"Wife's out," he said. "I'm going to text and tell her to stay away for a while. She doesn't like it when I talk about the case. I always wondered what happened to you. Adopted by the Mills and Jones department store guy." He shook his head. "I'd say I was glad to hear it--you deserved something good after all that--but it seems things haven't been too easy for you lately."
"I'm doing okay."
"Looks like it." He pulled up to the kitchen counter. "Coffee? Tea?"
I said I'd take either, and he started fixing coffee as I settled in at the kitchen table. I'd presumed a detective who'd helped make the case would want nothing to do with me, which is why I'd come over unannounced. This wasn't what I expected, and I couldn't help bracing for trouble.
"I was there when they arrested your parents," he said, getting cups from a low cupboard. "World-class fuckup, pardon my French. It should never have gone down that way. We were told you and your mom were away, and that Todd had guns. I never forgot the look on your face when the team broke in."
"All I remember is that it was my half birthday," I said. "We were going for a pony ride."
When I saw his expression, I wished I hadn't said that. He felt bad enough.
"It's okay," I added. "I forgot all about it until recently."
"Maybe, but you never really forget. Any shrink would tell you that. Cream and sugar?"
"Cream, please."
He poured it. I got up to retrieve my cup from the counter, but he waved me down. "I've got it. Nine years in this thing, and I'm a pro."
He brought both coffees to the table. I thanked him and sipped mine.
"You have questions," he said. "And since my partner has passed on, it's down to me. What do you want to know?"
"Why they did it."
He winced. "Ah, hon, of all the questions . . ."
"It's the only one I need answered. The most important."
"You think they're guilty, then?"
I looked up, startled. "Don't you?"
He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. "All the evidence pointed that way. I didn't want to believe it. None of us did. We'd been to your house once, on a tip."
"Where you pretended to be warning people about a rash of break-ins."
"Yeah. We talked to your parents, and you were there, and we walked out thinking we were wrong, that it couldn't have been your folks, and we were glad of it. No one wants to think that about a nice young couple with a cute kid. They were good parents. Whatever else they are, remember that. Anyone could see they loved you very much."
"Thank you."
"So did I believe they did it once the evidence piled up? I guess so. There wasn't much of a choice. But when you and Walsh found that Chandler guy, I'll be perfectly honest, I . . . I didn't know what to think. There's always been a part of me that hated that case. Hated what happened. That's why my wife doesn't like me talking about it. Too many sleepless nights, wondering if we'd put the right people in jail. Now that there's doubt, I should be happy, right? It's not like I'll catch any fallout. I'm retired, and this"--he banged the chair's side--"makes me a goddamn hero. No one's saying I screwed up. They don't dare."
"But you aren't happy we've raised that doubt."
"I . . . I don't know." He paused. "You won't want to hear this, but where there's smoke, there's fire. I cannot believe the system locked up two completely innocent people."
"Which is why Gabriel Walsh and I are still investigating. Let's say they did it. Why? I know motive is the prosecution's concern, but you must have had theories."
He sighed. "No, I didn't. That was the toughest part. Why would they do it? It wasn't about sex or thrills. I've seen my share of both. The prevailing theory, as you well know, was witchcraft."
"You don't believe that?"
He fingered his half-empty cup. "I always thought it was the best answer. The only sane answer, as insane as it was. But it still takes you back to the original question, doesn't it? Why?"
I looked at him.
"Why conduct such a ritual?" he said. "No one seemed interested in answering that. I suppose, if they tried, they'd just list the usual reasons people commit regular old murder all the time. Money, power, revenge . . . But none of that fits your parents. Anyone who spent five minutes with them knew they weren't inter
ested in that. They only cared about each other. And of course--"
His gaze went to mine and he stopped himself, as he realized what he was about to say, to imply. That there were only two reasons the Larsens would commit murder. For each other. And for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
If Gabriel was seething before, he'd hit a roiling boil when I refused to answer my phone. I wasn't trying to piss him off, but the angrier he got, the more annoyed I got.
I texted him. I really am working. I'm a big girl, Gabriel. I can handle this. Talk later.
I arrived at my next destination: lunch. I had one final stop on my schedule, and I needed sustenance for that one. I was eating a sandwich when my phone rang.
"Gabriel called you, didn't he?" I said as I answered the phone.
"Yeah," Ricky replied. "I'd say you must have seen an omen, but with Gabriel, you don't need them. Apparently, you took off and can't be trusted to survive alone in the big city."
I answered that with a few choice words, then said, "I left to do some legwork, and apparently I forgot to ask permission and deliver my minute-by-minute itinerary. I'm not making a statement--I'm just trying to get some damned work done. I'll text him."
--
I sighed as I approached the prison's front doors. "The point of texting to tell you where I was going was to assure you I was fine. It wasn't an invitation to join me."
Gabriel didn't say a word, just bore down on me with a look that made me consider an end run around him. There were guards with guns inside. Surely they'd protect me.
"Stop right there," I said, putting up my hand. "If you've come to give me hell, head back to your car and save it for morning."
"Are you coming to work in the morning?" he asked.
"Of course. Why wouldn't . . ." I trailed off. "You thought I quit?"
"I suggested you weren't doing your job properly, and you walked out."
"To do my job properly. I went out to speak to someone about the case. I told Lydia. I told you. And you thought what? That I'd swanned out, and I was sitting in a coffee shop, sipping a mocha, chortling to myself as I texted you pretending to work? How old do you think I am? Twelve?"
"I--"
"Don't answer that. Here's what I was up to: First, I tried to speak to Jon Childs. He wasn't home, so I visited Chris Pemberton, following up on your question about motive. I hoped maybe he might have some insight. Then I came here to see Todd and get the answers that Pamela won't give. It's work, Gabriel. It's all work."