I strode past him. He followed. Sadly, the prison doors moved too slowly for me to slam them in his face.
"Does it help if I apologize?" he asked.
"Let me give you a tip," I said as I turned. "If you feel an apology might work, you don't ask if it will. That defeats the purpose."
I started to walk away, but he swung into my path. He pulled off his shades.
"I'm sorry, Olivia. You were correct. I was under a great deal of pressure, but that was no reason to take it out on you. I apologize."
When I hesitated, his eyes widened, as if frantically trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. Shades off, check. Eye contact, check. Sincere tone, check. Clear and unambiguous wording, check.
"I mean it," he said finally. "I am sorry."
"Okay. I'll see you in the morning--"
"We haven't spoken about your vision."
"I thought I'd speak to Rose about it first."
I wanted to tell Rose about Gabriel's connection to Gwynn and get her opinion on how to tell him. I wasn't punishing him. But his expression said that's what he felt.
"I thought maybe you didn't need the distraction," I said.
"It's not a distraction. It's essential information for understanding the situation. We'll discuss it over dinner. But first, you need to speak to Todd. I'd like to meet him as well."
"Um . . ."
"Is that a problem?" His gaze met mine, that wall ready to fly back up.
I exhaled. "I guess not."
It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but he pocketed his sunglasses and steered me down the hall.
--
Gabriel agreed to give me ten minutes alone with Todd. When they brought my father in and he saw me, he grinned, and when he did, I remembered what the little girl said: that he was Cwn Annwn. Of their blood. Like Ricky. When Todd grinned, I saw it. Not a physical resemblance, but something in the way his grin sparked, easy and genuine.
When my smile faded, his grin vanished. He quickened his pace to the window and leaned forward to murmur, "You don't have to do this, Liv."
"I'm fine. How are you doing?"
Todd tried to hide a smile, and I relaxed in a laugh. "Okay. Dumb question. Sorry. I'm not very good at this."
"I'm fine," he said as he sat. "I'd say that I was rereading a Sherlock Holmes collection, but that might sound like I'm trying too hard. So I won't mention it."
"You just did."
"True, but I worded it in a way that I'm hoping will help me avoid looking like I'm trying too hard, while still giving us something to talk about. I read His Last Bow. It's horrible."
I laughed again. "It is not horrible. Maybe not his best--"
"Horrible. He should have quit while he was ahead. Yes, I know, the fans wouldn't let him, and he felt he had to bring Holmes back after Reichenbach Falls, but let's face it, it was about money, and it showed."
"Okay, to some degree yes, but . . ."
We chatted comfortably about the later Holmes works until Todd glanced over my shoulder and then got to his feet.
"Mr. Walsh," he said. "Good to finally meet you."
I made a show of gesturing at my watch, to say it hadn't been ten minutes, but Gabriel wasn't looking at me. He was staring at Todd, his head slightly tilted. Was he recognizing the fae blood? Or was it what I'd felt on my first visit, that Todd simply wasn't what he'd expected?
"I've heard a lot about you," Todd said.
Gabriel recovered then, pulling over a chair from the next window. "I'm sure you have," he said in a tone that made Todd laugh.
"Yes," Todd said. "Not all of it good, but what counts is that you've gotten closer than anyone to getting Pamela out of prison. Thank you for that. And for looking after Olivia."
Gabriel tensed, as if expecting a trap.
"I know about the arrest," Todd said. "Obviously you're out, which is good. While I'm hoping that means charges were dropped . . ."
"They weren't."
"But it was obviously a setup," Todd said. "Someone trying to make it look as if you were pinning James Morgan's murder on the real Valentine Killer. Maybe connected to this man who admitted to killing the Evans and Gunderson kids? The one who took his own life last week."
"Edgar Chandler. We're working various angles, including that one."
"Have you talked to . . . to my mother?" I asked.
"Not since I saw you. We speak a couple of times a month. After twenty years, there's not much to say beyond 'How are you doing?' and, as you might imagine, the answer to that doesn't change."
"One reason I'm asking . . . I should warn you, before you speak to her again, she's convinced Gabriel killed James."
"What?"
"He didn't," I said quickly. "He wouldn't. And he had an alibi. But even before he was arrested, Pam--my mother--"
"You can call her Pamela, Liv."
I exhaled. "Sorry. It's just--"
"You've had other parents for most of your life. I understand that. So before Gabriel was arrested, Pamela . . ."
"She told me he did it. Someone convinced her."
He frowned. "Who?"
"She won't say, but I'm sure it was a Huntsman. One of the Cwn Annwn."
He hesitated, and that hesitation told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. That was one thing he didn't have in common with Ricky--the ability to pull a charming smile and say, convincingly, I don't know what you mean. Todd didn't even try.
"Okay," he said, exhaling. "So you know . . ."
"Cainsville, the hounds, the ravens, the owls, Tylwyth Teg, Cwn Annwn, Mallt-y-Nos, Matilda of the Night." I met his gaze. "I don't know everything, but I'm figuring it out. I know what you are. Cwn Annwn. The blood, anyway."
He nodded slowly. "My father, apparently. I found out-- Well, it doesn't matter how I found out."
"Maybe it does."
He shook his head. "It might, sweetheart, but I can't talk about it. Your mother . . ."
"But you're like them. The Huntsmen. They hunt and kill, and their prey isn't foxes and rabbits. Is that why you did it?"
There was genuine shock in his eyes. "What?"
"The thrill of the hunt. The need to hunt."
"No. Absolutely not. I don't-- If there is any of that--any at all--I don't feel it. I would never-- I wouldn't."
"Tell me more, then. How did you find out about yourself, about me? What--"
"No, Liv." He met my gaze. "If I know anything that will help Gabriel fight his charge, I won't hold back. But my primary concern is protecting you. It always has been."
"Is that why you did it? To protect me?"
I expected the same reaction. Shock, with the emphatic and immediate denials. Instead, he hesitated again, and my stomach clenched so hard I had to clamp my jaw shut before I hurled my lunch on the floor. When his denial came, I was already on my feet, staggering toward the door.
CHAPTER FORTY
Gabriel called after me, not raising his voice, just sharpening it, as if I were a puppy who'd escaped her harness.
I kept jogging. He finally surrendered to indignity and ran in front to cut me off.
"If you want me to call Ricky, I can do that for you. I would argue, however, that I'm better equipped to deal with this. I understand the situation, and if--"
"They did it. They actually did it."
"My car is over here."
"And mine"--I dangled my keys--"is over there."
He grabbed the keys and whisked them out of my reach.
I could barely force the words out. "The only excuse you have for taking my keys--ever--is if I've been drinking--"
"You're distraught. That's equally impairing." He dropped the keys into his inner jacket pocket.
I headed for a cab idling in front of the prison and climbed inside. Gabriel opened the other rear door, folded himself into the backseat, and gave the driver his address.
"Get the hell out," I said. "Now."
"I think you should both get out," the driver said.
Gabriel handed him a hundred-dollar bill. The man pocketed it and put the car in drive.
Gabriel turned to me. "Earlier, I apologized for treating you poorly. While I know apologies are the normal way of expressing regret, I've never seen the point. In the rare instance that I do regret my actions, it would seem that the proper way to show it is through action. I behaved badly earlier. I am now making amends."
"By stealing my keys and kidnapping me?"
He handed back my keys. I glowered at him.
"If you agree to return to my apartment with me, I'll tell the driver to go back and we'll take your car."
"Oh, sorry, not kidnapping. Just coercion."
"It's a lesser charge."
"Would stabbing you with my switchblade be a defensible action against that lesser charge?"
"No. However, as your lawyer, while I'm not supposed to advise you on how to commit a crime, I might suggest that if one wanted to stab a second party with one's switchblade, one should wait until both parties have relocated to her car. That avoids witnesses"--he nodded at the driver--"and would allow her to claim defense against kidnapping, if the second party is driving."
"I hate you."
"So you've said. It's situational. I don't take it personally."
"You should. I realize interpersonal relationships aren't your forte, but a word of advice? You don't fix problems by forcing people to do what you want."
"Then I've been doing it wrong for a very long time. At immense profit and professional success." He looked at me over his shades. "Perhaps you're doing it wrong."
"Gabriel . . ."
He removed his sunglasses. "While I cannot imagine otherwise wanting to force someone to spend time with me, I would concede that it's probably not prudent--and certainly not legal--to do so. However, given that you are armed with both a knife and a gun, the choice is, ultimately, yours."
"So you'll understand if I stab or shoot you to escape?"
"Hypothetically, yes."
The cabdriver cleared his throat. "I think I would like--"
"Take us back to the prison." Gabriel turned to me. "It's settled, then? You'll come to my apartment?"
"Is that actually a request?"
He put his shades back on. "It's beginning to seem prudent. May we take my car? I feel yours would be safer overnight in the parking lot."
"Overnight?"
"Hypothetically."
--
Back at the condo, we talked. Gabriel wasn't convinced that I was right about my parents' guilt. But that was his job, wasn't it? Could he properly defend Pamela if he knew she'd committed the crimes?
"Most of the clients I defend are guilty," he said. "They pay me to introduce reasonable doubt to the contrary. Which I do."
"But if Pamela did it, how can I help you with her appeal?"
"I don't believe that's your decision to make."
He was right, of course. Pamela was his client. I was his employee.
After a moment of silence, he said, "Your job is to investigate a case thoroughly and completely, and to bring me all evidence arguing for and against acquittal. What I do with that information is not your concern."
"In general, I don't have a problem with that," I said. "Everyone is entitled to a defense, and it's up to the prosecution to prove their case. But if you ask me to help free a sociopath or a rapist--"
"I don't take those cases. Too many complications. But there are cases with ethical quandaries, even for me. You will always have the choice of refusing."
"But with Pamela . . . This is different."
"Remember that your birth parents have spent twenty-two years in prison. Whatever they did, one might argue that they've paid their debt. And pose no danger to society."
Which they don't if they killed to protect me. If, in some twisted way, that was their motive--
I got up and walked to the window.
"If you need to use the bathroom . . ." he began.
I turned a hard look on him. "I'm not going to puke on your floor, Gabriel. I just need--" I glanced at the door.
"If you want fresh air or a brisk walk, then I will gladly accompany you, but if your goal is to escape me and react in private, the answer is no." He headed for his wall cabinet. "This is a difficult subject, and we are going to abandon it immediately in favor of . . ." He pulled out a bottle.
"I don't need--"
"Stop." His gaze met mine. "You don't like me attempting to control a situation, but it works both ways. If you are upset, and you don't allow me to stay with you or offer you a drink, then where do you leave me? Sitting and staring awkwardly as you suffer, which is exactly the reaction that will bother you the most."
"I'm sorry."
He poured two drinks. "I'm not asking you to be sorry, Olivia. I'm asking you to allow me to give you this"--he handed me a glass--"and not to argue about it."
I took the drink and sat on the floor in front of the window. He turned down the lights until they were barely a glow on the ceiling, the room lit by the city outside, the sun fallen, endless lights lifting the darkness. Then he lowered himself, somewhat awkwardly, beside me and began to talk. Gradually, between the drink and the dark and the low and steady rumble of his voice, I relaxed and stretched out on the floor, until, finally, exhaustion won out, and I drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I woke in Gabriel's bed, and there was a moment in the confusion of sleep, when I smelled something that reminded me of him--his soap or his shampoo or his own faint smell--that I smiled and reached out, expecting to find him there. Of course he wasn't, and as soon as I realized what I was doing--and what I was thinking--I jumped up, guilt slapping me as hard as if he'd actually been in bed with me.
I stayed propped up on one arm, breathing hard, pushing aside the fog of sleep, until my heart rate slowed and I could tell myself I'd done nothing wrong, thought nothing wrong. Wak-ing confusion, that was all.
I dropped back onto the pillow, pulled up the sheets, and fell back to sleep.
When the dream came, it was harmless enough. I was wandering through dark and empty halls, searching for Ricky, more annoyed than worried. Something had happened--I couldn't remember what--and we'd been separated, and I needed to get back to him, which should have been much easier than it seemed. I kept walking and calling and walking and calling . . .
That's when I fell in the hole. Or it seemed to be a hole, and I seemed to have fallen in, but with the illogic of dreams, I couldn't quite be sure. One moment I was wandering and the next I was in the dark, and in a full-out panic, the air thinning with each breath as I raced around the room, one hand on the walls, searching for an exit, for a ladder, for a hatch, anything, knowing I wouldn't find it because I'd been searching for hours and I was trapped here in this box. A huge wooden box. When I realized that's what it was, I screamed until my throat was raw. I was running around the perimeter of the room one more time when I kicked something. I crouched, feeling around in the pitch-dark. My fingers closed on a thin metal rectangle.
My phone! I fumbled to turn it on, holding my breath until . . .
Yes, it switched on. It had barely any power, but I had a signal. My fingers flew to the keypad, speed-dialing, and I thought I was calling Ricky, but when the name popped up, it was Gabriel's.
The call nearly went to voice mail before he answered.
"Oh God, thank God." The words rushed out. "I'm trapped. There's not much air, and I've lost Ricky, and I need your help. I really need your help."
Silence.
"Gabriel?"
"Yes?"
I gripped the phone tighter and raised my voice. "Can you hear me? I'll text if you can't. I don't have much battery left."
"I can hear you, Olivia." His voice was cool, almost icy.
"I need your help. I really, really need your help. I'm trapped--"
"Yes, I heard that."
"Good. Thank you. I can send you the coordinates--"
"No need."
&nbs
p; "You have them?" I exhaled. "So you're on your way?"
"No. I'm not."
The line went dead. I thought I'd lost the battery, but when I looked, I still had a little. I called back, and the line rang and rang and rang, and then he picked up . . . and disconnected. And my phone turned off, plunging me into darkness.
"Gabriel!" I bolted up, his name on my lips. The room was pitch-black, and I couldn't remember where I was, still half lost in that dream--
The door opened, moonlight flooding around a dark figure.
"Olivia?"
Gabriel started through the doorway, then pulled himself up short and flipped on the light instead.
"Sorry," I said. "Sorry, sorry." I ran my hands over my face, trying to banish the dream.
"A vision?"
I shook my head. "Garden-variety nightmare."
I kept struggling to push the dream away, but it wouldn't go, alarm and dread swirling in my gut.
"Are we okay?" I asked.
"What?"
I wanted to say, never mind, I was being silly, go on back to sleep, but the words came out anyway. "Is everything okay? With us?"
His brow furrowed, and he said, "Of course," but there was something in the way he said it, something in his eyes, still too close to sleep, that wall not yet up, letting me catch a flicker that said we weren't okay, not really.
"Have I done something?"
"What?" He seemed ready to step into the room but again stopped short, his hand on the doorframe now. Keeping his distance.
Something's wrong . . .
No, it's not. You're in his bed. He's doing the right thing, the proper thing. Staying out.
I'm in Gabriel's bed.
Oh God, what am I doing? I shouldn't be here. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. It doesn't matter if he's over there. It doesn't matter if there hasn't been a word, a touch, even a look between us. I've crossed a line. I know I have, and that's what counts. Not what I've done. What I feel.
"Olivia?" He took a half step in, his hand still firmly on the doorframe. "What did you see?"
"You left."
Did I just say that? Stop talking. Please stop talking.
Only it was as if I were still trapped in the dream, no more able to halt the words than plug a dam with my finger.
"You left, and I didn't know why. I was trapped in the dark, and I couldn't get out, and I called and you wouldn't come."
He frowned, head tilting as if confused, that sleepy look still in his eyes, not yet fully awake, not yet fully aware. "I wouldn't do that."