"I know you aren't innocent. The fact I'm not in a wheelchair proves that. So either you stopped killers, or you murdered innocents. Which would you have me believe?"
I could see the struggle in her eyes, the muscles in her cheeks twitching. I pushed my chair back.
"Then I'll speak to my father."
She shot up so fast I jumped. So did the guard. Pamela froze. Then she sank back into her chair. After a deep breath, she reached out, her hand going over mine.
"Have you seen him?" she asked.
"Yes, but he doesn't have anything to do with what I discovered. I hit the medical lead when I went searching for my records. Things kept piling up until I made the connection. Someone from the Tylwyth Teg confirmed that spina bifida is a common condition among those with their blood. Someone from the Cwn Annwn confirmed the deal they made, and then they set me on the Tysons' trail. My father had nothing to do with any of that."
A lie, but I could tell I pulled it off.
"He would admit to it. He wants--" She looked up. "He needs you to believe in him, Eden. He needs you to believe he's not a killer. At heart, he isn't. He's just a man who would have done anything to help his little girl. Those two things collided--the gentle man and the devoted father--and one had to give. It was never going to be the father. Never."
And there it was. The confession. I sat there, processing it, accepting it. That came more easily than I might have expected. There'd been such a slow build to this moment, so many possible answers, so many times I'd been certain the answer would be "my parents are sociopaths." Gabriel was right--this was a good answer. Imperfect but acceptable.
"Okay," I said. "I understand why you did it--"
I was going to say I understood even if I didn't agree, but as soon as I said "you did it," she flinched, and I stopped.
"It was both of you," I said slowly. "Wasn't it?"
A shot in the dark. But when I took it, the look on her face, guilt and more, so much more . . .
"It was him," I whispered. "All him."
Her head snapped up. "No. Never. It was a joint decision and a joint action. We both--"
"No, you didn't," I said. "He did. Only him."
"I . . ." Her mouth worked, panic filling her face as if she was trying to get the words out and couldn't. "I . . ."
"Why are you in prison, then?" I said. "If it was my father, and only my father--"
"I couldn't do it," she blurted. "My nerve failed and I failed. I failed you. I wasn't strong enough. He told me the deal, and I refused to consider it. So he did it without me knowing."
"But you were together on those nights."
"We . . . we didn't have a lot of money. We wanted a house for you, and it all went into that, so on our date nights we'd just go for walks. In the forest. Your father always liked the wilderness." Not surprising, given his bloodline. "We'd walk and then . . . we'd take some time alone." Uh-huh. Pretty sure I knew what that meant, but I sure as hell wasn't asking for confirmation. "Afterward, we'd fall asleep for a couple of hours, with his watch alarm set. All I remember from those nights is that I slept very well. I presume there was something in the wine. We never discussed it."
"But you went to jail. For something you didn't do."
Her eyes flashed. "For something I should have done. We should have done, together. The DNA evidence was mine, Eden. I'm presuming someone planted it there. Maybe the Cwn Annwn--I never trusted them. Or maybe one of their enemies. After that, how could I claim innocence without turning him in? Turning on him? As long as we both proclaimed our innocence, there was a chance we'd both be freed. I was willing to take that chance. I still am, and I always will be."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
You should celebrate," Gabriel said as he pulled out of the prison parking lot.
"Um . . ."
"When we first met, you were trying to reconcile yourself to the fact that your parents were cold-blooded serial killers. You know now that they are not. Your father killed four people, all of whom, I suspect, deserved it, and he did it out of love for you. Your mother is completely innocent. That's a long way to come, Olivia." He looked at me. "It is."
"I know, but . . ."
"Yes, perhaps 'celebration' is the wrong word. But you deserve an evening to appreciate what you've accomplished, and to relax. So that is what you're going to do. I insist. We're going to . . . not celebrate."
I managed a laugh.
"You know what I mean," he said. "We're taking the night off, and you're going to enjoy it."
"Yes, sir."
His fingers tapped the wheel. There'd been an electricity in the car, an excitement after I'd explained. I could be brutally pragmatic and say Gabriel was happy at learning his client really was innocent. He was also happy that resolving this would free us to investigate James's death and clear Gabriel's own name. But I'd like to think he was also happy for me, for us, having gone through all this together and finally finding an answer, the second-best possible solution.
He'd made his offer of a celebration in a surge of ebullience. Now, when my reaction wasn't what he'd hoped, that wave crashed and the energy seemed to suck back into him, like a black hole.
"That sounds good," I said. "Really good."
His hands relaxed on the wheel. "Does it?"
"A moment to lift our heads from the cesspool and recognize how far we've both come before we dive back in again."
A soft chuckle. "That doesn't exactly invoke the mood I was aiming for . . ."
"You know what I mean. Yes, I'd like a not-celebratory evening, please."
My phone buzzed, and he tensed. "Ricky?"
"Mmm. Hold on." I texted back. "He's just checking in."
He kept his gaze on the road. "If you would rather spend the evening . . ."
"He has homework to catch up on."
He drove two blocks in silence. Then, "I would understand if you wanted to spend the evening with Ricky. A lot has happened today, and he's . . . better with that sort of thing. We could do this another time. I mean that. I would understand."
"You're the one who had to put up with me through this whole mess. So you're the one who has to not-celebrate with me, too."
A flicker of a smile. "All right, then. We will do something special. Not dinner. Something different. Something fun." He paused, and I could smell smoke as his brain whirred, furiously searching for a fun activity. The longer he struggled, the harder I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
"Can I make a suggestion?" I said. "Since it's my noncelebration?"
He exhaled in relief. "Yes. Please."
--
We went to the beach. I'd remembered being at Villa Tuscana with Gabriel, before everything went wrong, how we'd walked down the steps and I'd talked about sitting out by the lake with a bottle of wine. That's what I wanted to do. Not there, of course. But I wanted that feeling again.
We spent the afternoon in the office, working on James's murder, so we wouldn't feel guilty about the evening off. Then we bought wine and drove up to my spot. It was a wild place, all driftwood and long grass and thin stretches of sand mingled with eroded, treacherous paths. No one came here--there were better, safer, more scenic places.
I took off my shoes and socks before I even climbed out of the car, and I rolled up my pant legs. Gabriel got out, still in his suit and his loafers.
"Uh, gotta at least take off your shoes," I said.
"I'll be fine."
I didn't argue. Gabriel had to experience an obstacle for himself, which he did, as soon as we'd walked fifty feet and hit a patch where the path vanished, and water swelled over the sand. Gabriel eyed the lake as if he could intimidate it into retreating. It refused to yield.
As I waded in, Gabriel headed farther up the shore, only to curse as he stepped on boggy ground.
"You're stubborn, you know that?" I called.
He grumbled under his breath.
"This is a beach, Gabriel," I said. "No Ferragamos allowed."
&nb
sp; He looked down at his shoes.
I sighed. "All right. Fine. There's a boardwalk a few miles up. We'll drive--"
"No, I can do this."
He started back toward the car. Then he lifted a finger, as if I might think he was making his escape. I walked to a small embankment and perched on the edge, my toes in the water, sinking into the mud below.
"Better?" he said when he returned a few minutes later.
I turned. He hadn't just taken off his shoes and socks. He'd rolled his trousers and lost the coat and tie, even if the top button on his shirt was still fastened.
"Much better. Now let's walk. By the way, I want a house right there." I pointed at the windswept plateau above the lake's edge. "A tiny house with a huge porch. I'll come out every morning, with my coffee and my newspaper, and I'll watch the sun rise."
"I don't think you can get newspaper delivery here."
"You and your practicality."
He chuckled as I climbed the incline to the grassy rise. I stood on the edge, face lifted as the wind whipped my hair back.
"My porch will be here. And if you mention the high probability of erosion, I will throw this bottle of wine in your general direction."
"It's a magical spot. There's no erosion."
"Thank you. I'll sit on my porch with my coffee and my book every morning. I might even, on occasion, bring work. You will not, however, be able to check that I'm doing it, because I will have no cell service."
He looked at his phone. "Actually, there is--"
"I will find a provider that doesn't cover this spot, except on Tuesdays, if the wind is blowing north and I hold my phone just right. Otherwise, I am out of contact."
"That might not be safe."
"It'd be safer for everyone else. I can't call for help and get you guys killed by a roving pack of evil elves."
I moved to the edge of the bank and lowered myself to the ground. "Come and sit on my porch. It's time to open the wine."
He climbed up, then looked at the spot beside me.
"Yes," I said. "There is dirt. The earth is made of it."
"I was actually checking for bird droppings."
"There are those, too, in the dirt."
He sat beside me and pulled the corkscrew out of a pocket. "I thought you wanted a house of ruins?"
"I do. And a pretty little cottage on the beach. And a ramshackle cabin in the woods. Also, a Victorian with English gardens. Oh, and a condo with a view."
He pulled the cork. "Which are you going to get first, once your trust fund comes in?"
When I didn't reply, he said, "Wrong subject?"
"I want the freedom money gives me, but I'd rather have earned my own."
"It is your own."
"You know what I mean. If anything, it should go to the Tylwyth Teg, for finding me rich parents. Which brings up a whole other category of subjects I'd rather ignore tonight."
"I always wanted a Victorian house," he said.
"Like Rose's?"
"No, I want a haunted one."
I laughed. "You want pet ghosts?"
"Not haunted by ghosts. Just haunted." He passed me the wine. "We forgot glasses."
I drank from the bottle. "Mine now. I have cooties. Little guys, with wings."
He retrieved the bottle. "I believe I have the same ones."
"So, your haunted house," I prompted.
He drank deeply, his eyes tearing at the corners, as if he were slugging hundred-proof moonshine instead of Bordeaux.
"There was this house," he said. "When I was a boy. We moved a few times, but it was often within walking distance. It was condemned and boarded up. An old Victorian on a street of slums. I thought it was the fanciest house I'd ever seen. It probably reminded me of Rose's, but it was this big, run-down, rambling place. Inside, though, you could see hints of what it had been. The flooring. The plasterwork. Even some antique furniture. It felt haunted, but in a good way. Memories and history. I would find things inside and imagine the families that had owned them. I used to tell myself that one day, when I was financially well off, I'd go back and fix it up."
"Is it still there?"
He shook his head. "Long gone. Demolished. I'd never have bought it. Practicalities." He snuck a look my way. "I can't avoid them."
"No one can, not if they have a drop of sense. You'd go back, and you'd see that it'd be a money pit in a bad neighborhood, and you'd feel like you'd lost that dream. Better it was removed due to circumstances beyond your control."
"Yes, that's it exactly." He sipped from the bottle this time. "I would have felt guilty choosing, too. I'd want the condo, and I'd feel like I abandoned the house. Which sounds silly."
"It's not about the house. It's about the dream."
"Yes." Another gulp of wine before he passed it back. "The condo was a dream, too. When I was in college, I had to do a joint project. Normally, I could wriggle out of them or do all the work myself, but this guy insisted on working together. We'd go to his father's, an apartment in the building where I live now. I'd see that view and . . ."
"You wanted it."
"I did. Part of it was just setting the goal. This is what I'll have someday. A status symbol. But really, I wanted the view."
"It's a million-dollar one."
"It is." A crooked smile. "Luckily, when the housing market crashed, I got it for less. But it was nice to achieve that goal earlier than I expected." He undid the top button on his shirt and leaned back, his hands braced behind him. "I wouldn't mind a secondary residence. As an investment, of course. That's the only way I could justify it. But . . ." He took off his shades, the sun having dropped almost below the horizon. "Someplace quieter. The condo is quiet, in its way . . ."
"But it's still in the heart of a very big city."
"It is."
I took a hit from the wine bottle. "So tell me what you'd want. Perfect world. No practicalities."
"There are always practicalities."
"Pretend there aren't."
When he said, "I don't think I can," there was a look in his eyes almost like panic.
"Allow for them, then," I said. "Just don't dwell on them. What would you want? Forest, lake, mountain, ocean . . ."
"Meadow," he said. "Not the most exciting landscape--"
"Doesn't matter. It's whatever you want."
"Meadow, then," he said. "Grass as far as the eye can see. A stream running through it. Forest around it, blocking everything else. I'd build a house . . ."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
We talked about our dream homes. Then we talked about whatever came to mind, chasing tangents as we emptied the bottle and evening turned to night, the moon reflecting off the water, lighting the dark shore to twilight.
It wasn't just the alcohol. We'd hit a milestone, a huge one, and though it didn't solve Gabriel's problem--he was still charged with murder--that didn't seem to matter tonight. It was a start, and that false charge was connected to my parents' crimes, which meant it was still progress.
Tonight, we had wine and we had solitude. And I had him. For one night, I had Gabriel--really had him, the secret him, the hidden one, lazing on the bank, shirtsleeves rolled up, those light blue eyes like faded jeans, warm and comfortable. I had him talking. I had him smiling. I even had him laughing. And as I lay on my side, watching him tell me a story, I knew I loved him. I couldn't brush it off as "not that way," as platonic love, as intellectual love. It was that way.
I loved Gabriel. And I loved Ricky. It wasn't the same, but it wasn't different enough, either, not as different as it should have been, not as different as I wanted it to be. That twisted and burned. I wasn't this person. I'd never been this person. I gave myself to one man at a time, and I never so much as looked in another direction--and now that one acknowledged truth had been warped. I was still fiercely loyal--to two men. Two men I loved. Two men I'd do anything for. Give anything to protect.
That was fickle. It was selfish. It was wrong. And it wasn't fair to the guy
who thought he had all of me, committed and faithful in every way.
I would never cheat on Ricky. If Gabriel had given some sign that he wanted more, had leaned over and kissed me, I'd have pulled back and said no. What mattered was that I wouldn't want to say no.
Even if a romantic relationship with Gabriel wasn't an option, I had to choose: break it off with Ricky or commit myself to him. Work with Gabriel, yes. Be his friend, yes. Sit on a beach, drinking and talking, for half the night? No. That was where I went too far.
The realization that I had to make that choice should have been like falling into the cold water of Lake Michigan. I should have staggered to my feet, blurted some excuse, and escaped, fleeing this perfect evening as fast as I could.
I didn't. The realization came hard and painful but bittersweet, too, as if I'd been mentally picking my way across the rocks for weeks now, this destination in view, getting ever closer until I reached it, dreading it a little, but knowing I had to get there. I had Gabriel--really had him--for those few hours, and maybe after tonight I'd choose to step back and I'd never have this again, and if that was the case, then I was grabbing it with both hands and hanging on while I could.
When I started yawning, I stifled it, but eventually Gabriel noticed.
"We should think about getting back," he said.
I nodded, and we did nothing more about it for at least an hour, talking instead about college, which subjects we'd liked and those we'd gritted our teeth through. Finally, yawning wasn't enough. My eyelids were flagging.
"Let's get you back," he said. "You spent last night in my office. You shouldn't spend this one on the beach."
I wanted to say I'd be fine with that, but as the alcohol slid from my bloodstream, I knew I shouldn't. If I'd come to the realization that something needed to change, I couldn't start by spending the night with Gabriel, however innocently.
We started out, still light-headed, joking about who was in better condition to drive, making each other walk straight lines and recite Sherlock Holmes quotes.
"The fact that you're admitting you can recite Holmes quotes proves you're in no shape to drive," I said as we crested the last rise.
"I've read the comics."
I laughed. "And that's better than admitting you read novels? How--?"
Gabriel grabbed my arm, and the next thing I knew I was staring at his back.
"Take three steps backward," he said.
It took a second to realize he was talking to someone else. I peeked around him to see a thin man, brown-haired, not much older than me. Or looking not much older than me, though I suspected he was many times my age.