Omens
Page 10
She’d nodded as he talked, hoping eventually he’d explain who Todd and Pam Larsen were. The names were familiar, and she was sure if he gave her a clue, she’d figure out why, but he’d just kept bathing her in garlic breath until she faked getting a call and backed off the patio.
She’d looked up the Larsens on her phone. When she found out who they were, she knew why she didn’t remember them. Because if she’d heard about them before, she’d wiped it from her memory. Would have bleached it out if she could. Now they were stuck there. Imprinted on her brain. The Larsens and what they’d done.
Oh God, what they’d done.
She’d abandoned her post then. Gone to huddle under a tree in the yard and try to keep dinner in her stomach.
The girl inside. The rich girl. The one everyone was waiting for. She was the child of these killers. The product of monsters.
She supposed she should feel sorry for the girl. Olivia Taylor-Jones was apparently only a couple of years older than her. But she couldn’t feel sorry for her. Couldn’t feel anything but disgust and horror.
If she just found out she was the child of such monsters, she’d take a header off the Sears Tower. You couldn’t go on after that. You just couldn’t.
She’d been sitting there, thinking of that, when they broke into the house. Now she listened to the commotion inside. Shouts. Crashes. A car starting.
Olivia was getting away. This would be her last chance for a photo. She didn’t want the photo. Didn’t want to look at the Larsens’ daughter. But he expected it.
She moved up alongside the house. The car backed out and zoomed down the drive so fast she barely got her camera raised before it was gone.
She leaned against the garage wall and exhaled. She’d tried. She’d tell him that she tried but—
The side door clicked open.
She froze, then pushed back against the wall, crushing vines.
A young woman stepped out. She shut the door and looked around.
It was her. It had to be her. Blond hair. Piercing eyes. Her face hard as she surveyed the yard. She’d been calling Olivia Taylor-Jones “the girl,” but there was nothing girlish about her. Nothing soft. Nothing warm.
The product of monsters. A fiend masquerading as a pretty young woman.
Last chance to snap a photo. A perfect shot. Just take it.
But if the flash went, Olivia—or rather, Eden—would see it. She wasn’t far enough away to escape . . .
She pressed herself harder against the wall and waited, barely daring to breathe until Eden broke into a jog and disappeared into the night.
Afterward she stood there, shivering and shuddering against the wall, until her legs could hold her and she staggered forward. Her shoe caught on a broken piece of vine and she stumbled, twisting to see the door Eden had come through. To see what she’d left behind.
A bloody handprint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If I’d been thinking, I’d have grabbed the keys to one of my dad’s vintage cars in the detached garage. I was just lucky I’d had the foresight to snatch up my purse from the front door, with my wallet and cell phone.
There was a convenience store a half mile away. I showed the guy at the counter my cut hand and asked to use the staff restroom to wash up. He’d seen me often enough to know I was a local, and not one of those who sent their driver in and never said hello. So he didn’t ask why I was walking around after midnight, bleeding, just let me use the sink and even brought a bandage from his first-aid kit. I wrapped up my hand, then bought a bottle of Dr Pepper I really didn’t need.
When I stepped out of the store, something swooped at my head. It was night, but it hadn’t looked like a bat. It seemed indeed to be a bird. A crow or something.
If a bird flies straight at you, prepare for a bad day.
Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know. I shook my head and called a cab. When it arrived, I gave the driver James’s address.
• • •
James lives with his mother. His parents had divorced when he was in college, and like my mother, his insisted she needed him at home. In her case, it was bullshit. Maura Morgan didn’t need anything. Except maybe a muzzle.
She just liked having James close by. That was changing soon. We’d already bought a house, and she wasn’t coming along. She hadn’t said much about that, but I almost expected her to stumble down the stairs on our wedding day and break her hip, just to thwart this takeover of her only child’s affections.
Any hope that James had been spared the media blitz vanished when the cab rounded the corner and I saw cars along the roadside. In this neighborhood, you don’t park on the road unless you’re lost, and even then, a roaming security guard will send you on your way soon enough. Tonight that guard was nowhere to be seen. Probably realized he was outnumbered and decided it was time to take a very long break.
There were people in the cars, just sitting there, in case James appeared. I could say that was very respectful of them, but the only thing keeping them inside their vehicles was the fact that the Morgans did have a big gate, and their beefy driver now stood inside it, playing security guard.
When my cab slowed, he waved us on. I rolled down my window. Recognizing me, he hesitated. I motioned that I’d call the house and he nodded, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be asked to wake the gorgon himself.
I had the driver pull up close enough for me to use the speaker. Sure enough, Maura answered.
“Hey, Maura, it’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry to come by at this hour. I know you must have had a horrible night, and I feel awful about that. If I could have warned you, I would have, but I only found out myself tonight.” I paused. “Is James there, please?”
“No, he is not. He hasn’t come home yet.”
“Oh? Well, hopefully he’s gone out for drinks someplace too loud for him to hear his cell phone if the press calls. If I can just come inside and wait—”
“You are not coming—”
“Then I’m staying out here. Better yet, I’ll perch on your gate and give a press conference.”
The latch clicked open.
• • •
Maura met me at the door. She wore an elegant bathrobe, cinched tight—and full makeup—which told me she hadn’t been in bed at all. She gave me the same look I’d gotten the day James half jokingly told her I was the girl he planned to marry.
She’d looked up the Larsens on her phone. When she found out who they were, she knew why she didn’t remember them. Because if she’d heard about them before, she’d wiped it from her memory. Would have bleached it out if she could. Now they were stuck there. Imprinted on her brain. The Larsens and what they’d done.
Oh God, what they’d done.
She’d abandoned her post then. Gone to huddle under a tree in the yard and try to keep dinner in her stomach.
The girl inside. The rich girl. The one everyone was waiting for. She was the child of these killers. The product of monsters.
She supposed she should feel sorry for the girl. Olivia Taylor-Jones was apparently only a couple of years older than her. But she couldn’t feel sorry for her. Couldn’t feel anything but disgust and horror.
If she just found out she was the child of such monsters, she’d take a header off the Sears Tower. You couldn’t go on after that. You just couldn’t.
She’d been sitting there, thinking of that, when they broke into the house. Now she listened to the commotion inside. Shouts. Crashes. A car starting.
Olivia was getting away. This would be her last chance for a photo. She didn’t want the photo. Didn’t want to look at the Larsens’ daughter. But he expected it.
She moved up alongside the house. The car backed out and zoomed down the drive so fast she barely got her camera raised before it was gone.
She leaned against the garage wall and exhaled. She’d tried. She’d tell him that she tried but—
The side door clicked open.
She froze, then pushed back against the wall, crushing vines.
A young woman stepped out. She shut the door and looked around.
It was her. It had to be her. Blond hair. Piercing eyes. Her face hard as she surveyed the yard. She’d been calling Olivia Taylor-Jones “the girl,” but there was nothing girlish about her. Nothing soft. Nothing warm.
The product of monsters. A fiend masquerading as a pretty young woman.
Last chance to snap a photo. A perfect shot. Just take it.
But if the flash went, Olivia—or rather, Eden—would see it. She wasn’t far enough away to escape . . .
She pressed herself harder against the wall and waited, barely daring to breathe until Eden broke into a jog and disappeared into the night.
Afterward she stood there, shivering and shuddering against the wall, until her legs could hold her and she staggered forward. Her shoe caught on a broken piece of vine and she stumbled, twisting to see the door Eden had come through. To see what she’d left behind.
A bloody handprint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If I’d been thinking, I’d have grabbed the keys to one of my dad’s vintage cars in the detached garage. I was just lucky I’d had the foresight to snatch up my purse from the front door, with my wallet and cell phone.
There was a convenience store a half mile away. I showed the guy at the counter my cut hand and asked to use the staff restroom to wash up. He’d seen me often enough to know I was a local, and not one of those who sent their driver in and never said hello. So he didn’t ask why I was walking around after midnight, bleeding, just let me use the sink and even brought a bandage from his first-aid kit. I wrapped up my hand, then bought a bottle of Dr Pepper I really didn’t need.
When I stepped out of the store, something swooped at my head. It was night, but it hadn’t looked like a bat. It seemed indeed to be a bird. A crow or something.
If a bird flies straight at you, prepare for a bad day.
Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know. I shook my head and called a cab. When it arrived, I gave the driver James’s address.
• • •
James lives with his mother. His parents had divorced when he was in college, and like my mother, his insisted she needed him at home. In her case, it was bullshit. Maura Morgan didn’t need anything. Except maybe a muzzle.
She just liked having James close by. That was changing soon. We’d already bought a house, and she wasn’t coming along. She hadn’t said much about that, but I almost expected her to stumble down the stairs on our wedding day and break her hip, just to thwart this takeover of her only child’s affections.
Any hope that James had been spared the media blitz vanished when the cab rounded the corner and I saw cars along the roadside. In this neighborhood, you don’t park on the road unless you’re lost, and even then, a roaming security guard will send you on your way soon enough. Tonight that guard was nowhere to be seen. Probably realized he was outnumbered and decided it was time to take a very long break.
There were people in the cars, just sitting there, in case James appeared. I could say that was very respectful of them, but the only thing keeping them inside their vehicles was the fact that the Morgans did have a big gate, and their beefy driver now stood inside it, playing security guard.
When my cab slowed, he waved us on. I rolled down my window. Recognizing me, he hesitated. I motioned that I’d call the house and he nodded, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be asked to wake the gorgon himself.
I had the driver pull up close enough for me to use the speaker. Sure enough, Maura answered.
“Hey, Maura, it’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry to come by at this hour. I know you must have had a horrible night, and I feel awful about that. If I could have warned you, I would have, but I only found out myself tonight.” I paused. “Is James there, please?”
“No, he is not. He hasn’t come home yet.”
“Oh? Well, hopefully he’s gone out for drinks someplace too loud for him to hear his cell phone if the press calls. If I can just come inside and wait—”
“You are not coming—”
“Then I’m staying out here. Better yet, I’ll perch on your gate and give a press conference.”
The latch clicked open.
• • •
Maura met me at the door. She wore an elegant bathrobe, cinched tight—and full makeup—which told me she hadn’t been in bed at all. She gave me the same look I’d gotten the day James half jokingly told her I was the girl he planned to marry.
