Omens
Page 52
“If you’re speaking to her lawyer, perhaps yours should speak to him,” he said. “I can convey your message.”
And in doing so, he’d convey a real message to my mother—that I had delegated the responsibility of communicating to her to someone else. It was tempting, but I wasn’t ready to go that far.
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “I need to warn James, too.”
“Morgan? I thought the engagement had ended.” He paused. “Or are you keeping him informed in hopes of changing his mind?”
“He’s not the one—” I bit off the sentence. “I’m keeping him informed because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Ah.” He turned the corner. “Back to my earlier point. I suggest you may want to stop hiding altogether. Speak to a reputable journalist and deal with the problem straight on. Journalists are like hounds, Olivia. The more you run, the more they chase and the more excited they get. I have some contacts—”
“No. If they find me, so be it. I’m not inviting that. Not yet.”
He tapped his fingers against the wheel, gaze on the road. I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I took out my notebook and went back to organizing my thoughts on the case.
• • •
I was an hour into the next day’s breakfast rush when my phone started vibrating. I headed into the back with empty dishes, then checked.
Gabriel.
He didn’t leave a message. I texted him back, saying no, I hadn’t gotten a chance to use Larry’s computer last night—which I’d said already, when I texted him eight hours ago.
I hadn’t even sent the message before my phone started vibrating again. I glanced up to see Larry watching. I sent the text and left my phone in the back as I grabbed the next order.
Ten minutes later, as I was doing rounds with the coffee, Larry came out with my phone.
“Someone’s really trying to get hold of you, Liv.” He motioned me back to the kitchen. “Go ahead.”
I answered my ringing phone with a snapped, “Yes?”
“Have you read the paper, Olivia?”
I went quiet. “Shit. Hale. He wrote that he saw me having lunch with you. Which paper? Wait, he said the Post, right?”
“There is no article about you, Olivia. It’s something else.” He paused. “I need to keep this brief. I’m on my way into the courthouse.”
As he said that, I noticed the background noise. The screech and roar of rush-hour traffic. Someone talking too loudly on a cell. The faint click of heels on the sidewalk. Then a whoosh, as if he’d opened a door.
“Mr. Walsh?” a woman’s voice said. “Can I get a comment, Mr. Walsh?”
“That’s not about me, is it?” I said.
“No, my client. He’s on trial for killing his business partner and dissolving him in quicklime. Which is ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It is. Anyone in my client’s line of work knows that quicklime is a very poor solvent. Chemical hydrolysis is the method of choice these days.”
“Did I apologize yet for snapping at you?”
A rumble that might have been a chuckle. In the background a man called his name.
“I apologize for the abruptness of this, Olivia, but I thought you should know. Pamela Larsen was attacked last night. There was a mention of it in the morning paper.”
“Wh-what?”
Poppies. Yesterday, I saw poppies. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Is she . . . dead?”
“No, but she’s in critical condition. She asked to see you. They called me.”
I stood there, struggling to think of something to say. The little girl inside me screamed, “My mother could die!”
“I . . . should see her then.” I almost added, “Shouldn’t I?” but angrily shook off the question. Not his place to answer. I took a deep breath. “Right. I’ll go see her. I’m sure I can get Susie to cover. I’ll take a cab to the prison. Or is she in a hospital?”
“A hospital. However, the doctors have assured me she’s stable. I would advise against rushing to see her, given that she asked for you.”
I paused, working through what he was saying. “You think she did this to herself? You said she was attacked.”
“She was. Part of an ongoing dispute. The woman jumped her in the shower with a homemade knife.”
“Okay, so unless she walked into the knife, she didn’t do this intentionally.”
“I never said she did. I’m merely suggesting that running to her bedside might not be the move you want to make. Wait and I’ll take you.”
I shifted the phone to my other hand. My right one was sweaty, cramping, as if I’d been holding it for hours.
“Olivia?”
“You’re right. When?”
“Court ends at two. Your shift finishes at three, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be at your apartment at three thirty.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
At 3:05, as I was walking back from the diner, Gabriel called.
“Good, I caught you,” he said. “Are you going back to your apartment to get ready?”
“If you mean changing out of my uniform, yes.”
“You’ll want to do more than that.”
“Are you going to tell me what to wear again?” I asked. “Once was fine, but twice gets a little creepy.”
“I’m merely going to suggest—strongly—that you take extra care and consider the image you want to present. There’s a possibility we may encounter media at the hospital.”
Of course. I should have thought about that.
“The question you need to ask yourself, Olivia, is are you still hiding? And if so, how much longer do you intend to do so? It’s understandable that you didn’t wish to face the media right away. You had to process the news about your parents. But as I said yesterday, journalists are like hounds. If you don’t run, they lose interest in the chase.”
“Great. But I just spent the last week setting up some semblance of a life here. Are you suggesting I just throw that away? Let photographers besiege my apartment until Grace evicts me? Let journalists hang out at the diner until Larry fires me?”
“Would that be so bad?” Gabriel said.
And in doing so, he’d convey a real message to my mother—that I had delegated the responsibility of communicating to her to someone else. It was tempting, but I wasn’t ready to go that far.
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “I need to warn James, too.”
“Morgan? I thought the engagement had ended.” He paused. “Or are you keeping him informed in hopes of changing his mind?”
“He’s not the one—” I bit off the sentence. “I’m keeping him informed because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Ah.” He turned the corner. “Back to my earlier point. I suggest you may want to stop hiding altogether. Speak to a reputable journalist and deal with the problem straight on. Journalists are like hounds, Olivia. The more you run, the more they chase and the more excited they get. I have some contacts—”
“No. If they find me, so be it. I’m not inviting that. Not yet.”
He tapped his fingers against the wheel, gaze on the road. I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I took out my notebook and went back to organizing my thoughts on the case.
• • •
I was an hour into the next day’s breakfast rush when my phone started vibrating. I headed into the back with empty dishes, then checked.
Gabriel.
He didn’t leave a message. I texted him back, saying no, I hadn’t gotten a chance to use Larry’s computer last night—which I’d said already, when I texted him eight hours ago.
I hadn’t even sent the message before my phone started vibrating again. I glanced up to see Larry watching. I sent the text and left my phone in the back as I grabbed the next order.
Ten minutes later, as I was doing rounds with the coffee, Larry came out with my phone.
“Someone’s really trying to get hold of you, Liv.” He motioned me back to the kitchen. “Go ahead.”
I answered my ringing phone with a snapped, “Yes?”
“Have you read the paper, Olivia?”
I went quiet. “Shit. Hale. He wrote that he saw me having lunch with you. Which paper? Wait, he said the Post, right?”
“There is no article about you, Olivia. It’s something else.” He paused. “I need to keep this brief. I’m on my way into the courthouse.”
As he said that, I noticed the background noise. The screech and roar of rush-hour traffic. Someone talking too loudly on a cell. The faint click of heels on the sidewalk. Then a whoosh, as if he’d opened a door.
“Mr. Walsh?” a woman’s voice said. “Can I get a comment, Mr. Walsh?”
“That’s not about me, is it?” I said.
“No, my client. He’s on trial for killing his business partner and dissolving him in quicklime. Which is ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It is. Anyone in my client’s line of work knows that quicklime is a very poor solvent. Chemical hydrolysis is the method of choice these days.”
“Did I apologize yet for snapping at you?”
A rumble that might have been a chuckle. In the background a man called his name.
“I apologize for the abruptness of this, Olivia, but I thought you should know. Pamela Larsen was attacked last night. There was a mention of it in the morning paper.”
“Wh-what?”
Poppies. Yesterday, I saw poppies. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Is she . . . dead?”
“No, but she’s in critical condition. She asked to see you. They called me.”
I stood there, struggling to think of something to say. The little girl inside me screamed, “My mother could die!”
“I . . . should see her then.” I almost added, “Shouldn’t I?” but angrily shook off the question. Not his place to answer. I took a deep breath. “Right. I’ll go see her. I’m sure I can get Susie to cover. I’ll take a cab to the prison. Or is she in a hospital?”
“A hospital. However, the doctors have assured me she’s stable. I would advise against rushing to see her, given that she asked for you.”
I paused, working through what he was saying. “You think she did this to herself? You said she was attacked.”
“She was. Part of an ongoing dispute. The woman jumped her in the shower with a homemade knife.”
“Okay, so unless she walked into the knife, she didn’t do this intentionally.”
“I never said she did. I’m merely suggesting that running to her bedside might not be the move you want to make. Wait and I’ll take you.”
I shifted the phone to my other hand. My right one was sweaty, cramping, as if I’d been holding it for hours.
“Olivia?”
“You’re right. When?”
“Court ends at two. Your shift finishes at three, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be at your apartment at three thirty.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
At 3:05, as I was walking back from the diner, Gabriel called.
“Good, I caught you,” he said. “Are you going back to your apartment to get ready?”
“If you mean changing out of my uniform, yes.”
“You’ll want to do more than that.”
“Are you going to tell me what to wear again?” I asked. “Once was fine, but twice gets a little creepy.”
“I’m merely going to suggest—strongly—that you take extra care and consider the image you want to present. There’s a possibility we may encounter media at the hospital.”
Of course. I should have thought about that.
“The question you need to ask yourself, Olivia, is are you still hiding? And if so, how much longer do you intend to do so? It’s understandable that you didn’t wish to face the media right away. You had to process the news about your parents. But as I said yesterday, journalists are like hounds. If you don’t run, they lose interest in the chase.”
“Great. But I just spent the last week setting up some semblance of a life here. Are you suggesting I just throw that away? Let photographers besiege my apartment until Grace evicts me? Let journalists hang out at the diner until Larry fires me?”
“Would that be so bad?” Gabriel said.
