Omens
Page 61
“I’m sorry,” he said, moving forward again to take my hands. “I just thought that, under the circumstances, you might not be . . . yourself.”
A brief hug. I didn’t fall into it as I had before. He noticed and let me go awkwardly.
“So can we get together later? For a drink? A coffee?” A faint smile. “I promise not to question your choice of legal counsel.”
His smile was genuine, but his tone rankled. I told myself to relax. I was on edge, surprised to see him, happy to see him, but nervous and anxious, too.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I said. “I have to work early.”
“You got a job?”
I told myself that what I heard in his voice was surprise not shock. His smile seemed to confirm it as he said, “I should have known you wouldn’t be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Charge into action. That’s my Liv.”
There was nothing wrong with his words. Or the sentiment. So why did I feel that old prickle at the base of my neck, like a starched tag left in my shirt?
“It’s manual labor,” I said. “But it pays the bills.”
“Like I said, you always do what it takes. I’m proud of you. But I suspect that if you do come out with me tonight, you won’t need to go to work tomorrow.” He met my gaze. “We can work this out. Just meet me after you’re done with Walsh and . . .” He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm was my engagement ring. “Give me an hour, and all this will be over. You can come home.”
“I can come home?” I stepped back. “I was the one who left. No one—”
“That came out wrong. I’m . . .” A twist of a smile. “I’m a little nervous here, Liv. There’s a reason I have you write all my speeches, remember? I just meant that you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t need to stay away. Come back, and I’ll take care of you.”
That scratching again at my collar. “I don’t need—”
He lifted his hands. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I’m just saying you don’t need to.”
“What if I want to?”
His forehead furrowed. “Why?”
“Because I think I need to. I’m figuring out who I am, and that’s important right now.”
He stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re still hurt and confused. There’s no need to punish yourself—”
“Punish myself?”
“Whatever the Larsens did has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I snapped. “I was a toddler. I’m not punishing myself. Like I said, I’m figuring things out and I need time—”
“You’re still angry.” He sighed. “Are you punishing me because I didn’t—”
“No,” I said, my voice ringing along the empty road. “It is not about you. It’s about me. Just me. I—” I stopped. Took a deep breath. “I’m going to walk away now. I think you need to keep that ring.”
“Olivia . . .” There was a warning note in his voice that made my hackles rise. I resisted the urge to turn and kept going.
“Olivia.” Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. “I came after you once. I’m not doing it again.”
No, James. You didn’t come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.
I didn’t say that. I feared if I tried, I’d end up snarling it, and I didn’t feel like snarling. I felt like . . . Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn’t really over, I realized now that it was.
I turned slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can’t give me that—”
“You can’t expect me to, Liv.”
I swallowed a small surge of anger. “You’re right,” I said, my voice soft. “I can’t. I don’t. I never did.”
I turned and walked away. He let me go.
• • •
The exterior door to Gabriel’s building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door to Gabriel’s office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I’d been running.
The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.
“Ah, good timing,” he said. “How was the walk?”
“Fine.”
Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed—unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The interviews did little to improve my mood. With Marlotte, Gabriel had begun introducing me as “Ms. Jones.” I never did figure out whether Marlotte understood who I really was. I suspect he didn’t care. Same went for the teacher we interviewed that night. Jan’s friend, though, knew exactly who I was, though I told myself that she only herded her teenage daughters away because she didn’t want them hearing any gruesome details.
The teacher barely remembered who Christian Gunderson was. Jan’s friend recalled more, but it quickly became apparent that Anna was right—Jan’s friends had elbowed their way into the investigation because the cops were cute, not because they knew anything.
I struggled to hide my frustration, acutely aware of Gabriel’s time clock ticking. It didn’t help that I was worried about Pamela and how she was recuperating. I didn’t want to. Yet the more I saw her, and the more I remembered of our past, the harder it was to see Pamela Larsen as a serial killer, not as the mother I’d once adored.
• • •
I stayed in my funk until Gabriel drove me to a shooting range and announced he had my gun. Had anyone ever told me I’d one day be cheered up by getting a handgun, I’d have laughed. The old Olivia might have wanted one, as a purely practical matter, given some of the places she went for her volunteer work, but she’d never have suggested it or she’d have been told simply not to go to those places.
A brief hug. I didn’t fall into it as I had before. He noticed and let me go awkwardly.
“So can we get together later? For a drink? A coffee?” A faint smile. “I promise not to question your choice of legal counsel.”
His smile was genuine, but his tone rankled. I told myself to relax. I was on edge, surprised to see him, happy to see him, but nervous and anxious, too.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I said. “I have to work early.”
“You got a job?”
I told myself that what I heard in his voice was surprise not shock. His smile seemed to confirm it as he said, “I should have known you wouldn’t be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Charge into action. That’s my Liv.”
There was nothing wrong with his words. Or the sentiment. So why did I feel that old prickle at the base of my neck, like a starched tag left in my shirt?
“It’s manual labor,” I said. “But it pays the bills.”
“Like I said, you always do what it takes. I’m proud of you. But I suspect that if you do come out with me tonight, you won’t need to go to work tomorrow.” He met my gaze. “We can work this out. Just meet me after you’re done with Walsh and . . .” He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm was my engagement ring. “Give me an hour, and all this will be over. You can come home.”
“I can come home?” I stepped back. “I was the one who left. No one—”
“That came out wrong. I’m . . .” A twist of a smile. “I’m a little nervous here, Liv. There’s a reason I have you write all my speeches, remember? I just meant that you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t need to stay away. Come back, and I’ll take care of you.”
That scratching again at my collar. “I don’t need—”
He lifted his hands. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I’m just saying you don’t need to.”
“What if I want to?”
His forehead furrowed. “Why?”
“Because I think I need to. I’m figuring out who I am, and that’s important right now.”
He stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re still hurt and confused. There’s no need to punish yourself—”
“Punish myself?”
“Whatever the Larsens did has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I snapped. “I was a toddler. I’m not punishing myself. Like I said, I’m figuring things out and I need time—”
“You’re still angry.” He sighed. “Are you punishing me because I didn’t—”
“No,” I said, my voice ringing along the empty road. “It is not about you. It’s about me. Just me. I—” I stopped. Took a deep breath. “I’m going to walk away now. I think you need to keep that ring.”
“Olivia . . .” There was a warning note in his voice that made my hackles rise. I resisted the urge to turn and kept going.
“Olivia.” Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. “I came after you once. I’m not doing it again.”
No, James. You didn’t come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.
I didn’t say that. I feared if I tried, I’d end up snarling it, and I didn’t feel like snarling. I felt like . . . Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn’t really over, I realized now that it was.
I turned slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can’t give me that—”
“You can’t expect me to, Liv.”
I swallowed a small surge of anger. “You’re right,” I said, my voice soft. “I can’t. I don’t. I never did.”
I turned and walked away. He let me go.
• • •
The exterior door to Gabriel’s building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door to Gabriel’s office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I’d been running.
The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.
“Ah, good timing,” he said. “How was the walk?”
“Fine.”
Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed—unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The interviews did little to improve my mood. With Marlotte, Gabriel had begun introducing me as “Ms. Jones.” I never did figure out whether Marlotte understood who I really was. I suspect he didn’t care. Same went for the teacher we interviewed that night. Jan’s friend, though, knew exactly who I was, though I told myself that she only herded her teenage daughters away because she didn’t want them hearing any gruesome details.
The teacher barely remembered who Christian Gunderson was. Jan’s friend recalled more, but it quickly became apparent that Anna was right—Jan’s friends had elbowed their way into the investigation because the cops were cute, not because they knew anything.
I struggled to hide my frustration, acutely aware of Gabriel’s time clock ticking. It didn’t help that I was worried about Pamela and how she was recuperating. I didn’t want to. Yet the more I saw her, and the more I remembered of our past, the harder it was to see Pamela Larsen as a serial killer, not as the mother I’d once adored.
• • •
I stayed in my funk until Gabriel drove me to a shooting range and announced he had my gun. Had anyone ever told me I’d one day be cheered up by getting a handgun, I’d have laughed. The old Olivia might have wanted one, as a purely practical matter, given some of the places she went for her volunteer work, but she’d never have suggested it or she’d have been told simply not to go to those places.
