Omens
Page 7
“I . . . don’t understand,” I said finally.
Howard answered. “Your father was the victim of a blackmailer who now seems to have realized he could get more money selling his story to the online tabloids.”
More money than he could get from my wealthy family? How big of a story was it?
I swallowed. “Who are my birth parents?”
Howard watched my mother for a moment, silently pleading with her to answer. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat. “Pamela and Todd Larsen. The names will likely mean nothing to you—”
“I know who they are.” The words came as a whisper, forced out past lungs that seemed to have collapsed, like I’d been hit in the chest with a five iron.
“Did you say . . . ?” Howard began.
“I know who they are. Everyone knows who they are.”
Deep breaths. In and out. Don’t think. Just breathe.
I shifted my gaze to my mother. She looked away.
She looked away.
Oh God. My own mother couldn’t bear to look at me.
“So it’s . . . ?” I shook my head and turned to Howard. “No, that’s who they’re alleging are my parents. It’s a rumor. It has to be proven. I need to submit DNA and compare it to the records of these . . . people.”
Howard shook his head. “Do you think your father didn’t demand proof when this was first brought to him? The blackmailer provided test results and it wasn’t enough. Your father took hair from your brush and had an independent lab test your DNA against the Larsens’ DNA from their samples taken as evidence in their trial. There is no doubt. They are your biological parents.”
“It means nothing, Olivia,” my mother sniffed. “You are our daughter. Not theirs.”
Not Pamela and Todd Larsen’s. Not the child of . . . Oh God. My stomach heaved.
“I . . . I need a minute,” I said and ran from the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he names will likely mean nothing to you.
Right. No one living in the Midwest hadn’t heard of Pamela and Todd Larsen.
Husband and wife. Serial killers.
I was the daughter of two sociopaths.
I stared at my laptop. I knew who the Larsens were, but not a lot about them. I should look it up.
For what?
They were killers. Convicted serial killers. Did I want to torture myself with the details of their crimes? Or was I hoping it wasn’t as bad as I’d heard? Oh, they only killed six people, not eight like I thought. Well, that’s not so bad.
I turned away from the laptop.
A knock at the door. “Olivia?”
When I didn’t answer, my mother went away, and I lay there, wondering if she’d actually wanted me to open the door. Or if she’d just come up because it was what a mother was supposed to do.
I thought of how she’d acted downstairs. She’d seemed anxious, and I wanted to say she’d been worried about me, but then I remembered how she evaded me when I’d gone to hug her. I remembered tapping the love seat for her to sit with me . . . and watching her move to the chair.
Damning evidence. Except that we’d never been close. It was my dad who’d curled up on the love seat with me. My dad who’d given me bear hugs and piggyback rides and swirled me off my feet, long after I was too big to be swirled. My mother was kind and she was caring. She was just . . . distant, with everyone. Raised to show her love in other ways.
I went into my bathroom and flipped the sink faucet on to cold, to give myself a jolt, get back on track. As I wet the cloth, I looked up and caught my reflection. I stopped. For the first time in my life, I didn’t see that comforting blend of Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor. I saw—
I yanked my gaze away, ripped off my dress, stepped into the shower, and cranked the water up as hot as I could stand it.
• • •
When I got out, I avoided the mirror. I left my dress pooled on the bathroom floor and grabbed my jeans and jersey from earlier. I walked into my room to get fresh underwear and socks. Stopped when I reached my dresser.
There was no mirror here. Just reflections of another kind: photos, crowded across the dresser top in mismatched frames. The clutter drove my mother crazy. She was forever straightening them, trying to bring order to the chaos.
My photos. A record of my life. Of what mattered in it. Nana, gone four years now, the only grandparent I’d known, my dad’s father long dead. My maternal grandparents’ interest in me had never extended beyond the obligatory annual Christmas and birthday gifts. Impersonal gifts for a child they didn’t know.
A child they’d never known, I realized now. Growing up, I’d been told my parents and I had lived in England until I was three, when my grandfather died and Dad had to return to take over the business. Not true. The Larsens were American. So my parents had adopted me when they moved back here. A convenient way to pretend that I’d been their child all along. Only I hadn’t been. My mother’s family knew that and they wanted nothing to do with me.
I turned back to the photos. There were more pictures of my parents than anyone else, yet no more than the number they had of me scattered throughout the house. The three of us, our perfect little family.
There were photos of friends, too. Childhood friends. College friends. No best friend—I never felt the need for such a thing, preferring quantity over quality. Did that mean something? An inability to form truly close bonds of friendship?
My gaze slid to the photos on the far right. The most recent, the others inched aside to give way to the new phase of my life.
James.
I hurried to the desk and grabbed my cell phone. I went to hit the speed dial, then stopped.
How would he react?
I shook my head. Was I actually questioning that? This wouldn’t be easy, but we’d get through it. First, though, I had to tell him before anyone else did.
I hit the key. The call went straight to voice mail.
I checked the clock. Just past midnight. He’d probably gone to bed. I left a message saying I needed to speak to him. Then I hung up and walked to the window.
A half-moon shone through the star-studded inky black of the clear night sky. I opened the window. The breeze fluttered in, rich with the smell of a wood fire from the neighbor’s yard, the faint glow of an extinguished bonfire still visible over the hedge.
A beautiful night for a bonfire. A beautiful night for a swim, too, as the moon shimmered across the ripples in our pool. Maybe I could still do that. Maybe I should. Slice through the cool water, feel it wash over me, carry everything else away.
Howard answered. “Your father was the victim of a blackmailer who now seems to have realized he could get more money selling his story to the online tabloids.”
More money than he could get from my wealthy family? How big of a story was it?
I swallowed. “Who are my birth parents?”
Howard watched my mother for a moment, silently pleading with her to answer. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat. “Pamela and Todd Larsen. The names will likely mean nothing to you—”
“I know who they are.” The words came as a whisper, forced out past lungs that seemed to have collapsed, like I’d been hit in the chest with a five iron.
“Did you say . . . ?” Howard began.
“I know who they are. Everyone knows who they are.”
Deep breaths. In and out. Don’t think. Just breathe.
I shifted my gaze to my mother. She looked away.
She looked away.
Oh God. My own mother couldn’t bear to look at me.
“So it’s . . . ?” I shook my head and turned to Howard. “No, that’s who they’re alleging are my parents. It’s a rumor. It has to be proven. I need to submit DNA and compare it to the records of these . . . people.”
Howard shook his head. “Do you think your father didn’t demand proof when this was first brought to him? The blackmailer provided test results and it wasn’t enough. Your father took hair from your brush and had an independent lab test your DNA against the Larsens’ DNA from their samples taken as evidence in their trial. There is no doubt. They are your biological parents.”
“It means nothing, Olivia,” my mother sniffed. “You are our daughter. Not theirs.”
Not Pamela and Todd Larsen’s. Not the child of . . . Oh God. My stomach heaved.
“I . . . I need a minute,” I said and ran from the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he names will likely mean nothing to you.
Right. No one living in the Midwest hadn’t heard of Pamela and Todd Larsen.
Husband and wife. Serial killers.
I was the daughter of two sociopaths.
I stared at my laptop. I knew who the Larsens were, but not a lot about them. I should look it up.
For what?
They were killers. Convicted serial killers. Did I want to torture myself with the details of their crimes? Or was I hoping it wasn’t as bad as I’d heard? Oh, they only killed six people, not eight like I thought. Well, that’s not so bad.
I turned away from the laptop.
A knock at the door. “Olivia?”
When I didn’t answer, my mother went away, and I lay there, wondering if she’d actually wanted me to open the door. Or if she’d just come up because it was what a mother was supposed to do.
I thought of how she’d acted downstairs. She’d seemed anxious, and I wanted to say she’d been worried about me, but then I remembered how she evaded me when I’d gone to hug her. I remembered tapping the love seat for her to sit with me . . . and watching her move to the chair.
Damning evidence. Except that we’d never been close. It was my dad who’d curled up on the love seat with me. My dad who’d given me bear hugs and piggyback rides and swirled me off my feet, long after I was too big to be swirled. My mother was kind and she was caring. She was just . . . distant, with everyone. Raised to show her love in other ways.
I went into my bathroom and flipped the sink faucet on to cold, to give myself a jolt, get back on track. As I wet the cloth, I looked up and caught my reflection. I stopped. For the first time in my life, I didn’t see that comforting blend of Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor. I saw—
I yanked my gaze away, ripped off my dress, stepped into the shower, and cranked the water up as hot as I could stand it.
• • •
When I got out, I avoided the mirror. I left my dress pooled on the bathroom floor and grabbed my jeans and jersey from earlier. I walked into my room to get fresh underwear and socks. Stopped when I reached my dresser.
There was no mirror here. Just reflections of another kind: photos, crowded across the dresser top in mismatched frames. The clutter drove my mother crazy. She was forever straightening them, trying to bring order to the chaos.
My photos. A record of my life. Of what mattered in it. Nana, gone four years now, the only grandparent I’d known, my dad’s father long dead. My maternal grandparents’ interest in me had never extended beyond the obligatory annual Christmas and birthday gifts. Impersonal gifts for a child they didn’t know.
A child they’d never known, I realized now. Growing up, I’d been told my parents and I had lived in England until I was three, when my grandfather died and Dad had to return to take over the business. Not true. The Larsens were American. So my parents had adopted me when they moved back here. A convenient way to pretend that I’d been their child all along. Only I hadn’t been. My mother’s family knew that and they wanted nothing to do with me.
I turned back to the photos. There were more pictures of my parents than anyone else, yet no more than the number they had of me scattered throughout the house. The three of us, our perfect little family.
There were photos of friends, too. Childhood friends. College friends. No best friend—I never felt the need for such a thing, preferring quantity over quality. Did that mean something? An inability to form truly close bonds of friendship?
My gaze slid to the photos on the far right. The most recent, the others inched aside to give way to the new phase of my life.
James.
I hurried to the desk and grabbed my cell phone. I went to hit the speed dial, then stopped.
How would he react?
I shook my head. Was I actually questioning that? This wouldn’t be easy, but we’d get through it. First, though, I had to tell him before anyone else did.
I hit the key. The call went straight to voice mail.
I checked the clock. Just past midnight. He’d probably gone to bed. I left a message saying I needed to speak to him. Then I hung up and walked to the window.
A half-moon shone through the star-studded inky black of the clear night sky. I opened the window. The breeze fluttered in, rich with the smell of a wood fire from the neighbor’s yard, the faint glow of an extinguished bonfire still visible over the hedge.
A beautiful night for a bonfire. A beautiful night for a swim, too, as the moon shimmered across the ripples in our pool. Maybe I could still do that. Maybe I should. Slice through the cool water, feel it wash over me, carry everything else away.
