Visions
Page 6
“Well, get some rest and eat something. You’re too pale. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have, I thought as the door closed behind me.
—
When I swung into my apartment, TC was perched on the back of the sofa. I dropped my bag with a clunk and he only snarled a yawn, his yellow eyes narrowing as if I’d disturbed his rest. Then he hopped down and wound around my ankles, completely oblivious to the fact that I was racing to my bedroom.
“I’m changing it to DC,” I muttered. “Damn Cat.”
TC wasn’t a name, as I was quick to point out to anyone who asked. It was an acronym for “The Cat.” I refused to name him because I was not yet resigned to the possibility I might actually be stuck with him.
TC was a black cat, which should have given me all the ammunition I needed to get rid of him. Except in some parts of the world, including Cainsville, they’re considered good luck. And it wasn’t as if I’d “let” the beast into my home in the first place. He was a stray who’d zoomed in after a mouse and refused to leave.
The suitcases I’d brought from home sat in the corner, still packed. I tugged one onto its side, took out each piece, and stacked it. Then I lifted TC—protesting—off the second bag, pulled out my dresses and wrapped shoes, and made absolutely sure I hadn’t stuffed any other clothing in there. Then I looked at the piles surrounding me, searching for something specific, something I wasn’t seeing.
When I found that corpse in my car, I’d paid little attention to what she was wearing—not surprisingly, perhaps. Seeing those missing person posters brought it back, though. I’d noticed the corpse had been wearing a green shirt. I’d packed a green shirt. Now it was gone.
As I twisted, my gaze caught on the row of shoes. Four pairs. Trainers, heels, pumps, and boots. There was one missing. My Jimmy Choo green lace-up sandals. Completely impractical, but I loved them, and I was absolutely certain I’d packed them.
I took out my cell phone. Then I set it down. Picked it up. Set it down. Finally I gave in and hit speed dial.
The phone went straight to voice mail and I remembered why I wasn’t starting my new job with Gabriel today—because he had business at the courthouse.
“Sorry,” I said when his voice mail beeped. “It’s nothing important. Talk to you later.”
I’d just hung up when I had a call from Howard, my mother’s lawyer. He was checking in on me, which would have been very sweet if it hadn’t been a duty call on behalf of my mother. That might also have been sweet—of her—if she were the one actually calling. Still, I know better than to read too much into it. My mother doesn’t handle stress well. Hell, my mother doesn’t handle life well. Having the world find out her daughter’s birth parents were serial killers? Then having that daughter insist on investigating their crimes? That kind of stress could drive my mother to a heart attack . . . or so she seemed to think.
When our early calls had proven difficult, she’d turned them over to Howard. Once she’s ready to speak to me again, she’ll be ready to come home. For now, she’s hiding—in every way.
I told Howard to let her know I’d been to the house for my things and I’d borrowed the Jetta. If she wanted to talk about any of that, she could call. She didn’t.
—
Next I researched the case of Ciara Conway, what little “case” there was. As Veronica said, Ciara had been reported missing Saturday. As for when she’d actually disappeared, that was harder to say. Until a month ago, she’d been a twenty-two-year-old Northwestern student, living with her long-term boyfriend. Then she’d left him.
Neither her parents nor her ex could provide a list of friends she might have couch-surfed with, and I got the impression Ciara hadn’t actually “left” her boyfriend. I’d worked in shelters long enough to recognize the clues. Ciara had a problem—drugs or alcohol. Her parents and boyfriend had finally resorted to tough love. He kicked her out and told her to clean up. Her parents wouldn’t take her in. She found places to stay, while her loved ones made daily check-in calls, until last Wednesday, when she’d stopped answering. By Friday, her phone was out of service, the battery dead. Now her parents and boyfriend were racked with guilt, frantic with fear, and the police weren’t much help because they’d seen this scenario a hundred times and knew it was just a matter of time before Ciara came off her bender, borrowed a phone, and called for money.
She wouldn’t. Ciara Conway was dead. And the only people who knew that were me and her killer.
—
I was still searching when Gabriel called back. Street noise in the background meant he was hurrying—or hobbling—somewhere.
“I’m sorry I called,” I said. “I forgot you had a trial today.”
“No trial. I’m simply at the courthouse speaking to a few people about your mother’s new appeal, which we’ll discuss later. What is it?”
“Nothing urgent. Go ahead and do whatever—”
“I’m not doing anything right now except obtaining dinner.”
I told him about Ciara Conway, and my missing shirt and shoes.
“I didn’t see my shoes on her,” I said. “Hell, I could be mistaken about the shirt. And maybe the dead body only resembled Ciara—”
“Olivia.”
I inhaled. “Stop backpedaling, I know. The body was Ciara Conway’s and she was wearing my shirt, which I know I’d packed. Still, I can’t see how anyone could dress her, stage her in that car, and take her away again.”
“How long were you in the pool?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“And twenty minutes in the house afterward, waiting for me. The yard is private, with both a fence and greenery blocking the road and the neighbors. It’s risky but not impossible. Without a body, there is little we can do, but I want to speak to Chandler.”
“Chandler?”
“If you found a dead body dressed to look like you, that isn’t a portent. It’s a threat. Edgar Chandler made a very clear one against you Sunday. Ergo, I’d like to speak to him. In the meantime, you need to talk to Pamela about omens.”
CHAPTER FIVE
All my life, I’ve had superstitious ditties stuck in my head, popping up on cue. I’d thought I’d picked them up from a nanny or other caregiver. Then I met Pamela Larsen, heard her voice, and knew exactly who’d planted those rhymes. Speaking to her about it had been at the top of my to-do list. Yet while I’d visited Sunday night to tell her we’d proven she and my father hadn’t killed Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, it definitely hadn’t been the time to say, “Oh, and by the way, I can read omens.”
Maybe I have, I thought as the door closed behind me.
—
When I swung into my apartment, TC was perched on the back of the sofa. I dropped my bag with a clunk and he only snarled a yawn, his yellow eyes narrowing as if I’d disturbed his rest. Then he hopped down and wound around my ankles, completely oblivious to the fact that I was racing to my bedroom.
“I’m changing it to DC,” I muttered. “Damn Cat.”
TC wasn’t a name, as I was quick to point out to anyone who asked. It was an acronym for “The Cat.” I refused to name him because I was not yet resigned to the possibility I might actually be stuck with him.
TC was a black cat, which should have given me all the ammunition I needed to get rid of him. Except in some parts of the world, including Cainsville, they’re considered good luck. And it wasn’t as if I’d “let” the beast into my home in the first place. He was a stray who’d zoomed in after a mouse and refused to leave.
The suitcases I’d brought from home sat in the corner, still packed. I tugged one onto its side, took out each piece, and stacked it. Then I lifted TC—protesting—off the second bag, pulled out my dresses and wrapped shoes, and made absolutely sure I hadn’t stuffed any other clothing in there. Then I looked at the piles surrounding me, searching for something specific, something I wasn’t seeing.
When I found that corpse in my car, I’d paid little attention to what she was wearing—not surprisingly, perhaps. Seeing those missing person posters brought it back, though. I’d noticed the corpse had been wearing a green shirt. I’d packed a green shirt. Now it was gone.
As I twisted, my gaze caught on the row of shoes. Four pairs. Trainers, heels, pumps, and boots. There was one missing. My Jimmy Choo green lace-up sandals. Completely impractical, but I loved them, and I was absolutely certain I’d packed them.
I took out my cell phone. Then I set it down. Picked it up. Set it down. Finally I gave in and hit speed dial.
The phone went straight to voice mail and I remembered why I wasn’t starting my new job with Gabriel today—because he had business at the courthouse.
“Sorry,” I said when his voice mail beeped. “It’s nothing important. Talk to you later.”
I’d just hung up when I had a call from Howard, my mother’s lawyer. He was checking in on me, which would have been very sweet if it hadn’t been a duty call on behalf of my mother. That might also have been sweet—of her—if she were the one actually calling. Still, I know better than to read too much into it. My mother doesn’t handle stress well. Hell, my mother doesn’t handle life well. Having the world find out her daughter’s birth parents were serial killers? Then having that daughter insist on investigating their crimes? That kind of stress could drive my mother to a heart attack . . . or so she seemed to think.
When our early calls had proven difficult, she’d turned them over to Howard. Once she’s ready to speak to me again, she’ll be ready to come home. For now, she’s hiding—in every way.
I told Howard to let her know I’d been to the house for my things and I’d borrowed the Jetta. If she wanted to talk about any of that, she could call. She didn’t.
—
Next I researched the case of Ciara Conway, what little “case” there was. As Veronica said, Ciara had been reported missing Saturday. As for when she’d actually disappeared, that was harder to say. Until a month ago, she’d been a twenty-two-year-old Northwestern student, living with her long-term boyfriend. Then she’d left him.
Neither her parents nor her ex could provide a list of friends she might have couch-surfed with, and I got the impression Ciara hadn’t actually “left” her boyfriend. I’d worked in shelters long enough to recognize the clues. Ciara had a problem—drugs or alcohol. Her parents and boyfriend had finally resorted to tough love. He kicked her out and told her to clean up. Her parents wouldn’t take her in. She found places to stay, while her loved ones made daily check-in calls, until last Wednesday, when she’d stopped answering. By Friday, her phone was out of service, the battery dead. Now her parents and boyfriend were racked with guilt, frantic with fear, and the police weren’t much help because they’d seen this scenario a hundred times and knew it was just a matter of time before Ciara came off her bender, borrowed a phone, and called for money.
She wouldn’t. Ciara Conway was dead. And the only people who knew that were me and her killer.
—
I was still searching when Gabriel called back. Street noise in the background meant he was hurrying—or hobbling—somewhere.
“I’m sorry I called,” I said. “I forgot you had a trial today.”
“No trial. I’m simply at the courthouse speaking to a few people about your mother’s new appeal, which we’ll discuss later. What is it?”
“Nothing urgent. Go ahead and do whatever—”
“I’m not doing anything right now except obtaining dinner.”
I told him about Ciara Conway, and my missing shirt and shoes.
“I didn’t see my shoes on her,” I said. “Hell, I could be mistaken about the shirt. And maybe the dead body only resembled Ciara—”
“Olivia.”
I inhaled. “Stop backpedaling, I know. The body was Ciara Conway’s and she was wearing my shirt, which I know I’d packed. Still, I can’t see how anyone could dress her, stage her in that car, and take her away again.”
“How long were you in the pool?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“And twenty minutes in the house afterward, waiting for me. The yard is private, with both a fence and greenery blocking the road and the neighbors. It’s risky but not impossible. Without a body, there is little we can do, but I want to speak to Chandler.”
“Chandler?”
“If you found a dead body dressed to look like you, that isn’t a portent. It’s a threat. Edgar Chandler made a very clear one against you Sunday. Ergo, I’d like to speak to him. In the meantime, you need to talk to Pamela about omens.”
CHAPTER FIVE
All my life, I’ve had superstitious ditties stuck in my head, popping up on cue. I’d thought I’d picked them up from a nanny or other caregiver. Then I met Pamela Larsen, heard her voice, and knew exactly who’d planted those rhymes. Speaking to her about it had been at the top of my to-do list. Yet while I’d visited Sunday night to tell her we’d proven she and my father hadn’t killed Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, it definitely hadn’t been the time to say, “Oh, and by the way, I can read omens.”
