Visions
Page 78
Damn it. I’d only wanted him to understand. It was so hard to figure out where the boundaries lay. Mostly because he set them, quietly and secretly, in places I could never quite discern. Interfering with my personal relationships? That was fine. Listening to me talk about how I felt? Hell, no. Keep that shit to yourself. Please.
“I’m sorry,” I said after thirty more seconds of silence. “I only wanted to explain—”
“No, that’s fine.” His gaze traveled to the door as if measuring the distance to the escape hatch. He shifted. Adjusted his cuffs. Glanced around again. “All right. I think you’re making a mistake, and I fear it will be a problem, but if it’s what you want . . .” He seemed to choke on the words before saying, “I won’t interfere.”
“If it does become a problem—a real one—tell me,” I said. “I want to keep my job, and I don’t want to make trouble for you.”
He nodded and waved the server over. As he was ordering, I got a text from Ricky, saying he was on his way and Don was coming with him. They’d worked it out. As I put down my phone, I was thinking of what had happened tonight and my cuckoo analogy, the two rubbing together until . . . click.
“Can I see Macy’s license?” I said as I typed in a search on my phone’s browser.
Gabriel passed it over. I took another look at it, then zoomed in on a photo on my screen. I passed both over.
“See a resemblance?”
“Yes, but if you’re saying they’re the same person—”
“Obviously not. There’s at least twenty years between them. But could this woman—Mrs. Conway—be Macy’s mother?” I didn’t wait for an answer, instead flipping to Ciara’s photo. “More than it could be her mother?”
“You think they were . . .” He hesitated. “Switched?”
“The guy who took Macy told me she was connected to Ciara. That she was ‘more wronged’ than Ciara by that connection. That what happened to them is connected to Cainsville. And to me. Somehow, it’s all connected to me.”
“We’ll look into it. What else—”
He looked up as a hand squeezed my shoulder, and Ricky said, “Hey.”
I pushed back the chair beside mine. He took it. I smiled at Don. I won’t say he exactly beamed back, but his smile seemed genuine enough.
As we ate, I could feel Don’s gaze on me, especially whenever Ricky and I were talking or teasing. He was taking the measure of our relationship, but even more, he was taking my measure. Would I treat Ricky well? Was I good enough for him? If the answer to either was no . . . well, then I suspected I’d see the real leader of the Saints.
CHAPTER FIFTY
When we walked into the office, Lydia stared at us. It took me a moment to realize why. I’d become so accustomed to having Gabriel around at any hour that I’d forgotten how it looked if his car stayed outside my apartment all night or we walked into the office, already deep in conversation, at seven thirty in the morning.
“Hey,” I said with a wry smile. “I’m causing trouble early today. I got a flat tire, and Gabriel had to give me a ride—”
Gabriel cut me off with an impatient wave toward his office and a look that asked Why the hell are you telling her that?
I rolled my eyes for Lydia and followed him into his office. He closed the door behind me.
“We need to talk about Cainsville,” he said. “I was thinking that the other day, when you discovered the history of that house. First, Chandler said there was a connection. And now this Tristan fellow says the same. Ciara Conway and your mother are both linked to the town. I don’t see a connection between Ms. Conway and your parents’ alleged crimes, but . . .”
“It does seem overly coincidental. All roads lead to Cainsville, yet I somehow refuse to follow them.” I pulled over the extra chair. “I think that’s what those messages meant tonight. We are imprisoned by the truth we dare not see. We are imprisoned by the questions we dare not ask. For weeks now, I’ve been seeing visions of corpses without eyes, and I keep presuming it’s some ritualistic thing connected to my parents’ crimes. But I think it’s another type of omen. A message I refuse to see. Now I’m hallucinating a woman without a tongue. Which means even when I admit that I do see, I won’t go to Cainsville and ask questions about the connections.”
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming the desk, and there was a moment where I thought I’d lost him, as if he’d gotten bored with my speech and was mentally compiling the day’s to-do list. But after a few seconds he said, “You aren’t the only one who’s seen those roads and refuses to follow them. As for why . . .”
More drumming before he pulled his hand away, forcibly stopping himself and looking up, expression resolute, as if having decided to share something difficult. I braced myself.
“There are gargoyles in Cainsville,” he said.
“Um, yes. I’ve noticed.”
“There’s a game children play . . .”
“The May Day contest. I’ve heard of it.”
From the wary look he gave me, you would have thought I’d just announced having uncovered a dark secret through very underhanded means.
“Some of them are . . . hidden,” he said finally.
“I know. There are those you can’t see at first, but I found one—on the bank—that I can’t see at all during the day. It’s not there. Veronica called it a night gargoyle.”
“There are others. Ones you can only see from certain angles. Or if the moon or the sun strikes it. There’s one that appears in rain. One in fog. One only under the winter solstice moon. There’s no rational explanation for that. There just isn’t.”
“I know. But I tell myself there is—there must be. I don’t question. I . . . I don’t want to.”
“Exactly. That is the contradiction that I cannot wrap my head around. I have no hesitation seeking answers. I make my living doing that. Except when it comes to Cainsville.” He straightened. “I was a boy when I learned about the hidden gargoyles. I went to Rose for answers. She told me it was magic. I was angry. It felt as if she was treating me like a child. So I wanted to ask others. But I couldn’t. The more I thought about it, the more I simply wanted to accept it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said after thirty more seconds of silence. “I only wanted to explain—”
“No, that’s fine.” His gaze traveled to the door as if measuring the distance to the escape hatch. He shifted. Adjusted his cuffs. Glanced around again. “All right. I think you’re making a mistake, and I fear it will be a problem, but if it’s what you want . . .” He seemed to choke on the words before saying, “I won’t interfere.”
“If it does become a problem—a real one—tell me,” I said. “I want to keep my job, and I don’t want to make trouble for you.”
He nodded and waved the server over. As he was ordering, I got a text from Ricky, saying he was on his way and Don was coming with him. They’d worked it out. As I put down my phone, I was thinking of what had happened tonight and my cuckoo analogy, the two rubbing together until . . . click.
“Can I see Macy’s license?” I said as I typed in a search on my phone’s browser.
Gabriel passed it over. I took another look at it, then zoomed in on a photo on my screen. I passed both over.
“See a resemblance?”
“Yes, but if you’re saying they’re the same person—”
“Obviously not. There’s at least twenty years between them. But could this woman—Mrs. Conway—be Macy’s mother?” I didn’t wait for an answer, instead flipping to Ciara’s photo. “More than it could be her mother?”
“You think they were . . .” He hesitated. “Switched?”
“The guy who took Macy told me she was connected to Ciara. That she was ‘more wronged’ than Ciara by that connection. That what happened to them is connected to Cainsville. And to me. Somehow, it’s all connected to me.”
“We’ll look into it. What else—”
He looked up as a hand squeezed my shoulder, and Ricky said, “Hey.”
I pushed back the chair beside mine. He took it. I smiled at Don. I won’t say he exactly beamed back, but his smile seemed genuine enough.
As we ate, I could feel Don’s gaze on me, especially whenever Ricky and I were talking or teasing. He was taking the measure of our relationship, but even more, he was taking my measure. Would I treat Ricky well? Was I good enough for him? If the answer to either was no . . . well, then I suspected I’d see the real leader of the Saints.
CHAPTER FIFTY
When we walked into the office, Lydia stared at us. It took me a moment to realize why. I’d become so accustomed to having Gabriel around at any hour that I’d forgotten how it looked if his car stayed outside my apartment all night or we walked into the office, already deep in conversation, at seven thirty in the morning.
“Hey,” I said with a wry smile. “I’m causing trouble early today. I got a flat tire, and Gabriel had to give me a ride—”
Gabriel cut me off with an impatient wave toward his office and a look that asked Why the hell are you telling her that?
I rolled my eyes for Lydia and followed him into his office. He closed the door behind me.
“We need to talk about Cainsville,” he said. “I was thinking that the other day, when you discovered the history of that house. First, Chandler said there was a connection. And now this Tristan fellow says the same. Ciara Conway and your mother are both linked to the town. I don’t see a connection between Ms. Conway and your parents’ alleged crimes, but . . .”
“It does seem overly coincidental. All roads lead to Cainsville, yet I somehow refuse to follow them.” I pulled over the extra chair. “I think that’s what those messages meant tonight. We are imprisoned by the truth we dare not see. We are imprisoned by the questions we dare not ask. For weeks now, I’ve been seeing visions of corpses without eyes, and I keep presuming it’s some ritualistic thing connected to my parents’ crimes. But I think it’s another type of omen. A message I refuse to see. Now I’m hallucinating a woman without a tongue. Which means even when I admit that I do see, I won’t go to Cainsville and ask questions about the connections.”
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming the desk, and there was a moment where I thought I’d lost him, as if he’d gotten bored with my speech and was mentally compiling the day’s to-do list. But after a few seconds he said, “You aren’t the only one who’s seen those roads and refuses to follow them. As for why . . .”
More drumming before he pulled his hand away, forcibly stopping himself and looking up, expression resolute, as if having decided to share something difficult. I braced myself.
“There are gargoyles in Cainsville,” he said.
“Um, yes. I’ve noticed.”
“There’s a game children play . . .”
“The May Day contest. I’ve heard of it.”
From the wary look he gave me, you would have thought I’d just announced having uncovered a dark secret through very underhanded means.
“Some of them are . . . hidden,” he said finally.
“I know. There are those you can’t see at first, but I found one—on the bank—that I can’t see at all during the day. It’s not there. Veronica called it a night gargoyle.”
“There are others. Ones you can only see from certain angles. Or if the moon or the sun strikes it. There’s one that appears in rain. One in fog. One only under the winter solstice moon. There’s no rational explanation for that. There just isn’t.”
“I know. But I tell myself there is—there must be. I don’t question. I . . . I don’t want to.”
“Exactly. That is the contradiction that I cannot wrap my head around. I have no hesitation seeking answers. I make my living doing that. Except when it comes to Cainsville.” He straightened. “I was a boy when I learned about the hidden gargoyles. I went to Rose for answers. She told me it was magic. I was angry. It felt as if she was treating me like a child. So I wanted to ask others. But I couldn’t. The more I thought about it, the more I simply wanted to accept it.”
