Omens ct-1

by Kelley Armstrong

  I froze. Gunderson. Jan Gunderson. The Larsens’ last victim.

  I turned back to the old man. “I—”

  He slapped my face so hard I reeled back.

  “I know you, Pamela Larsen,” he snarled as he came after me. “I don’t care what you’re calling yourself these days or what color you dye your hair. I know you.”

  My mother screamed. Howard shoved me behind him as he shouted for my mother to get back upstairs.

  A stampede of feet clattered across the patio. People were shoving past the journalists—a greasy-haired man with a ragged notebook, a college kid with a video camera. Not real journalists. Just people hoping to sell a picture or a firsthand account. The kind who didn’t know that chasing me into my house was against the law. Or the kind who didn’t care.

  “Miss Larsen?”

  “Eden! Look over here!”

  “Mrs. Taylor?”

  The kid with the video camera rushed past me toward my mother. Mum started up the stairs. The kid reached over the railing and caught her sleeve.

  The rip of tearing fabric. A gasp. A thump as she tripped, falling down the steps and landing in a heap at the base.

  I shoved past two reporters and scooped her up.

  “The car!” I yelled to Howard. “Get your car!”

  I half dragged, half carried my mother to the garage. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Hands grabbed for us. I kept plowing through, oblivious.

  When I got into the garage, Howard was already in his Mercedes, engine running. I pushed Mum forward.

  “Get in the car!” I yelled.

  She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even look back.

  Howard hit the button to open the garage door. I shouted to wait until I was in, but the door was rising and I could make out the legs of people outside waiting for it to open. Someone shoved a video camera underneath.

  My mother’s face was stark with terror. There was a bloody print on her shoulder, from my cut hand. I saw her face and I saw that blood, and I realized I couldn’t get into Howard’s car. If I did, the reporters would never let it out of the garage.

  I had to protect my mother. I’d promised Dad.

  I waved at Howard. “Go! Get her out of here.”

  He didn’t need any more prompting. I was probably lucky he didn’t throw open the door and shove my mother out in his haste to escape.

  He put the car into reverse. My mother just sat in the backseat. I told myself she was in shock, but it looked like simple relief. She’d gotten away. As for me…? Well, I could look after myself.

  The Mercedes reversed down the driveway, sending the onlookers scattering like bowling pins. No one tried to stop Howard. Their prey was still in the garage, alone and defenseless.

  I ran. No choice really. Well, there was. I could grab the pruning shears and attack anyone who came near me. I considered it. Even wondered whether I could get away with a self-defense plea. I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t just discovered who I was and realized that slicing someone up really wouldn’t be the way to prove I wasn’t truly the Larsens’ daughter.

  I darted inside my dad’s workshop and threw the dead bolt. I took a quick look around at the tools. The heavy tools. The sharp tools. The lethal tools.

  A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.

  The Product of Monsters

  The college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night’s chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.

  It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn’t heard from him since school broke for exams. He’d said he’d call, but he hadn’t. Then he did.

  “Hey,” he’d said. “You live in Chicago, right?”

  She told herself it wasn’t really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.

  She’d said yes, and he’d said, “Good. ’Cause there’s this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It’s leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it’s still fresh, and it’s taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?”

  She did. Not that she’d ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn’t know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.

  “Perfect,” he’d said. “I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives there. You can do that, right?”

  Of course she could. She was a photographer. That’s how they’d met—working for the school paper. While she hadn’t liked the idea of sneaking onto private property—especially in Kenilworth—she’d do it for him.

  Turned out, trespassing wasn’t really an issue, considering she hadn’t been the first one there. The others were mainly bloggers and small press, maybe not as concerned about the law as they should be. She thought they might try to run her off, but they just let her hang out with them at the back door.

  That’s when she’d found out who the girl was.

  “Todd and Pam Larsen’s kid,” one of the older journalists said, his breath reeking of garlic. “Can you believe that? Everyone figured they’d shipped her off for adoption in Australia, and she ends up here. She grew up as the daughter of that department store family.”

  She’d nodded as he talked, hoping eventually he’d explain who Todd and Pam Larsen were. The names were familiar, and she was sure if he gave her a clue, she’d figure out why, but he’d just kept bathing her in garlic breath until she faked getting a call and backed off the patio.

  She’d looked up the Larsens on her phone. When she found out who they were, she knew why she didn’t remember them. Because if she’d heard about them before, she’d wiped it from her memory. Would have bleached it out if she could. Now they were stuck there. Imprinted on her brain. The Larsens and what they’d done.

  Oh God, what they’d done.

  She’d abandoned her post then. Gone to huddle under a tree in the yard and try to keep dinner in her stomach.

  The girl inside. The rich girl. The one everyone was waiting for. She was the child of these killers. The product of monsters.

  She supposed she should feel sorry for the girl. Olivia Taylor-Jones was apparently only a couple of years older than her. But she couldn’t feel sorry for her. Couldn’t feel anything but disgust and horror.

  If she just found out she was the child of such monsters, she’d take a header off the Sears Tower. You couldn’t go on after that. You just couldn’t.

  She’d been sitting there, thinking of that, when they broke into the house. Now she listened to the commotion inside. Shouts. Crashes. A car starting.

  Olivia was getting away. This would be her last chance for a photo. She didn’t want the photo. Didn’t want to look at the Larsens’ daughter. But he expected it.

  She moved up alongside the house. The car backed out and zoomed down the drive so fast she barely got her camera raised before it was gone.

  She leaned against the garage wall and exhaled. She’d tried. She’d tell him that she tried but—

  The side door clicked open.

  She froze, then pushed back against the wall, crushing vines.

  A young woman stepped out. She shut the door and looked around.

  It was her. It had to be her. Blond hair. Piercing eyes. Her face hard as she surveyed the yard. She’d been calling Olivia Taylor-Jones “the girl,” but there was nothing girlish about her. Nothing soft. Nothing warm.

  The product of monsters. A fiend masquerading as a pretty young woman.

  Last chance to snap a photo. A perfect shot. Just take it.

  But if the flash went, Olivia—or rather, Eden—would see it. She wasn’t far enough away to escape…

  She pressed herself harder against the wall and waited, barely daring to breathe until Eden broke into a jog and disappear
ed into the night.

  Afterward she stood there, shivering and shuddering against the wall, until her legs could hold her and she staggered forward. Her shoe caught on a broken piece of vine and she stumbled, twisting to see the door Eden had come through. To see what she’d left behind.

  A bloody handprint.

  Chapter Seven

  If I’d been thinking, I’d have grabbed the keys to one of my dad’s vintage cars in the detached garage. I was just lucky I’d had the foresight to snatch up my purse from the front door, with my wallet and cell phone.

  There was a convenience store a half mile away. I showed the guy at the counter my cut hand and asked to use the staff restroom to wash up. He’d seen me often enough to know I was a local, and not one of those who sent their driver in and never said hello. So he didn’t ask why I was walking around after midnight, bleeding, just let me use the sink and even brought a bandage from his first-aid kit. I wrapped up my hand, then bought a bottle of Dr Pepper I really didn’t need.

  When I stepped out of the store, something swooped at my head. It was night, but it hadn’t looked like a bat. It seemed indeed to be a bird. A crow or something.

  If a bird flies straight at you, prepare for a bad day.

  Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know. I shook my head and called a cab. When it arrived, I gave the driver James’s address.

  James lives with his mother. His parents had divorced when he was in college, and like my mother, his insisted she needed him at home. In her case, it was bullshit. Maura Morgan didn’t need anything. Except maybe a muzzle.

  She just liked having James close by. That was changing soon. We’d already bought a house, and she wasn’t coming along. She hadn’t said much about that, but I almost expected her to stumble down the stairs on our wedding day and break her hip, just to thwart this takeover of her only child’s affections.

  Any hope that James had been spared the media blitz vanished when the cab rounded the corner and I saw cars along the roadside. In this neighborhood, you don’t park on the road unless you’re lost, and even then, a roaming security guard will send you on your way soon enough. Tonight that guard was nowhere to be seen. Probably realized he was outnumbered and decided it was time to take a very long break.

  There were people in the cars, just sitting there, in case James appeared. I could say that was very respectful of them, but the only thing keeping them inside their vehicles was the fact that the Morgans did have a big gate, and their beefy driver now stood inside it, playing security guard.

  When my cab slowed, he waved us on. I rolled down my window. Recognizing me, he hesitated. I motioned that I’d call the house and he nodded, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be asked to wake the gorgon himself.

  I had the driver pull up close enough for me to use the speaker. Sure enough, Maura answered.

  “Hey, Maura, it’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry to come by at this hour. I know you must have had a horrible night, and I feel awful about that. If I could have warned you, I would have, but I only found out myself tonight.” I paused. “Is James there, please?”

  “No, he is not. He hasn’t come home yet.”

  “Oh? Well, hopefully he’s gone out for drinks someplace too loud for him to hear his cell phone if the press calls. If I can just come inside and wait—”

  “You are not coming—”

  “Then I’m staying out here. Better yet, I’ll perch on your gate and give a press conference.”

  The latch clicked open.

  Maura met me at the door. She wore an elegant bathrobe, cinched tight—and full makeup—which told me she hadn’t been in bed at all. She gave me the same look I’d gotten the day James half jokingly told her I was the girl he planned to marry.

  Maura raked frosted pink nails through her hair, swept her bathrobe up like a ball gown, and waved me inside. I went into the living room, hoping she’d leave me to wait in peace.

  She followed me. “So, Olivia, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this mess. My lawyer will sort it out—”

  “I’m talking about this … news.”

  What was I was supposed to do? Apologize for my poor choice of DNA? I settled onto the sofa and kicked off my sneakers.

  “I didn’t know I was adopted.” I paused for a moment and decided it was time to construct a lie, for my family’s sake. “As for who my parents allegedly are, Mum and Dad didn’t know. As philanthropic as my mother is, knowingly adopting the child of serial killers is taking the milk of human kindness a little far. This is news to her, and a huge blow—”

  “I’m sure it is. Poor Lena.”

  Of course. Poor Lena. “My mother is shocked by the news, but she’s doing fine, thank you.”

  “Well, of course, your mother is fine. She’s locked in a maximum security prison.”

  I stood. “I’ll wait in James’s study.”

  She stepped into my path. “Haven’t you put my son through enough?”

  “Put James through enough? As far as I can tell, he doesn’t even know.”

  “His reputation, I mean.” She studied me, then eased back. “I know he told you his plans, Olivia. About running for senator.” Her voice softened. I knew that tone. It was like a cat purring right before it takes a chunk out of your arm. “This is his dream, and if you love him, you’ll step away gracefully. Let him mourn you and move on.” She paused for effect. “You know it’s the right thing to do.”

  Before I could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs. I looked through the doorway to see James coming down.

  Chapter Eight

  “I thought I heard voices.” James kissed my cheek. Then he looked at his mother. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I didn’t realize you were home,” Maura said.

  “Well, I am. Go up to bed. I have this.”

  Maura hesitated, but James repeated it, firmly, and she left. When she was gone he pulled me into a hug, and I let myself collapse into his arms and stay there, just stay there, fighting not to break down in tears.

  “Something—” I said against his shoulder.

  “I know. I’ve been trying to call you for the past half hour. I was just coming down to drive over to your place.”

  I pulled back so I could see his face. “So you … got my message?”

  “Yes. And several others. I know everything, Liv.”

  Everything.

  His expression didn’t change. No hint of disgust or distaste. I wanted to take that. Just take it. Don’t question. Don’t probe. Accept.

  Only I couldn’t.

  “About my … biological parents,” I said carefully, my gaze fixed on his. “You heard—”

  “The Larsens. Yes. That’s what they’re saying.”

  “It’s not just a rumor. There’s DNA.”

  He nodded. “All right.”

  I looked at him. He looked at me. Patient. Concerned. Just what I needed. What I’d expected. And yet, seeing it, I realized I had doubted, deep down. I still doubted.

  “You know who they are, right? My parents?”

  A faint smile. “Yes, I’ve met them many times, Liv.”

  “You know what I—”

  “Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor are your parents. They’re the ones who raised you. If you mean the Larsens, yes, I know who they are. Convicted murderers. As for what they are to you? Genetic donors. They’re responsible for the color of your hair, the shape of your mouth, the length of your fingers. Nothing more.”

  I kissed him. A quiet thank-you. Only he didn’t let it stay quiet. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me onto his lap in one of his usual oxygen-stealing kisses that left me gasping. Then he put his hands on either side of my face and held it up to his.

  “I love you, Liv. You haven’t changed. So that hasn’t changed. Got it?”

  I nodded and eased back, legs still stretched across him as I reclined against the corner of the sofa.

  “It’s stil
l on, then?” I said. “We’re getting married?”

  He laughed. “Did you think you could get out of it that easily? You’re stuck with me. This is just a bump in the road. It’ll go away soon enough.”

  “It better be very soon,” I said. “Only a month until the wedding.”

  He dipped his chin in something that could be taken as a nod.

  “We are getting married next month, right?” I said.

  “We’ll…” He stretched his arm around me, gathering me in. “We can talk about that later. For now—”

  I shrugged out from under his arm and swung my legs off him. “We are getting married next month, right?”

  “We’re getting married. Absolutely. The timing may need to change, but that’s a conversation for tomorrow. Right now, we need to get you out of Chicago.”

  “Out of Chicago?”

  “Of course.” He straightened. “This is going to be an absolute media nightmare. Do you remember those reporters hanging out at the dinner tonight? And did you see the ones at the end of the driveway? You need to go someplace safe. Get away from these vultures.”

  “For my sake? Or yours?”

  “For you, of course. To protect you.”

  “But I can handle it. You know I can handle it. The question is: can you?”

  He looked away, shaking his head, saying something about how I shouldn’t need to handle it. But all I noticed was how fast he’d looked away.

  “You’re postponing the wedding,” I said.

  “I’ve been advised—”

  “You’ve been what?” I scrambled to my feet. “You’ve talked to someone about this before me?”

  He stood, began to pace. “Neil called when I was trying to get in touch with you. He advised me to postpone the wedding and, honestly, I agree. Can you imagine what kind of circus it would be?”

  “You mean what kind of senatorial-dream-killing circus it would be.”

  His expression hardened. “No, Olivia,” he said, barely opening his jaw enough to get the words out. “I’m thinking of you. Of the kind of wedding you deserve—”