She took a moment to compose herself as the guards ushered us to the table. I could feel Gabriel’s gaze on me, but didn’t look over.
“The Joneses have treated you well?” she said after a moment.
“My parents have been great.”
She flinched at “parents” and I felt a pang of sympathy, as hard as I tried to fight it.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said. “Your life.”
I managed to give her a brief biographical sketch, the kind I’d provide a stranger. When I finished, she leaned forward, her cuffed hands reaching across the table.
A throat-clearing from the guard stopped her short, but she stayed bent forward as she lowered her voice and said, “I know this is a huge shock for you. They—they tell me you didn’t even realize you were adopted.”
“That’s right.”
“So you don’t … remember us?”
“No.”
The grief on her face cut through me and I wanted to say I did remember her, snatches of memories, good memories. I clamped my mouth shut and struggled to keep my face as expressionless as possible.
She leaned toward me a little more. “We didn’t murder those young couples, Olivia. If you remember anything about us, you know we didn’t.”
I glanced at Gabriel. I didn’t mean to. His face gave nothing away, but I knew what he was thinking. My parents had been convicted by a jury of their peers. They’d lost their first appeal and several subsequent attempts. Was I desperate enough—foolish enough—to entertain even the slightest doubt of their guilt?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t come here to…”
I couldn’t finish that. What would I say? I came here because I already know you’re a monster and I needed to see you so I could believe that in my heart, too. Except now …
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I looked at her and the temperature in the tiny room seemed to jump twenty degrees. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek and I had to struggle for breath.
I got to my feet. “I need … I have to step outside.”
Pamela leapt up. “No, please, E—Olivia. I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll be back.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Gabriel held open the door and I hurried out over Pamela’s protests. Once I heard that door close behind me, I stopped, facing the corridor wall, breathing in and out.
I was smarter than this. I knew she was guilty. I wanted to come here and feel that, and instead the doubt had crept from my heart to my head.
“Oh God.”
My hands flew up. I had a mental flash of Pamela’s hands going to her mouth and yanked mine away.
I’d lived with her for the first few years of my life. When I’d seen her, there’d been no doubt how I’d once felt about Pamela Larsen. How much of her had I absorbed? How much did I still unknowingly emulate?
“Stop. Just stop,” I muttered, then wheeled and found Gabriel right behind me.
“Oh,” I said.
He didn’t speak. Just stood there, as if patiently waiting for me to finish my breakdown.
After a moment of silence, he said, “Would you like to…?” and waved to a chair down the hall.
“No, I’m okay.”
“Take a moment then.”
“Really, I’m fine. She’s just not…”
“What you expected.”
“Not what I wanted.”
“Ah.” Another nod.
We stood there for a minute, then I said, “She thinks you ruined her appeal chances on purpose, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“That wouldn’t be in my best interests.”
“So why does she think it?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t win.”
“But you gave it your best shot.”
I expected another brow arch, to say of course he had, but he just stood there, cold eyes betraying nothing.
So what should I do? I wanted to ask. The impulse shamed me. Yet I suddenly felt very young and very lost and very confused. And Gabriel Walsh happened to be the only person here.
“Yes?” he said.
I shook my head. “I should get back in there.”
“If you like.”
He didn’t move, as if to say the choice was mine. We could still leave, despite my promise to return. I could run. Hide. Refuse to hear anything else she had to say.
I took a deep breath and said, “I’m ready.”
“I’d like you to do me a favor, Olivia,” Pamela said after I sat down again.
I tensed.
“I have a list of names. People who might be interested in fighting for a new appeal for your father and me.”
“Lawyers.”
She shot a pointed look at Gabriel. “We’re done with lawyers. We need help from someone less opportunistic. It’s a list of journalists and organizations who might be willing to take up our cause.”
“Nonprofit organizations?” I said carefully. “Like the Innocence Project?”
“Not them specifically. They only deal with wrongful convictions based on DNA. But nonprofit, yes. Specifically, the Center on Wrongful Convictions out of Northwestern, but I’ve listed some national organizations as well. I’d never ask you to spend a penny on us, Olivia. You’ve already lost too much by being our daughter. I’m not even asking you to plead our case with these people. Just to pass along the information.”
“Is there something specific you need them to look at? That’s how it works, isn’t it? There needs to be a specific problem with the conviction.”
Another glance at Gabriel. “It seems my daughter knows more about law than some who’ve passed the bar.” She turned back to me. “Yes, I have something specific for them. The murder of Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”
Niles Gunderson’s daughter. An image of the old man flashed in my memory, his eyes wild with crazed grief.
She continued, “There’s a reason we couldn’t have done it, which was overruled because of the other evidence that tied the cases together. It goes both ways, though. Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that for me, Olivia? Just pass on the case to these people? I’ve tried, but it’s so difficult contacting anyone from in here.”
I had to hold every muscle tight to keep from glancing at Gabriel for his opinion. I didn’t want to do anything for her. I shouldn’t. And yet, if these people could prove her innocent … If she could be innocent. Yet I shouldn’t think that. Shouldn’t dare to hope that.
For at least two minutes, I couldn’t answer, mired in doubt and fear. But then I realized it wasn’t about hoping she was innocent. It was about doing whatever it took to be sure that the jury had made the right decision, beyond doubt—reasonable or otherwise.
“Yes,” I said.
I wrote down the names of the organizations she wanted me to contact. Then our visiting time ended.
Before Pamela was taken back to her cell, she told Gabriel she’d transfer five thousand to his account, in partial payment of her bill. Each time he brought me to visit—of my own free will—she’d add another five thousand.
I could tell he didn’t like that. It was money owed to him, not payment for playing escort. But he agreed.
“Now I’d like a moment alone with my daughter,” she said.
The guard cleared her throat.
“You don’t count. I was talking to him. Out of the room this time.”
Gabriel adjusted his cuffs and leaned back in his chair.
“I’d like you to leave, Gabriel.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would. And I will next time. If the five thousand has found its way into my account.”
She glowered at him. Then she looked at me. I got to my feet. He stood then, too, and waited, expressionless.
Before I could step away, she rose. Her fingers brushed my wrist.
I jumped. Gabriel moved forward so smoothly I didn’t notice until he was between us, his hand at my back, barely touching the fabric as he steered me toward the door, murmuring, “We should go.”
“You won’t keep me from her, Gabriel Walsh,” Pamela said.
Her voice was low. I didn’t turn to see her expression. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“I don’t intend to,” Gabriel said. “But, sadly, our time is done today. I’ll leave my account number at the front, so you can transfer the money.”
“I have it.”
“I’ll leave it anyway. To ensure there’s no mistake.”
I said good-bye then and he ushered me out the door.
Before we’d gone into the prison, I’d told myself I’d call a cab for the ride home. No matter what the cost, I wasn’t riding with Gabriel. But by the time we did leave…?
I didn’t call the cab.
Gabriel Walsh was a manipulative bastard who would screw me over if he saw profit in it. But he was also, as Grace said, useful.
In the car, I said, “You’re certain she’s guilty, aren’t you?”
“I have no opinion on the matter either way.”
“Bullshit.”
He looked over.
“You were her lawyer. You must have an opinion.”
He pushed the ignition button. “The fact that I defended her explains exactly why I have no opinion. You want me to say I’m certain she’s guilty so you can forget about her. I won’t do that. Nor will I say I believe she’s innocent and raise false hopes. Whatever you decide, Olivia, I’m not taking any responsibility for it.”
My cheeks warmed. I cleared my throat. “About your offer, the book deal…”
He pulled out of the parking space. “You have no intention of entertaining my offer. You never did. You simply needed a way into that prison.”
“I—”
“Don’t deny it. Worse, don’t apologize. I was the only way in, and I wanted something from you, so you used that.”
“So why did you agree?”
“For the same reason I’d take a reluctant client to dinner. Laying the groundwork. In the meantime, five thousand dollars was an acceptable fee for my afternoon.”
“Even if it’s already your money?”
“Money that I’m unlikely to see otherwise.”
When we reached the highway, I said, “There’s something else I’d like. Access to your files on my mother’s case. Not just the official record of the appeal, but your complete file.”
“A lawyer is not permitted—”
“I’ll pay.”
He glanced at me.
“You heard Pamela. She wants me to pass her case on. Reasonably then, one could presume she meant for me to see the file.”
“I doubt that.”
“But it was open to interpretation, and the guard overheard her ask me, so an innocent mistake could be made.”
He’d put his shades back on, but I could feel the weight of his stare.
I continued, “I’ll pay you for your time to discuss the file with me. Or for a consultation, during which you could be called out on business and inadvertently leave it on the table.”
“As amused as I am by option two, the first is preferable. Now let’s discuss my fee.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Gabriel’s price was reasonable. He knew I could get most of the information from the court documents, and I would, if necessary, but I was willing to pay for expediency and the opportunity to discuss it with him … which gave him another chance to woo me as a reluctant prospective client. He would return at ten the next morning, despite the fact it was a Saturday.
I needed to work at the diner that night. The regular shifts were seven to three and three to eleven, starting thirty minutes before the seven-thirty opening, then cleaning up for an hour after the diner closed at ten. The other weekday server, Susie, had a second job so Margie and Susie had arranged their schedules to accommodate it, meaning I could expect to be on an ever-changing mix of days and evenings and even split shifts, opening and closing. Today, because Susie had been called in early, I was due back at seven.
When I stepped out of the apartment building, I found Grace in her spot, glowering at the black cat, now perched on the gate pillar. The feline wasn’t lowering itself to glaring back but simply sat there, yellow eyes fixed on her. I walked over to pet it.
“Don’t encourage him,” Grace snapped.
“But he’s good luck.”
I expected her to say no, a black cat was bad luck, but she only snorted. “Only good luck is his, if he cons you into letting him stay.”
As I walked away, the cat followed, running along the top of the wrought-iron fence. It didn’t meow or try to get my attention, just kept pace with me.
I took the shortcut through the park. When I was close enough to see the fountain, a long shadow slid over the cobblestones. I glanced up. It looked like a crow, but the shadow it cast was huge. A trick of the mind, I supposed. We don’t have ravens in Illinois. But seeing it made me think of the dream with the flayed corpses and huge black birds.
I picked up my pace and the crow’s shadow crossed me twice more. I squinted up, hand shielding my eyes against the sun. The bird was circling erratically. It seemed to be dodging something. Another bird, I presumed, until I realized it was darting away every time it flew too close to the bank’s gargoyles.
I smiled. Nothing terribly sinister about a bird so stupid it couldn’t tell real predators from stone ones.
“Kitty!”
I glanced over at the park. An elderly woman was putting fresh paint on the fence as a mother tried to convince her toddler that it was time to leave. The little girl had found a new excuse to linger—the cat. She was straining in her mother’s grip, both arms reaching for the cat, which had zoomed onto a low branch and crouched there, watching the girl as if considering the potential mauling-to-affection ratio.
I was reaching to give the cat a reassuring pat when the girl screamed. The old woman gasped, and I turned as the raven swooped straight at me. My hands shot up. I saw two black blurs—the bird dropping and the cat leaping for it. The cat managed to claw the raven, but as it fell back to the ground, the bird swooped down and grabbed the cat in its talons. The cat’s scream joined the child’s. I ran and kicked the bird as hard as I could.
It dropped the cat, which started to run, but the bird flew after it. I went after the bird. It was huge, twice the size of the cat. When it dropped low enough, I kicked it again. The old woman shouted, and a rain of stones hit the bird.
It croaked and turned on me. I stood my ground. When it spread its black wings, I got ready to kick it yet again, but the old woman was at my side now. She pitched another handful of pebbles at the bird, shouting, “Go away!”
The bird stopped and eyed us both. Then with a croak, it spread its wings. As it launched into flight, it listed to one side.
“I think I hurt it,” I said.
“Good.” The old woman scowled after the bird. “Nasty things.”
“That was a raven, wasn’t it? It sure looked like it.”
“They aren’t supposed to be here,” she said.
I hesitated. For a moment, I didn’t see a tiny white-haired lady. I saw the girl from my raven dream. Heard her saying to the birds, “Shoo! You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“They used to come around when I was little. Nasty things.” She shook her fist at the raven, still climbing. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
A soft sob interrupted her words, and I noticed the little girl, crying and shaking in her mother’s arms. I glanced around for the cat and spotted its tail peeking from under the bench. I opened the gate, went inside, and bent down. It stared out at me from the darkness. When I reached in, it rubbed against my hand but would come no farther.
“Can’t say I blame you,” I murmured.
I turned to the little girl. “He’s okay. Just scared. Come see.”
She did, and
the cat craned its neck out far enough to be petted.
“I need to run,” I said. “I’m late for work, but he seems fine.”
They agreed, and I took off.
Matagot
The old woman scowled up at the sky. The raven was long gone. Were there more? There’d better not be. She would tell the others, though. They should know there had been a raven in Cainsville.
She walked over to where the cat was hiding. It was still there, staring balefully.
“Leaping at ravens, matagot?” she murmured. “Trying to protect the girl? Or merely getting her attention?”
The cat only lifted a black paw and began cleaning itself.
The old woman straightened. The Larsen girl had scared the bird off nicely. The others should know about that, too. They were worried about the girl. It was difficult for some, having a Bowen in town again. It had been so many years, and things had gone so badly the last time. Yet most of the elders, like Veronica herself, were excited, too. The girl gave them another chance.
Born outside Cainsville, her mother had been lost from the start. Usually the children did not stray far enough to warrant attention. With Pamela Bowen however … They had all underestimated the danger. The chance she’d get to know Todd Larsen. That would not happen again.
Veronica went to the child and helped her mother comfort and reassure her until she stopped crying. A terrible thing for a child to see. That shouldn’t happen in Cainsville.
When mother and child left, the old woman returned to her painting. Before taking the first stroke, she glanced up at the sky. After a look around, she took a plump cloth bag from her pocket, untied it, and shook a little extra powder into the paint. Then she swirled it in and resumed her work.
Chapter Twenty-five
In a town where half the population seemed old enough to collect Social Security, the diner wasn’t exactly booming after dinner hour. By eight, even Patrick had gone home. After that, we had one middle-aged couple that worked in the city and got home late, and one family—the Pattersons—with two preadolescent children who’d apparently rebelled against Meatloaf Night. Otherwise, it was a slow stream of seniors coming by for a cup of tea and slice of pie.
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