Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  "No one's asking you to."

  "This kind of thing is going to happen. Next time it will be me and Gabriel."

  "He's the lawyer representing your birth mother."

  "Yes, but what if I have dinner with him? Or drinks? I can't restrict my social pool to women and guys over sixty. Hell, if the woman's cute, they'll probably make insinuations there, too. That's what the Post does. They're the ones who posted the shot of you and Eva."

  "Eva is not a member of the Hells Angels."

  "It's Satan's Saints, actually. A small, regional . . ." I caught his look. "It was just coffee."

  "With a biker. When I'm preparing to run for senator. Do you have any idea how that looks?"

  I hesitated. My gaze rose to his. "This is . . . This is about your political chances?"

  "Granted, I'm not thrilled that you're having coffee with another man. But I know you aren't sleeping with him. You have better taste than that."

  "Better taste?"

  James continued. "The point is that you need to be more circumspect."

  "Okay, next time we'll have a beer in a dive bar twenty miles outside town. We'll wear disguises. That will make for a much less incriminating photo."

  "Liv . . ."

  Faint warning in his voice now, the tone that said I was being dramatic. Being childish. I'd always accepted the reprimand in that tone because I was keenly aware of our age difference. I'd led a sheltered life. I'd felt young. I no longer felt young.

  I looked at him. "So me having coffee with a biker is a political issue, but me having serial killers for parents isn't?"

  "You've proven they were innocent--"

  "Of two murders. Out of eight. What happens if the courts decide that's not enough? Are you going to set the wedding for the week after the appeal, to be sure?"

  His shoulders dropped. "Of course not, Liv. Yes, there were concerns when the news came out. They weren't my concerns, as you'll recall. I still wanted to get married once things cooled down. You've done nothing wrong. I can see beyond your background."

  "See beyond it? How very big of you. Is that a campaign strategy? A man who believes in people. Believes in second chances."

  I braced for the chiding tone again, but he shook his head.

  "All right, maybe I am jealous of this biker. I read the comments online. Most have nothing to do with me or us. They're about you and him--how attractive he is, what a striking couple you make . . ."

  "We're not a--"

  "I know. I've blown this out of proportion. He's a client of Walsh's, and I presume you were discussing your issues with keeping Walsh on Pamela's case. But I'm going to ask you to stop meeting him."

  I stared at him.

  "Let's have dinner tonight," he said. "Are you working?"

  I shook my head.

  "Great. Dinner it is, then. We'll talk more then. For now, the only thing I want is for you to agree not to see him again."

  I cleared my throat. "This isn't working."

  "What?"

  "This reconciliation. I wanted it to work. I really did. But it's not."

  "Don't start that, Liv," he said. "Come to dinner and--"

  "I can't. I'm stringing you along, waiting for it all to come rushing back, and it's not. It's just not. I'm sorry."

  I walked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lydia was waiting for me at Gabriel's office, on her feet as soon as I came in, offering to take the linen blazer I'd worn. She's tall--about an inch above my five-eight--with the kind of wiry body and quick moves that suggest a lifetime of aerobics . . . or at least hard-core yoga.

  Lydia has to be in her sixties. Her late sixties--past retirement age. Today she wore a stunning quartz Armani pantsuit that perfectly complemented her dark skin, with a price tag that suggested she worked more for excitement than income these days.

  "I'm glad you're here, Olivia," she said. "That's what you go by, I presume?"

  I must have flinched, because she shook her head, laughing softly. "I'm sorry. I guess that can be a loaded question for you. I meant do you go by Olivia, Liv . . . ? I've only ever heard Gabriel call you by your full name. I wasn't sure if that was your preference."

  "Olivia's fine, but it's usually Liv. It's a name of many diminutives. The only one I hate is Olive."

  She smiled. "That makes it easier. I'm always having to discreetly correct clients who call Gabriel Gabe."

  "Ah, I heard he doesn't like that. So is he back?"

  "Not yet. He's running late. He asked me to give you the grand tour."

  I noticed a newspaper on Lydia's desk.

  "There was something about me in the Post today," I said.

  "The photo of you and Ricky? Yes, I know. Gabriel had me set up a Google alert so I can monitor news mentioning you. With his clientele, he needs to be on top of any whisper of trouble."

  "Did he . . . see that?"

  "Gabriel reads the Tribune. I buy the Post for him to browse if he has a trial being covered. With Pamela's appeal, I've been doing that, but he doesn't always have time to read it. I saw no reason to buy it for him today."

  "Thanks. I know he wouldn't want his employee dating a client. It really was just coffee. Ricky and I aren't . . . involved."

  "No?" Her brows lifted. "That's a waste."

  I laughed, and she began the grand tour.

  --

  The office wasn't large, and I'd seen most of it before. There was the reception area, Gabriel's office, and the room where he met clients. He didn't bring them into his office, though there was no reason not to. His office was gorgeous, a Victorian library with gleaming wood and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The meeting room, on the other hand, was modern and sterile. Completely devoid of personality. So, was Gabriel's personality expressed in his private office, off-limits to common clients? Hell if I knew.

  As Gabriel had warned, there wasn't an office for me. For now he'd put me in his, at a table in the corner, with a chair wheeled in from the meeting room. Not what I expected. Nor what I particularly wanted.

  After the tour, Lydia and I talked about Todd. She wanted to know if I'd like her to start trying to get me in to see him again. I said yes. The longer I waited, the more I wanted that visit, and if I was working for Gabriel, I could accept this as an employee benefit rather than a personal favor.

  "It's not as easy as it should be, is it?" I said. "I know it can't be easy to walk into a maximum security prison and chat with a notorious serial killer, but . . ."

  "You're his daughter. It should not be difficult at all. I couldn't even get an answer on why it was. The prison system can be a pain to work with, but this is odd. I kept hearing that a visit wasn't currently possible, and no one I speak to knows why. Unfortunately, they don't seem all that interested in finding out why, either."

  "Could he be refusing to see me?"

  "If so, they'd tell me. That's common enough."

  "Could he be refusing but have asked them not to tell me?"

  She shook her head. "No one there is going to do Todd Larsen any favors. It's a puzzle I haven't quite figured out, but I will."

  "Thank you."

  My first task was to read through Pamela's file, which Gabriel had updated after Chandler's arrest. The police were still investigating Chandler's case and not required to share what they'd learned yet.

  "There isn't much new there," said a voice, echoing my thoughts as I read.

  I looked up to see Gabriel filling the doorway, his shadow stretching nearly to the meeting room table. He looked exhausted. There were no bags under his eyes. No stubble on his face. His shirt and pants were as perfectly pressed. But there was a dullness to his eyes, stress lines around his mouth, a shaving nick on his jaw.

  He looked around. "Why are you in here?"

  "Bigger table for spreading papers. I'm profiling Chandler and the other six victims, as we'd discussed. I'll tidy up when I'm done, and if you need the room, just kick me out."

  A faint tightening of his lips t
old me my excuse didn't cut it. He'd set me up in his office and I should damn well be where he put me.

  He walked away. I took that as a dismissal until he called, "Olivia?" with an edge of irritation, and I realized he'd meant for me to follow him.

  In his office, he told me what he'd learned about Ciara's disappearance. He'd spoken to the detective in charge. They'd confirmed my suspicions that she'd been a drug user. Addicted to meth for almost a year, according to her parents, which only made the police more certain she was alive, just lying low.

  I'd compiled a list of people we could speak to--friends and teachers mostly. He promised we'd start those interviews next week. It wasn't as if Ciara was going anywhere, unfortunately.

  My first day of work was exactly what I expected. While our conversation felt stiff and awkward and distant, I'd expected this, too. What I hadn't expected was how it would feel working under Gabriel. Under the guy who'd betrayed me. Twice.

  I was collecting files before leaving for the day when Gabriel stopped me.

  "Did I give you too much?" he asked.

  "No. This is fine."

  His pale eyes bored into mine, trying to read me. I resisted the urge to look away.

  "It's been a long day," I said.

  "Because it's almost seven. You could have left sooner."

  "I didn't mean that. Just . . . If I look tired, it's not the work. I was up late talking to Rose." I forced a half smile. "Blame her."

  He kept studying me. "It will get easier."

  I don't want it to get easier. I don't want this to get comfortable, me working for you. I want things the way they were.

  "It's fine," I said. "I'll see you Tuesday."

  --

  After that, I dragged my ass home. I was almost there when I got the icing on my day's cake. A text from Ricky. Not calling, huh? Quickly followed by Understand things might have changed. Not trying to give you grief.

  I cursed and resisted the urge to text back while driving. I pulled into the parking lot behind my building and sent: Give me 5.

  I hadn't wanted to call Ricky too soon, because that seemed disrespectful to James: "Hey, I just dumped my ex. So how about dinner?" Then I got distracted by my disappointing day with Gabriel. But I should have sent a quick note that all was fine.

  I walked into my apartment. The first thing I did was look for TC. Every damned time, I looked.

  Then I called Ricky.

  "I'm sorry," I said when he answered.

  "Nothing to be sorry for. We're okay to talk, then?"

  "Yes. It's . . . sorted. With James. We're fine."

  As I said that, I realized it could be interpreted as "James and I are fine," not "You and I are fine." I didn't clarify. I wasn't ready to tell Ricky about the breakup. He couldn't exactly say, "Great news!" and I didn't need more awkward today.

  "You around?" he said. "I was hoping to catch you before you left the city."

  I paused, considering lying and driving back to the city. I could feel the tug of his voice, like someone trying to pull me out of deep water, and I wanted to grab hold, but I couldn't manage it.

  "No, I'm home," I said. "What's your schedule like tomorrow?"

  "All clear past eleven."

  "How about here, then? In Cainsville. That might be better for now. The town doesn't even have a newspaper."

  He chuckled. "Bonus. What time do you get off work?"

  "Three."

  "I'll swing by and meet you at the diner."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I hung up with Ricky and sat on the couch, staring at my blank wall. All my walls were blank. And mauve. I'd wanted to paint them, to get rid of a lingering smell, but I hadn't gotten around to it. Now that just seemed like one more failure. I'd broken it off with a great guy. I was unsatisfied with my dream job. Lost my cat. Hadn't painted my walls. Also, I had forgotten to pick up a coffee to get me through my evening of research work. The last was a problem fixed by a ten-foot trek to the coffeemaker, but I was in a funk, and it seemed insurmountable.

  My cell dinged with a text from Gabriel.

  Skip the client files.

  I'd barely finished reading that when a second came in.

  Pamela priority. Then Ciara.

  Ten seconds later.

  Take time off if you need it. Will discuss Tuesday.

  I slumped lower into the couch. Gabriel had apparently decided I was put off by the amount of work. I could call back and say, "It's not the work. It's you. I quit." The perfect revenge. Toy with him until he dangled an offer I couldn't refuse and then, just when he thought he'd snagged me and his schedule would ease, I'd quit. Mwa-ha-ha. Take that, you scoundrel.

  Yeah.

  There wasn't even a moment's pleasure in the thought. I didn't want revenge. I didn't want . . .

  I didn't want to hurt Gabriel.

  There it was. Plain and simple, and stupid as hell. He'd hurt me. Shouldn't I want some payback? Maybe not the immature scenario I'd just imagined, but at the very least I shouldn't mind hurting him, if that's what came of it.

  Ninety minutes had passed since I'd left the office, and he was still trying to figure out why I hadn't been my usual upbeat self. Still trying to make it right. I could say he really didn't want to lose his new employee, and I'm sure it was partly that, but it was also . . .

  I looked at those texts and I didn't see Gabriel, hard-assed lawyer. I saw a boy whose mother had left when he was fifteen, who must have left so many times before that he never once considered the possibility she was dead, just presumed she'd abandoned him and went about his life as if that sort of thing happened. As if that's what you should expect from people. They'd get tired of you. They'd decide you were more trouble than you were worth. And they'd leave.

  I picked up the phone and texted back. That's fine. Send more if you have it. See you Tuesday.

  I sent the message, hauled my ass off the sofa, and changed for a run.

  --

  Normally I ran down Main Street. Tonight, I wasn't feeling sociable, so I headed into the residential neighborhoods as I struggled to slough off my mood. Then, as I turned a corner, I glimpsed a streak of black fur tearing behind a hedge, and I stopped.

  "TC?" I called.

  Silly, of course. He wasn't the only black animal in Cainsville. But when I paused, my legs twitched, as if urging me to keep going. I checked around the hedge. No sign of any furred critters. I scanned the yard but still saw nothing. So I resumed my jog.

  I'd gone halfway down the quiet street when a shape darted across the intersection ahead. There was no doubt it was a black cat, roughly the same size as TC.

  I whistled. The cat scampered along the next street and vanished out of sight.

  "TC?" I called as I hurried after him.

  Seriously? Take a hint, girl. Dude's running the other way. You've never chased a guy before. Don't start now.

  I just wanted to make sure he was okay. That he hadn't been . . .

  What? Abducted from my apartment? Kidnapped and dumped here, a mile away, and somehow couldn't find his way home? It was a mile. Real pets cross continents for their people.

  When I reached the corner, there was no sign of TC, but I jogged along looking left and right. At the next corner, I stopped on the curb and closed my eyes. I felt a twinge and opened my eyes just as a black cat dashed into a yard.

  Let me get close enough to make sure it's him. That's all I need.

  When I neared the house, I slowed. The shuttered windows made the house look as if it was asleep. No, as if it was drowsing, waiting . . .

  I shook off the feeling. Still, the house was worth staring at. Victorian literature was my area of specialty, but I'd always taken an interest in architecture, too, and this house combined the two perfectly. It was a Queen Anne, which often conjures up images of the most over-the-top, wedding-cake Victorians, but this one had the hallmarks while showing dignified restraint. Less of a flouncy cancan dancer than a well-born lady who knows how to rock a fancy
dress and killer pair of heels.

  It had an asymmetrical front, with a rounded porch extending along the left side. There was no Queen Anne tower, but the front window and the one above it were large, three-sided bays, forming a half tower. The details were Free Classic style, meaning they lacked the ornate gingerbread, instead favoring columns and simpler molding.

  I continued forward. The street was lined with oaks and elms and maples, not one of which was under a hundred years old. An evening breeze made the leaves dance, and brought the faint perfume of magnolia blossoms.

  I reached the house. The yard was emerald green and perfectly trimmed, as were the rose bushes and hydrangeas. The gardens were otherwise empty, though. Weeded, as if someone had meant to plant but lost track of time and missed the season.

  A wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. On every post was a chimera head, like the ones in the park. I touched a minotaur.

  This fence wasn't something you could hire the local builder to install, even a hundred years ago. Gorgeous, expensive custom work. I walked down to the next chimera. That's when I glanced up at the house and noticed the frieze under the cornices. Gargoyles.

  "Mrrowwww."

  The plaintive cry made me jump. It was TC, beyond a doubt. The call came from the side of the house, but I could see nothing there. Then it sounded again.

  I bent outside the fence and called him. I whistled. I chirped. I clucked. I made every "here, kitty kitty" noise I could think of, and as I did, his cries grew louder and more urgent.

  He's hurt. He's trapped.

  He couldn't be. I'd just seen him.

  I pushed through the latched gate and up onto the porch. I rang the bell. I used the knocker. Brass, with a cuckoo's head--a good marriage omen. I called a hello. TC yowled louder.

  No one was home. That's why the shutters were closed. The owners were gone for a while, the house battened down tight.

  I cast one last look at the leaded-glass sidelights to be sure a light wouldn't suddenly flick on, then I went back down the porch steps and around the side of the house. I immediately saw where the noise had come from: an open basement window. I hurried over. The window was a side-slider, open maybe six inches. Below, all was dark, but I could hear TC meowing.