Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  What was it like to find out that your mother hadn't abandoned you after all? That she'd been dead for half your life? As Rose said, this didn't change anything about the kind of parent Seanna Walsh had been. Gabriel had probably spent his childhood waiting for the day when she would leave for good. When it came, he carried on. At fifteen. Not only surviving, but putting himself through law school. That's an act of will I cannot even begin to fathom.

  After walking out of the worst neighborhoods of Chicago and into a life with six-figure sports cars and four-figure suits, did he ever worry that Seanna would find out what he'd made of himself and show up on his doorstep with her hand out?

  I'm sure he had. I'm sure, too, that he'd feared what would happen if he refused. That she'd go to the papers, tell them about his past, what he came from. The rumors were already there, and he did nothing to stop them. A defense attorney from the wrong side of town, with a juvenile record, and questionable sources of income? It only meant that he understood some of his clients in a way no Ivy League suit ever could. What Gabriel would fear was a different sort of public reaction to his past. Not condemnation or scorn. Pity.

  Now she was gone. Forever. Was he relieved? Yes, I think he was.

  As we walked to the parking lot after lunch, Gabriel glanced behind us twice.

  "Is someone there?" I asked.

  "Perhaps . . ." A slow scan of the busy road. "A reporter most likely." He handed me the car keys. "If we're approached, keep going. I'll deal with it."

  When we reached the lot, Gabriel turned sharply, and I saw James striding our way.

  "I'd like to speak to Olivia," James said as he approached.

  "I'm sure you would," Gabriel said, sliding between us. "However, that is normally accomplished by a phone call, not waylaying her in a parking lot."

  "I was dining downtown and spotted her--"

  Gabriel motioned to James's hand. "You're still holding your keys, and you're short of breath."

  James dropped his keys into his pocket and stepped sideways to address me. "An associate saw you in the restaurant and called me. He was concerned about your choice of dining companion."

  "And you came running to her rescue?" Gabriel said. "How noble."

  "No, I came to speak to her, because I seem to be having some difficulty accomplishing that." Another sidestep, Gabriel having eased over to block him again. "If you won't return my calls, I have no way of communicating with you, Liv. I don't know where you work. I don't know your new address."

  "Perhaps, given your penchant for waylaying her, you can understand why she wouldn't be eager to share that information."

  James glowered at Gabriel. He had to look up to do it, and I could tell he didn't like that.

  "This is a private conversation," James said. "Could you leave, please, Mr. Walsh?"

  "Absolutely not."

  James pulled out his wallet. "How much?" he asked.

  "How much what?"

  "How much will it cost to make you walk away? I know there's a price."

  James's lips curved, pleased with his jab. Gabriel only tilted his head.

  "How much do you have?" he asked.

  James pulled out a wad of bills. "Will five hundred do it?"

  "I believe so."

  Gabriel pocketed the money and walked away. I smiled and shook my head.

  "You're okay with that?" James said as Gabriel left. "Your lawyer just took money to leave you alone with me."

  "You offered it," I said. "It's not as if he turned me over to a potential mugger. Now, what--?"

  Gabriel returned and stepped between me and James again.

  "Second thoughts?" James said. "I'll take my money back."

  "Certainly not. I did as you asked. I walked away."

  I had to laugh.

  James scowled at me. "You find this amusing?"

  "Yes, I do. However, at the risk of losing further amusement, I'm going to end this group hug. James, please don't track me down."

  "It's over," Gabriel said. "Leave her alone. That is the message she's trying to convey. If you need it in writing, I can arrange that. In the form of a restraining order."

  "Excuse me?" James said.

  "He's not serious," I said.

  "Yes, actually, I am," Gabriel said. "At present, the situation does not qualify, but I am serving notice, Mr. Morgan. If you waylay Olivia again, there will be consequences."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No, it's a warning."

  "All right," I said. "Let's not blow this out of proportion."

  "I don't think I am." Gabriel lifted his shades. "Am I, Mr. Morgan?"

  Before James could answer, Gabriel laid his hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the car.

  "You're going to allow him to do that?" James said. "Speak for you? Threaten me? Shuttle you off?" He strode toward us. "I'm not letting you walk away with this thug--"

  "If you lay a hand on her--"

  "Go to hell, Walsh." James started past him. When Gabriel blocked him again, James snarled, "You're not going to stop me--"

  "Actually, I will."

  "James, please. Just turn around and walk away. Gabriel? Can we go? I don't want to do this."

  Gabriel waved for me to continue toward the car. As we turned, James lunged. His fingers closed on my arm, and I was pulling away when I saw a blur of motion. His hand jerked free. At a bone-cracking thump, I spun to see Gabriel with his fist wrapped in James's shirtfront, James slammed up against an SUV and gasping in pain and shock.

  "Are you psychotic?" James struggled to get free, but Gabriel kept his hold. "Liv, tell your pit bull--"

  "I warned you not to touch her," Gabriel said, his tone conversational.

  "She is my fiancee," James spat.

  "Ex-fiancee, a concept you appear to have difficulty comprehending, which is at the root of this problem. However, if you are suggesting that even as her fiance you would have the right to touch her, you are mistaken on a very important point of law. You do not. You will not. Is that clear?"

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No. This is a threat." Gabriel leaned down. "If Olivia wishes to speak to you, she will contact you. If you contact her, I will take action."

  "What? Beat me up and throw me in the river?"

  "McNeil."

  "The McNeil? Where the fuck is--?" James stopped. He froze. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to Gabriel's.

  "Good," Gabriel said. "We understand each other. If you bother Olivia again, I will have a little chat with the SEC. Tell them about your arrangement with Mr. McNeil."

  James said, "I don't know what you're talking about," about ten seconds too late. He tried to yank his shirt from Gabriel's grasp. "That isn't a game you want to play, Walsh."

  "No?" Gabriel's lips curved in what could have been mistaken for a smile. "Try me and see how much I want to play it. And how good I am at it."

  Gabriel released him. James recovered, shame and fury blazing in his eyes. Fury at me, too, for standing there, watching him be humiliated. Even now, his glower said, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

  I turned and headed to the car. It wasn't until we were in it that I said to Gabriel, "He isn't usually like that."

  "Because he usually gets what he wants."

  "No, he's just upset--"

  "Because he's not getting what he wants, and it isn't an experience he's accustomed to." Gabriel glanced back, making sure James was gone. "Are you aware of his reputation in the corporate world, Olivia?"

  "If you're referring to what I presume is an SEC violation, I honestly have no idea what that's about. I don't even know a McNeil."

  "Of course not. Because he keeps you out of that. I have a reputation for being ruthless in my professional life. Correct?"

  I nodded.

  "So does James Morgan. Which is how he has reached his level of success. But he handles himself differently in public. He comes from a political family. He has political aspirations. Ruthlessness would make him seem cold. Calcu
lating. Unpleasant. So he's mastered the art of the dual personality." Gabriel eased back in his seat. "I suspect it's not entirely an act. He's found a way to be tough professionally, while remaining warm and amiable personally. Except when he doesn't get what he wants. Am I correct that he initially pursued you? Actively and doggedly pursued you?"

  "It wasn't aggressive--"

  "Of course not. But if my sources are correct, it was a determined pursuit and courtship. He was an aspiring politician, and he knew the role that traditional marriage plays in such aspirations. He needed a young wife, from a good family, attractive, intelligent, and well educated, a suitable match in all regards."

  "You make it sound like he was choosing a horse."

  A pause. "You're insulted," he said, as if he couldn't quite fathom why. "I'm not saying he chose you merely because you fulfilled a list of requirements. He was already involved with someone who did that. Marriage to you promised more personal satisfaction, so he dropped her, pursued and won you. Then this happened. He set about getting you back, confident that he would not only win you but win your gratitude for taking you back under the circumstances."

  I snorted.

  "Therein lies the problem. A man like James Morgan is not accustomed to being thwarted and will not take it lightly." He glanced over. "You think I overreacted, don't you?"

  "I think you intentionally overreacted. Like killing a fly with a baseball bat, just to make sure it never bothers you again."

  His lips curved. "An apt analogy." The smile faded. "However, not entirely accurate. His behavior concerns me, Olivia. He refuses to accept that he's lost you, and it doesn't seem like groveling or desperation. It seems like pride and anger. He wants you back, and he will keep coming after you until he gets what he wants."

  "Well, he won't now. Whatever you've threatened him with, it worried him. He'll stay away."

  "I hope so," Gabriel said, and started the car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  We didn't visit the Conway family. Though Ciara's body had been found, I still couldn't visit them in good conscience. I also knew what it meant to lose a loved one. When my dad died, I realized for the first time the cruelty of funeral customs that expect the family to meet and greet people mere hours after a death. Yes, I know, it's supposed to provide support. But I hadn't wanted support. I'd wanted to curl up in my bed and grieve. Gabriel didn't understand but agreed to wait until after Ciara's funeral.

  Instead, we visited two friends and a teacher whom I'd found in my online research. That was all we could fit into an afternoon, and we were lucky to find many potential sources at home and willing to speak to us.

  All we heard were variations on a story. Ciara was a good girl. Ciara was a troubled girl. Good but troubled--that was her epitaph. We asked if she'd expressed concerns about anyone following her, stalking her, contacting her. Nope. She was there, struggling through life. And then she wasn't.

  By the time we finished the interviews, it was past seven. Gabriel was driving me home when he noticed the time and said, "I should have got you dinner."

  Gabriel might not seem to take much interest in feeding himself, but God forbid I missed a meal. I was curled up in the passenger seat, half drowsing to the strains of Handel. I bit back a yawn. "I'd invite you over, but the only thing I have is dry cereal and bread. And I think the bread is sprouting a lovely shade of periwinkle."

  "I'll take you out, then."

  "That wasn't a hint."

  "I know, but . . ." He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the wad of bills from James. "It was a profitable day."

  I laughed and shook my head. He glanced over, as if making sure I was really okay with him fleecing my former fiance. I was. James fell for it and could afford it.

  "Dinner it is, then," he said. "I believe we're past the point of pulling off the highway, so you'll have to settle for the diner."

  "The food's good. The service is iffy, but that new girl isn't on tonight, so it should be fine."

  --

  By the time we got there, the dinner crowd had cleared out and the place was more than half empty. That may explain why we seemed to provide the main source of entertainment. Ida, Veronica, and the other elders sat there, beaming and whispering until I felt like the wallflower who showed up for prom with the star quarterback.

  "Next time?" I whispered. "You're getting dry cereal and toast. I'll scrape off the mold."

  He glanced around. "It does inhibit conversation, doesn't it?"

  "Mmm."

  Patrick stopped by the table, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder.

  "Calling it a night?" I said.

  "I am." He leaned over and lowered his voice. "Keep talking to me. Smile. Nod. Look happy."

  "Why?"

  "The old folks think I've done something right for a change. I see no point in disillusioning them. Just look like you're pleased to see me. You, too, Gabriel."

  "What do we get for it?" I asked.

  "My gratitude, which is valuable beyond reckoning."

  I snorted. Gabriel smiled and sipped his coffee.

  Patrick turned to him. "How are you doing, Gabriel?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  "Very well?" An enigmatic smile. "I'm glad to hear it." He straightened. "All right, kids. Enjoy your meal and ignore the old folks." He started to leave, then turned. "Did I hear that the body of Ms. Conway disappeared in transit the other day?"

  "It did," I said.

  He pursed his lips. "Won't that impede the investigation?"

  Gabriel shrugged. "It'll mean no autopsy, but there's still a coroner's report and crime scene analysis. They have what they require to proceed."

  "Ah, right. Interesting." He seemed to look at the elders as he hefted his bag again. "Interesting."

  He smiled over his shoulder and left.

  --

  Gabriel followed me home after dinner. That was understandable, given that he'd parked out front. Except he didn't stop at his car when we got there.

  "I want to show you something," he said. "A personal project that will improve your research skills."

  "Do I get paid for it?" I asked as I followed him up the steps.

  "Did you catch the personal part? I'm assisting you with something I believe you'll be interested in, and you'll receive the benefit of my experience in lieu of cash."

  "I'd rather have the cash."

  When we entered the apartment, TC went nuts, as if he hadn't seen me in days. I gave him a pat then bumped him off the kitchen table and set up my laptop.

  "Okay, so what are we doing?" I asked.

  "A public records search."

  "You really know how to show a girl a fun night, don't you?"

  He lowered himself into the other chair. "Records searches are one of the most necessary skills for a researcher. Also, one of the most tedious. Which is why I'm passing my knowledge on to you."

  "Oh, joy." I opened a browser window and hit a bookmarked site. It brought up the online search for the Cook County records.

  "Ah," Gabriel said. "Doing prep work, I see. Unfortunately, for tonight's purposes, that's the wrong county." Gabriel punched in the search terms and bookmarked another site for me. "We're going to pull up property records for the house where you found Ciara Conway's body." He glanced over. "That interests you, does it not?"

  It did. After seeing those omen friezes and hearing Rose's story, I wanted to know more about the woman who owned the house.

  "It isn't a simple matter of entering an address," he said.

  "So I noticed when I looked at the Cook County site," I said. "Township, subdivision, lot number . . . They need a ton of information. And even then their records only go back to 1985. For transactions before that, you need to go to the office and dig through files."

  "Which is a glorious way to spend a day. As you'll eventually discover."

  "Don't you guys hire law clerks for that?"

  "I have you. Fortunately, the records for this county go ba
ck further, probably because there are relatively few of them. I'll show you another time how to obtain property specifics. For now, here they are."

  He passed me his cell, with the details on a text note. I entered them and got "property not found."

  "You've made a mistake," Gabriel said.

  "Naturally."

  I let him double-check my input. It was correct. He entered information for Rose's house, which he'd brought for comparison. When it also came up blank, he fixed the screen with a cold stare.

  "Intimidation only works on living things," I said. "Let me see what I can find."

  The answer was on the records-search site, under FAQ. Records for Cainsville had not been digitized. They were available at the town records office, inside the library, and could be accessed by appointment only, with a minimum of forty-eight hours' notice.

  "Seriously?" I said.

  "Let's see what we can find by other means," Gabriel said. "Names of previous owners should be accessible elsewhere."

  Eventually he found the full name of the last owner. Using that, he uncovered the original one.

  "Glenys Carew," he said.

  "I've heard that name," I said. "I know there are Carews in Cainsville. A few of them, anyway. I think Veronica said it was an old family. Glenys sounds familiar, too. I'll take a wild stab and guess it's Welsh?"

  Gabriel's fingers flew over the keyboard, surprisingly adept for someone whose fingers looked like they'd hit three keys at a time. "It is. As is Carew. You're right--there are a few Carews in town. Presumably not direct descendants, given that they allowed the house to change hands."

  He passed me the laptop and I ran a few searches, chatting as I did. "If Glenys advertised her services as a fortune-teller, I don't see any historical record of it. It isn't exactly a common name. Ah, here's something. A wedding announcement for a granddaughter from the Morning Star, which is apparently one of the newspapers that merged to become the Rockford Register Star, and--"

  I stopped and stared at the screen, rereading the announcement. It was for the wedding of the daughter of Arthur Carew, only son of Owen and Glenys Carew, all of Cainsville, Illinois. The daughter, Daere Jean Carew, was marrying the only son of another Cainsville family--John Laurence Bowen.

  "Daere Bowen," I whispered, barely able to get the word out. "That's--"

  "Pamela's mother," Gabriel said. "Your maternal grandmother."

  --

  Pamela's mother had babysat me during the murders. I'd known her as Grandma Jean, but my research had said her first name was actually Daere.