Kelley Armstrong - Omens

I nodded. “That’s what I want to do, Mum. Deal with it. Maybe hire a media consultant or a PR firm. We’ll figure out how to handle this head on. Get past it.”

Silence. Then, “I thought you were going to sit it out. That’s what your message said.”

“Sure. I could. If that’s what you want. But I really think it’s best that we face this—”

“I was nearly killed by those reporters last night, Olivia.”

I bit my tongue before continuing, “All right. I’ll handle it. Tell Howard to phone—”

“Howard thinks you were right. You should go someplace. Wait this out. I agree. That’s best for everyone.”

Now it was my turn for silence.

Mum didn’t seem to notice, pausing only a moment before saying, “I suppose you’ll need money.”

“Suppose?” A white-hot grain of fury ignited behind my eyes. “My God. You hand cash to street people more graciously than that.”

“Then I misspoke.” Did I imagine a chill in her voice? “You’ll have whatever you need. I’ll write you a check today.”

“Write me a check? I thought that was our money. Family money. No, wait. That doesn’t apply now, does it? If I want an allowance, I’ll need to visit the Larsens.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re family. This business has no effect on that. Your trust fund is intact. Along with … everything else.”

Everything else. The store. The estate. I remembered sitting in Howard’s office after Dad died, struggling to listen to him read the will. With the exception of my trust fund—which I’d get when I turned twenty-five—everything went to my mother for use during her lifetime. When she passed, it went to me. All of it. At the time, I’d been so numb with grief that the arrangement had only sparked a faint, “Why did he do that?”

Now I knew.

She knew it, too. After Dad had found out who my parents were, he’d made sure my mother couldn’t decide part—or all—of the estate was better off going to charity.

“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I’ll have my trust fund in a year. In the meantime, I’ll get a job. I’ll pay my own way.”

“A job?”

“Mmm, yeah. It’s that thing people do to make money.”

Definite frost in her voice now. “I’m well aware of what a job is, Olivia, but I fail to see how you would get one, under the circumstances.”

She had a point. Just yesterday I’d been wondering what sort of career I’d be qualified for with no paid experience. Today, that was the least of my worries. Even if someone didn’t mind hiring the daughter of serial killers, they wouldn’t want the kind of publicity that might come with having me on staff.

“I won’t use my full name. Or my volunteer references.”

“Then how on earth do you expect to find a decent position?”

“I don’t. I’ll take what I can get. Just like everyone else. I’m sure there’s a McDonald’s hiring somewhere.”

“I hope you’re joking, Olivia. This is silly. When you decide where you’re going, I’ll wire you money.”

“No.”

“I understand you’re upset, but if you think I’m going to let a Taylor-Jones—”

“But I’m not a Taylor-Jones, am I? Not really. I think a Larsen would work at McDonald’s. Mmm, yes. Pretty sure she would.”

My mother started to sputter. I hung up. Then I stood there, holding the phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. Smash it to bits. Better yet, put a hole in that wall, on a bill that would go to my mother. Damage a hotel room so she’d have to pay for it? Was I really that petty?

Petty? The one time you really need her, she tries to shove money at you. And tells you to go away. Just like James.

But they were right—I did need to stay away. Only that didn’t mean holing up in a French château. That was something Olivia Taylor-Jones might do, but I was no longer Olivia Taylor-Jones. I needed to make choices for me, whoever I was. I’d say I needed to find myself, if that didn’t sound like I was heading into the Himalayas, taking only a backpack stuffed with angst and clean underwear.

I was twenty-four. I had a master’s from Yale. It was time to do exactly what I would have done if I was not Olivia Taylor-Jones. Get a job. Get an apartment. Live a regular life.

I checked out of the hotel. I’d put it on my credit card and it was only a matter of time before someone traced me there. I should have thought of that.

I went to the hotel ATM and withdrew the maximum on my bank card and the maximum cash advance on my credit card. That gave me two thousand dollars. Enough to pay first month’s rent on a small apartment and tide me over until I got a paycheck.

Next I texted James. Car at O’Hare. Parking garage A. Level 3. Row D. Ticket on dash.

I stared at the message. Short. Precise. No anger. No hurt. No regret. No trace of all the things I was feeling.

I’d woken thinking of James. I’d reached for him and found a cold bed instead. A cold, unfamiliar bed. The rest had come rushing back, but James stayed there, front and center in my brain.

I could be quick to judge, quick to take offense, quick to get angry. Had I expected too much of him?

Maybe.

Did I expect to wake up to apologetic voice mail and text messages?

Maybe.

There were messages. Brief ones. Liv, call me . Liv, we need to talk . Yes, even, Liv, I’m sorry . But I didn’t want apologies. I wanted … I don’t know what I wanted. Him, I guess. Here, supporting me through this. But he wasn’t and that wasn’t his fault. I’d been the one who left, and right now, as much as it hurt, it still felt like the right thing to do. I needed time and distance, to get my head on straight. If that meant I’d lost him—really lost him—then…

I took a deep breath and tried not to think about that.

After I sent James the message, I got rid of my phone—removing and destroying the SIM card and resetting it to the factory defaults. Then to the business center, where I put my bank and credit card through the shredder.

And it was done. My ties with the old world were cut. My journey to a new life begun.

I watched the floor numbers flit past. Of the five people in the elevator with me, three were staring. All three were male and over forty, and any other time, I’d have chalked it up to the fact that I’m young and female. But today, my heart raced and I struggled to keep breathing.

Had my picture been in the paper? I’d grabbed only the classified section at the hotel. I hadn’t checked the rest. I was afraid to check.

Even if my photo was there, I didn’t look like it. Not anymore. Before leaving the hotel, I’d chopped my hair off at my shoulders, blow-dried it straight, and pulled the sides back in a severe style I’d never worn before. Also, I was wearing glasses. I’ve worn contacts since I was twelve, but always carried a pair of glasses in my purse, just in case. Between those, the impromptu haircut, and the Sears-special suit, I was no longer Olivia Taylor-Jones. I was—as my business-center-printed résumés proclaimed—Liv Jones.

So the men in the elevator shouldn’t recognize me. But I could feel them staring. It seemed to take forever to reach the twentieth floor.

——

“H-How long?” I asked the man behind the reception desk.

He was young, thin, and impeccably dressed, perched on the edge of his chair, narrow-eyed gaze flicking past me to the others in the waiting area, as if he expected to catch them stuffing the year-old magazines into their briefcases.

I repeated the question. From his look, he’d heard me the first time—he just wasn’t rushing to answer. At least not until he’d ensured that the waiting room was safe from larceny.