Kelley Armstrong - Omens

“They’ve broken in,” my mother whimpered. “Oh my God, they’ve broken in.”

“They’re journalists, Mum, not a lynch mob. No matter how badly they want the story, they won’t break in to get it. Just hold tight.”

I started for the stairs.

She grabbed my arm. “Don’t leave me here.”

“Okay, then stay right behind me—” Damn it, that wouldn’t work, either. While I was sure we hadn’t been invaded by crazed paparazzi, I wasn’t taking my mother downstairs until I knew what was going on.

“Howard?” I called from the top of the steps.

He appeared at the bottom. “They broke a pane in the French doors to the patio.” His face was calm, but his voice quavered. “I think it was an accident. They were jostling to get a picture and a pane broke.”

“Okay, so have you called—?”

A shout from below. So loud and clear that I froze.

“Are they inside?”

“No, no. They’re just shouting for you through the broken pane. They want you to make a statement. In my professional opinion, I don’t think you should speak to them.”

“Good, because I’m not going to. Have you called the police?”

“I don’t want to raise a fuss,” my mother murmured behind me.

“There are people in our backyard, Mum. I’m raising as big a fuss as I can. Call the police now, Howard. We’re going to stay up here until someone comes.”

Howard made the call. I heard him speaking into the phone, then his voice got loud. “When you have someone free? Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Mrs. Lena Taylor—who is a generous donor to your force’s annual fund-raiser—is under siege, with hooligans breaking her windows.”

Hooligans? That made it sound like some kid jumped the fence and tossed a rock.

“Wait here,” I said to my mother. “I’ll handle this.”

My mother chirped in protest but stayed on the top step as I descended. When I got to the bottom, I saw three faces plastered to the broken patio door, like kids trying to catch a glimpse of an R-rated movie.

A burst of flashes blinded me.

“Ms. Jones?”

“Olivia?”

Shit. Okay, not my brightest move. I retreated out of sight.

“Ms. Jones? Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Olivia? Just a quick statement?”

“Miss Larsen? Hello! Miss Larsen?”

I stiffened.

“Okay,” I muttered. “You want a statement—”

A hand grabbed my arm. I looked back to see Howard.

“Do not engage them, Olivia. That’s what they want.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to them, so they’ll take their damned statement and get the hell off our property. I don’t like them scaring Mum.”

I unwrapped his fingers from my arm and, ignoring the flashes, walked close enough to the broken door so they all could hear me.

I held up one hand to quiet them down. “Fine, you want a statement? I just found out tonight that my biological parents are, allegedly, Pamela and Todd Larsen. I will be investigating this claim. In the meantime, I will ask that everyone respect our privacy and—”

A yelp cut me short. Someone was jostling through the crowd toward the patio doors amid shouts of “Hey!” and “Watch it!”

Then, just as suddenly, the crowd went still. The two older journalists in the front lowered their cameras and pens. One leaned over to whisper to a young woman who looked confused. Her eyes widened and she stepped back to give the newcomer room.

It was an old man. Maybe not that old—seventy or so—but tall and stooped, his rheumy eyes blazing at me.

He stuck a gnarled hand through the broken pane, reaching for the lock.

“Whoa!” I stepped forward. “This is private property, sir. You can’t come in here.”

“I can and I will,” he said. “You may have all these people fooled, but I know who you are.”

I turned to Howard, then heard a cry of, “Sir, you shouldn’t do that” from the crowd.

The old man had flipped the lock. A few journalists continued halfhearted protests, but all of them leaned forward, eyes glittering, cameras raised.

He pushed open the door and marched in.

“Get the police here now!” I said to Howard. Then I turned back to the old man. “You have five seconds to get out.”

The man continued toward me. “I don’t know how you got here, in this fancy house, but—”

“It’s my home, and you’ll get out of it now.”

He stopped right in front of me. I blanched, seeing something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Hate. Pure, unadulterated hate.

“You think you got away with it,” he spat. “Think you got yourself a fancy new life. I remember what you did. Every day of my life, I remember.”

Howard said, “He’s clearly disturbed, Olivia. Go back upstairs.”

“Disturbed?” the old man roared. “You’re the crazy one, for harboring this she-bitch—”

He hit me with both hands, knocking me to the floor. I landed on the broken glass and felt it bite into my bare arms. As I scrambled up, he grabbed a shard, gripping it so hard blood welled up through his fingers. He swung it at me. I caught his arm. It wasn’t hard to stop him—he was an old man. When he snarled, I dug my fingers in until he let out a hiss of pain and dropped the glass.

I glowered at him. “If you think I’m my parents’ daughter, then you don’t want to do that. You really don’t.”

Silence. Stunned silence. For a second, I thought, I’ve done it. They’ll leave now. Then I saw the shock in the old man’s eyes, and knew in that instant that I’d made a very big mistake. That’s when the cameras started to flash again. I let the old man go.

“Olivia…” My mother’s voice from the foot of the stairs.

I wrenched my gaze from the intruders and blinked hard, and when I did, it was like breaking a spell. Suddenly, I was lost in a roar of voices.

“Mr. Gunderson!” someone shouted. “Niles Gunderson!”

“Sir, can we ask about your daughter? About Jan. Does this bring it all back?”

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.