Kelley Armstrong - Omens

My mother’s face was stark with terror. There was a bloody print on her shoulder, from my cut hand. I saw her face and I saw that blood, and I realized I couldn’t get into Howard’s car. If I did, the reporters would never let it out of the garage.

I had to protect my mother. I’d promised Dad.

I waved at Howard. “Go! Get her out of here.”

He didn’t need any more prompting. I was probably lucky he didn’t throw open the door and shove my mother out in his haste to escape.

He put the car into reverse. My mother just sat in the backseat. I told myself she was in shock, but it looked like simple relief. She’d gotten away. As for me…? Well, I could look after myself.

The Mercedes reversed down the driveway, sending the onlookers scattering like bowling pins. No one tried to stop Howard. Their prey was still in the garage, alone and defenseless.

I ran. No choice really. Well, there was. I could grab the pruning shears and attack anyone who came near me. I considered it. Even wondered whether I could get away with a self-defense plea. I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t just discovered who I was and realized that slicing someone up really wouldn’t be the way to prove I wasn’t truly the Larsens’ daughter.

I darted inside my dad’s workshop and threw the dead bolt. I took a quick look around at the tools. The heavy tools. The sharp tools. The lethal tools.

A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.

The college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night’s chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.

It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn’t heard from him since school broke for exams. He’d said he’d call, but he hadn’t. Then he did.

“Hey,” he’d said. “You live in Chicago, right?”

She told herself it wasn’t really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.

She’d said yes, and he’d said, “Good. ’Cause there’s this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It’s leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it’s still fresh, and it’s taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?”

She did. Not that she’d ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn’t know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.

“Perfect,” he’d said. “I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives there. You can do that, right?”

Of course she could. She was a photographer. That’s how they’d met—working for the school paper. While she hadn’t liked the idea of sneaking onto private property—especially in Kenilworth—she’d do it for him.

Turned out, trespassing wasn’t really an issue, considering she hadn’t been the first one there. The others were mainly bloggers and small press, maybe not as concerned about the law as they should be. She thought they might try to run her off, but they just let her hang out with them at the back door.

That’s when she’d found out who the girl was.

“Todd and Pam Larsen’s kid,” one of the older journalists said, his breath reeking of garlic. “Can you believe that? Everyone figured they’d shipped her off for adoption in Australia, and she ends up here. She grew up as the daughter of that department store family.”

She’d nodded as he talked, hoping eventually he’d explain who Todd and Pam Larsen were. The names were familiar, and she was sure if he gave her a clue, she’d figure out why, but he’d just kept bathing her in garlic breath until she faked getting a call and backed off the patio.

She’d looked up the Larsens on her phone. When she found out who they were, she knew why she didn’t remember them. Because if she’d heard about them before, she’d wiped it from her memory. Would have bleached it out if she could. Now they were stuck there. Imprinted on her brain. The Larsens and what they’d done.

Oh God, what they’d done.

She’d abandoned her post then. Gone to huddle under a tree in the yard and try to keep dinner in her stomach.

The girl inside. The rich girl. The one everyone was waiting for. She was the child of these killers. The product of monsters.

She supposed she should feel sorry for the girl. Olivia Taylor-Jones was apparently only a couple of years older than her. But she couldn’t feel sorry for her. Couldn’t feel anything but disgust and horror.

If she just found out she was the child of such monsters, she’d take a header off the Sears Tower. You couldn’t go on after that. You just couldn’t.

She’d been sitting there, thinking of that, when they broke into the house. Now she listened to the commotion inside. Shouts. Crashes. A car starting.

Olivia was getting away. This would be her last chance for a photo. She didn’t want the photo. Didn’t want to look at the Larsens’ daughter. But he expected it.

She moved up alongside the house. The car backed out and zoomed down the drive so fast she barely got her camera raised before it was gone.

She leaned against the garage wall and exhaled. She’d tried. She’d tell him that she tried but—

The side door clicked open.

She froze, then pushed back against the wall, crushing vines.

A young woman stepped out. She shut the door and looked around.

It was her. It had to be her. Blond hair. Piercing eyes. Her face hard as she surveyed the yard. She’d been calling Olivia Taylor-Jones “the girl,” but there was nothing girlish about her. Nothing soft. Nothing warm.

The product of monsters. A fiend masquerading as a pretty young woman.

Last chance to snap a photo. A perfect shot. Just take it.

But if the flash went, Olivia—or rather, Eden—would see it. She wasn’t far enough away to escape…

She pressed herself harder against the wall and waited, barely daring to breathe until Eden broke into a jog and disappeared into the night.

Afterward she stood there, shivering and shuddering against the wall, until her legs could hold her and she staggered forward. Her shoe caught on a broken piece of vine and she stumbled, twisting to see the door Eden had come through. To see what she’d left behind.

A bloody handprint.

If I’d been thinking, I’d have grabbed the keys to one of my dad’s vintage cars in the detached garage. I was just lucky I’d had the foresight to snatch up my purse from the front door, with my wallet and cell phone.

There was a convenience store a half mile away. I showed the guy at the counter my cut hand and asked to use the staff restroom to wash up. He’d seen me often enough to know I was a local, and not one of those who sent their driver in and never said hello. So he didn’t ask why I was walking around after midnight, bleeding, just let me use the sink and even brought a bandage from his first-aid kit. I wrapped up my hand, then bought a bottle of Dr Pepper I really didn’t need.

When I stepped out of the store, something swooped at my head. It was night, but it hadn’t looked like a bat. It seemed indeed to be a bird. A crow or something.

If a bird flies straight at you, prepare for a bad day.

Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know. I shook my head and called a cab. When it arrived, I gave the driver James’s address.

James lives with his mother. His parents had divorced when he was in college, and like my mother, his insisted she needed him at home. In her case, it was bullshit. Maura Morgan didn’t need anything. Except maybe a muzzle.