Kelley Armstrong - Omens

“We’re down here!” I shouted. “In the basement.”

“We should back out of their line of fire,” Gabriel said, raising his voice to be heard over Chandler’s protests and proclamations of doom.

We moved to the side and readied our guns, just in case whoever was at the door wasn’t who we’d invited. But when it opened, it was indeed the police. We lowered our weapons to the floor and lifted our hands.

“You’ve made a very big mistake, Miss Larsen,” Chandler hissed as Gabriel shouted up an explanation. “Do you think Cainsville will protect you?”

I glanced over sharply. “Cainsville? What does Cainsville have to do with—?”

“You’ll find out.” Chandler smiled. “The hounds will come to Cainsville and when they do, you’ll wish you’d made a very different choice today.”

It wasn’t long after the police arrived before I did begin to wish I hadn’t been so quick to call them. When you’re trapped in a basement with gun-wielding mind-controlled assassins at every turn, it’s easy to think, Damn the consequences—just get me out of here! The consequence, as it turns out, was that the daughter of Pamela and Todd Larsen had been found in a house full of dying people.

Within about fifteen minutes, I was convinced I’d be joining my parents in jail. That’s as long as it took for the paramedics to wrap Gabriel’s leg, and for him to hobble back and handle things for me.

The evidence was clearly on my side. We’d documented every step, including taping my conversation—I’d put Chandler on speaker and recorded with Gabriel’s phone. We hadn’t touched the trigger of the gun that killed Evans, leaving only Maria’s fingerprints. We expected to find drugs in my coffee, further supporting my story. And there were no actual deaths to lay at our feet. Mrs. Evans, the gardener, and Anderson were still alive. Even Maria had survived—for now, though she was being rushed into surgery in critical condition. Mrs. Evans and the gardener had no idea what was going on, and I was sure tests would reveal drugs in their systems, too. As for Anderson, he’d started ratting out his boss the minute he woke up to find himself with half a foot.

Still, it was messy. Really messy. And we weren’t even saying the words “mind control,” instead sticking with “they seemed to be drugged.” We weren’t mentioning Niles Gunderson and Josh Gray, either. If Anderson wanted to pin those on his boss, that was his choice; we wouldn’t muddy the waters.

As for Chandler, he still blamed Will Evans for everything. Naturally. Dead men don’t tell tales—or refute accusations. The truth would come out at trial. All that mattered was that my question had been answered. My parents hadn’t killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.

Did that mean they were innocent of all charges? Not necessarily. But they could be. It was a start.

I sat in the waiting room and tried to keep my hospital anxiety at bay. The paramedics had cleaned my shoulder—a deep graze that would hurt like hell for a while. Gabriel’s leg, though, had needed a hospital visit.

Had they known the man, they’d have realized that the only sure way to get him there would have been to tie him to a stretcher. But no, they trusted that Gabriel was a responsible adult and would seek immediate medical attention. Which meant that it was up to me to get him to a hospital, and as long as he wasn’t bleeding out, he didn’t see the rush.

First, he had to make sure I wasn’t going to be arrested. Then he had to contact the media himself and invite those of his choosing to a late-afternoon press conference. Then he needed Lydia manning the phones, which required stopping at the office to explain the situation.

I let him get there before threatening to induce bleeding if that would get him to the hospital. Lydia helped me cajole and bully him back into the car.

Now I was in the waiting room … waiting. While reminding myself that if a guy took a bullet helping me, I really shouldn’t dump him at the front door and flee.

I sat near a window, legs pulled up, enjoying the midday sun. When raindrops tapped against the glass, they startled me, and I looked out to see the sun still shining despite the sudden shower.

Rain on a sunny day. That’s good luck.

I smiled. I could use some luck.

As for whether I could truly read omens, I knew only that things had changed. That I had changed. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by sights and sounds and smells anymore. I understood it was information my brain needed to process. I was aware of stimuli there, tickling the edges of awareness, but it didn’t bother me the way it had.

I’d changed in other ways, too. Maybe I was still changing. I knew one thing—I wasn’t hiding anymore. I wasn’t going to start calling myself Eden Larsen, but I wasn’t going to pretend I’d never been Eden Larsen.

Gabriel stepped from the back room, looking annoyed, as if the visit had been a dreadful inconvenience. When he saw me, the scowl smoothed out.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“They said I need this.” He nodded down at a cane.

“And the fact that you took it suggests walking is more painful than you let on.”

He held the door for me. “I’ll use it for a few days.”

A woman bumped into him, so intent on texting that she just kept walking.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” I said. “Really. It’s okay.”

Gabriel gave a half smile.

“Yes, I’m a whole lot braver when they can’t hear me,” I said.

“We’ll work on that.”

As we stepped out, I spotted a child standing in the ambulance lane. A dark-haired boy no more than three, frantically looking about.

I glanced back at the woman who’d bumped into Gabriel, still visible through the window, still texting.

“Are you looking for your mommy?” I called to the boy.

He nodded, solemn faced.

I put out my hand. He didn’t take it but let me lead him into the hospital. Gabriel followed. When we got to the waiting room, the boy let out a breath of relief and ran to the woman. She shot him a glare of annoyance, gestured to a chair, and told him to be quiet.

“Bitch.” I looked at Gabriel. “I’m ready to say that to her face now.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” he said.

I was holding the door when I realized he was still inside, watching the little boy. He noticed me and strode out.

We were at the car before he spoke. Even then he cleared his throat twice—pausing for a few moments after the first time, as if reconsidering. When we were in the car, he cleared it again and said, “At Evans’s house. You said he had photos of my mother.”

“Or someone he claimed was your mother. I wouldn’t know, of course, and I suspect it was just a lure to get me there—”

“Olivia?”

I glanced over.

“You don’t need to make this easier for me. If he knew about my mother, he knows about my past. I’m presuming he hired an investigator. I’m presuming he told you what that investigator discovered.”

“He really didn’t say—”

“Olivia.” He waited again for me to meet his eyes. “I would like to know what he told you, in case there are any lies that need correcting.”

“Like I said, he claimed you killed your mother, which I didn’t believe. I thought she OD’d, and you hid the body to avoid going to children’s services. From your reaction earlier, I know that’s not true, either.”

“And the rest?”

“He said that you pretended she was alive and lived on your own.”

He nodded. He put his sunglasses on, despite the dark parking garage, and faced forward, starting the car.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was completely unsolicited information, and I know you’d rather I hadn’t heard, but I can promise that I will never pass it on.”