Kelley Armstrong - Omens

“It’s a matter of record, if one digs deeply enough. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“You don’t advertise it, either. Nor will I.”

“Thank you.” He started to back the car from the spot. Then he looked over. “And thank you for not believing I killed her.”

I nodded and waited for him to finish backing out. He didn’t, just let the car idle there.

“The police will have the photos,” he said. “I’ll need to see them.”

“You will. And if you want company…” I felt my cheeks flush and was glad for the semidark. “Not to presume, of course. I just meant that someone should go with you. I’d be happy to, but you’d probably prefer Rose.”

“No. You’ve already seen the pictures, so that would be easiest.” He cleared his throat. “You should be there anyway, to confirm they’re the ones Evans showed you.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Just set up a time, and we’ll do that.”

He nodded and backed the car out.

We didn’t speak anymore of Gabriel’s mother. We had another parental issue to tackle. I needed to see Pamela. To tell her what had happened, what we’d found.

When we arrived at the jail, Gabriel asked me to wait in the car for a moment. He had another call to make. A very private one, apparently, because he didn’t even take out his phone until he’d walked several cars away. He wasn’t gone more than a couple of minutes before coming back for me.

We were about a dozen steps inside the prison doors when Gabriel’s phone rang. He checked the screen and frowned.

“Blocked,” he murmured. He started to put the phone back into his pocket, then hesitated and answered. “Gabriel Walsh.”

A voice replied. I could only catch the sound of it, no words.

Gabriel’s frown deepened into a scowl. He waved at me, telling me to stay put while he took the call outside.

“I believe my message was very clear,” Gabriel said. “Our business is at an end. I wish to return your—”

The heavy doors cut his voice short. A few minutes later, he came back. I couldn’t read anything in his expression. He just limped in, motioning for us to carry on. It wasn’t until he was through the next set of doors that he paused. He looked around, as if confused. Then he took off his sunglasses.

“That helps,” I said.

He only grunted, his gaze distant.

“Having second thoughts about this visit?” I asked.

“Of course not. Pamela should hear the news from you.”

We got another few feet before he stopped and turned to me. “We need to talk.”

“Change of script?” I said.

He frowned.

“For speaking to Pamela,” I said. “You want to change what we discussed.”

“No, no. This is—” He shook his head and resumed walking before continuing, “Did you want to change anything? I understand this will be difficult. If there’s anything you want to discuss, now is the time.”

Will you tell me what you really think? Did my parents kill those other three couples? Am I chasing a fantasy?

Is there a chance they’re innocent? Or could Todd Larsen have done it alone? Could Pamela be innocent?

I’d like your professional opinion. No, I’d like your personal opinion, Gabriel, and I’d like your advice, and I know I can’t ask for either, because you’ll only give me the professional line—how you have no opinion as to their guilt or innocence and pursuing this matter further is entirely up to me.

He looked over. “Olivia?”

“Let’s do this.”

We reached the visiting room. Pamela was already there when we arrived. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of me.

Dr. Evans had told me to be wary of Pamela. To remember that I could be dealing with a sociopath who would show me whatever facade would get her what she wanted. When he’d said it, I’d looked back on my encounters with Pamela and wondered if I’d already seen proof of that.

But her anticipation and delight as I walked through that door wasn’t feigned. She loved me. I might wish she didn’t, but that wouldn’t change the truth of what I saw in her face.

I saw more, too, as I walked in. I saw the pale, faint lines around her mouth and eyes, and I knew she hadn’t fully recovered from the attack. She was still in pain, maybe not sleeping, and I wanted to back out and demand to get a doctor and make sure she was still being treated. Make sure she was healthy and comfortable and safe.

I’d loved Pamela Larsen once. Adored her. That doesn’t go away. It can’t, even when you think it should. Like my feelings for Lena Taylor. Or for James. However much they’d hurt me, I still loved them.

I should have raced in to tell Pamela the news. Seen her face light up with hope. Hugged her as we celebrated. While I could imagine the scene playing out in a TV movie—heartwarming and heartrending at the same time—I could not imagine myself in it.

“You were right,” I said to Pamela. “You didn’t kill Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”

She went still. Stared. “You … you found…”

“There’s another man in custody,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll tell you about it soon. His name is Edgar Chandler. He claims William Evans confessed to killing his son and Jan Gunderson years ago. Unfortunately, Evans is now dead and Chandler will likely be charged with his murder. But whether Evans did it or Chandler did it, that should clear you and … and my father.”

She collapsed then, her shoulders falling as she slumped forward, eyes filling. “Oh my God. All these years … And you…” She reached out and clenched my hands so tight it hurt. “So many people tried, and you did it.”

“Not alone,” I said, with a glance toward Gabriel.

Her gaze flitted his way. She went still. Then she inhaled and looked at him.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

She tried to be gracious, but I could tell the words hurt almost as much as that knife wound in her side.

“There will be an appeal now, naturally,” Gabriel said.

“And I suppose you want it.” She glanced at me. “You haven’t promised him anything, have you, Olivia? I know the Taylor-Jones family has money, but—”

“Olivia has not offered to pay for your appeal,” Gabriel said. “Nor would I allow her to. I have no expectation of representing you.”

She released my hands and eyed him to see if he was bluffing. The fact that she even bothered trying proved she didn’t know him very well.

I continued, “Finding another killer for two of the victims is a good start, but…”

“It’s two of eight,” she said, turning back to me. “Only a quarter of the way there.”

“And having Chandler say that Evans copied the earlier crimes doesn’t help. It’s unlikely he killed all eight, which is what we were hoping for—a single killer. This complicates things.” I paused. “It further complicates things because you asked me to investigate those two. Specifically those two.”

She paused, as if processing my meaning. Then she shook her head. “I picked them because they didn’t fit the timing pattern. It was a place to start.” She met my gaze. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“But it could have been my father.”

“What? No.” She clutched my hands again. “That’s not the way to go, Olivia. My lawyers wanted to use that angle, to raise the possibility that your father acted alone. I refused because I have no doubt— no doubt—that he isn’t responsible. If you’re even entertaining the idea, you need to see him. Either way, you need to see him.” A wistful smile. “You loved your mommy, but you were Daddy’s girl.”

Just like at home, with my other parents.

I pulled back. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll be watching the Chandler case, and looking for a connection to the other victims. You also need to think of anything else I can use. I’m sure you’ve done that a million times in the last twenty years, but I’m going to need more.”