CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The cat never did leave. When he finished his mouse, he started meowing at me. I opened the door. He ignored it. I quickly laid out newspaper. He kept meowing. I got a towel—one of only two I owned—and reluctantly surrendered it. He curled up on it and went to sleep.
My Internet access wasn’t smoking hot, but it was decent enough if I set up close to the front window. I spent the evening scouring the Web for anything on Jan Gunderson, Christian Gunderson, Tim Marlotte—anyone and anything that might help me make a case against Christian. Or proved he was innocent and the Larsens had been rightfully convicted. I found nothing.
• • •
I woke up, let the cat out, and went to work. Or something like that. I attempted to let the cat out. But he had apparently stuffed half the dead mouse behind my stove, and when I tried to kick him out, he recovered his breakfast and set about eating it. Then he jumped into my sink and meowed until I got him a bowl of water. At least he didn’t expect cream.
When I was ready to leave for work, I opened the door again, and even prodded him in that direction. He pretended not to notice. So I scooped him up and carried him out.
I reached the front doors just as Grace, dressed in a housecoat and a scowl, was retrieving her morning paper.
She glowered at the cat. “No pets allowed.”
“Tell that to whoever let him in.” I shifted the cat under my arm. “Also, you have mice.”
She squawked as I left. Once I reached the sidewalk, I put the cat down. He gave me a baleful look, then tore back into the front yard, leapt onto the porch, and crouched behind a stone urn, gaze fixed on the door, waiting for it to open.
“So that’s how you do it,” I said. “Just don’t let Grace catch you or you’ll end up baked in a pie.”
• • •
As my shift ended, Gabriel called to say we had evening interviews with one of Jan’s old friends and a former teacher of Christian’s whom the police had questioned about his association with the first female victim, Amanda Mays. It seemed like retreading well-trodden ground, but nothing else was popping up. Should I really expect it to? How many professionals had taken a crack at this case? I sure as hell wasn’t going to prove the Larsens were innocent by questioning two people.
Gabriel knocked at my door at ten to six. When I let him in, he sniffed the air, frowning slightly. Then he noticed my guest.
“You have a cat.”
“Not by choice.” I shut down my laptop. “He came in last night chasing a mouse and apparently he likes it here. I kicked him out in the morning and found him at my door when I got back. I left him in the hall, but he started caterwauling. Grace came. She tried taking him outside. He scratched her arms, so she threw him in here and told me I have a cat.”
“I see. Does he have a name?”
“That would imply I’m keeping him.” I scowled at the cat, who simply tucked his paws under himself and continued ignoring me. “He gets a towel, some kitty litter, and that empty tin can for a water dish.”
“From the looks of him, he’ll settle for that. And maybe a flea collar.”
On cue, the cat scratched behind his ear.
“Great,” I muttered. I started for the door, then I handed Gabriel a box from the counter. “My thanks for getting me through the interview.”
He took the box gingerly and stood there looking down at it.
“What? Is it ticking?” I reached over and pulled off the lid. “Cookies. That’s what you smelled earlier—I hope. My first batch ever. Well, actually, my second. There was a test run. I’ll feed them to Grace.”
He looked down at the cookies.
“I asked your aunt what I could do to thank you,” I said. “She gave me the recipe. Said they were your favorites.”
“Ah. Yes. Well . . . this . . . wasn’t necessary.”
“Shit,” I said, leaning back against the counter. “Too personal, isn’t it? I told her that, but she insisted you wouldn’t take it the wrong way.”
“I’m not. It’s . . . very thoughtful.”
“Guess I should have just gone for a card.” I slapped the lid onto the box. “You can throw them out when you get home, but they are edible. I ate two.”
“They smell good.”
“Whatever.” I waved him out the door.
• • •
Gabriel drove into a largely residential neighborhood near Garfield Park. He pulled in between two beautifully restored greystones. The lane was clearly marked “Private parking. Violators will be towed.”
As we got out, I noticed a video camera aimed at the spot where he’d parked.
“Um, Gabriel?” I gestured to the camera.
He nodded and ushered me along the lane. We came out between the greystones. In New York, they’d be brownstones. Same concept, different colored brick.
Gabriel led me up the wide front steps to the front door. As he opened it, I saw a small bronze plaque affixed to the stonework: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law.
“This is your office?” I said.
Obviously it was. When I’d pictured his office, though, I’d imagined something unrelentingly modern. A sterile chrome and marble suite on the fortieth floor of some skyscraper.
He hesitated on the stoop, frowning at me slightly. Then he nodded. “Ah, I neglected to mention the pit stop, didn’t I? I need to sign some papers before my secretary arrives in the morning.” He hesitated. “I suppose you could have just waited in the car.”
He glanced back toward the road. He looked faintly confused, as he had when I’d asked about his office. No, not confused. Distracted. He had my cookie box in his hand and was holding it out awkwardly, as if it might leak and stain his jacket.
I was about to say I’d go in with him. Seeing the outside of his office made me curious about the rest. Then, before I could speak, I caught a movement down the road—someone getting out of a car—and suddenly I was the one forgetting what I was doing as I stood there, gaping. Luckily, Gabriel was still too distracted to notice, and I recovered before he did.
“Maybe I’ll walk around a bit out here,” I said. “Stretch my legs after the car ride.” As he reached for the doorknob, I said, “Take your time. I’ll probably go around a block or two.”
He nodded absently. “I should make a couple of calls.”
I waited until he’d gone in. Then I hurried down the steps. I paused at the bottom. The car I’d seen was only about fifty feet away. The man who’d gotten out was even closer, coming toward me. There was no doubt who it was, yet I paused there, sure I was mistaken, as I had been once before.
He’d been smiling when I first came down the steps. As I paused, worry flickered over his face, as if I might dart into the office instead.
When I continued toward him, the smile returned, blazing bright now.
“Liv.”
James covered the last few paces with his arms out, hesitating just before he reached me. I walked into his arms and hugged him back.
“You look good,” he said into my hair.
“No,” I said, backing up to look at him. “I look like shit. But thank you anyway.”
A sputtered laugh as he hugged me again.
“I saw the article,” he whispered as we separated. “I came by to speak to Mr. Walsh, hoping he was working late. I was just about to leave when you drove up.”
“Howard did warn you about the article, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I got his message. I got yours, too, from last Thursday night.” His hands rested on my hips. “I’ve been forwarding my line to my cell ever since, in case you called again.”
“I—”
“I didn’t really expect you to. I made a mess of things. I know that.” He took my hands, holding them and looking down at me. Then he glanced over my shoulder. “Can we go someplace? Talk?”
I wanted to say yes. Absolutely yes. Then I imagined telling Gabriel I was bailing on the interviews he’d arranged so I could spend some quality time with my ex.
“I can’t,” I said, then quickly added, “I will. We will. But . . .” I gestured back at Gabriel’s office. “He’s on the clock. He’s helping me sort things out with the Larsens.”
A faint tightening of James’s lips. “Yes, I read that. You need to be careful of men like that, Liv. I’m sure he told a good story when he tracked you down, but he’s only after your money. You really should have checked him out before hiring him. Or at least spoken to Howard. Walsh has a reputation—”
“For getting the job done,” I said. “For being a helluva good lawyer.”
I hadn’t meant to defend Gabriel, but this was about me. My ability to exercise common sense and good judgment.
“I’m sorry,” he said, moving forward again to take my hands. “I just thought that, under the circumstances, you might not be . . . yourself.”
A brief hug. I didn’t fall into it as I had before. He noticed and let me go awkwardly.
“So can we get together later? For a drink? A coffee?” A faint smile. “I promise not to question your choice of legal counsel.”
His smile was genuine, but his tone rankled. I told myself to relax. I was on edge, surprised to see him, happy to see him, but nervous and anxious, too.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I said. “I have to work early.”
“You got a job?”
I told myself that what I heard in his voice was surprise not shock. His smile seemed to confirm it as he said, “I should have known you wouldn’t be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Charge into action. That’s my Liv.”
There was nothing wrong with his words. Or the sentiment. So why did I feel that old prickle at the base of my neck, like a starched tag left in my shirt?
“It’s manual labor,” I said. “But it pays the bills.”
“Like I said, you always do what it takes. I’m proud of you. But I suspect that if you do come out with me tonight, you won’t need to go to work tomorrow.” He met my gaze. “We can work this out. Just meet me after you’re done with Walsh and . . .” He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm was my engagement ring. “Give me an hour, and all this will be over. You can come home.”
“I can come home?” I stepped back. “I was the one who left. No one—”
“That came out wrong. I’m . . .” A twist of a smile. “I’m a little nervous here, Liv. There’s a reason I have you write all my speeches, remember? I just meant that you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t need to stay away. Come back, and I’ll take care of you.”
That scratching again at my collar. “I don’t need—”
He lifted his hands. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I’m just saying you don’t need to.”
“What if I want to?”
His forehead furrowed. “Why?”
“Because I think I need to. I’m figuring out who I am, and that’s important right now.”
He stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re still hurt and confused. There’s no need to punish yourself—”
“Punish myself?”
“Whatever the Larsens did has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I snapped. “I was a toddler. I’m not punishing myself. Like I said, I’m figuring things out and I need time—”
“You’re still angry.” He sighed. “Are you punishing me because I didn’t—”
“No,” I said, my voice ringing along the empty road. “It is not about you. It’s about me. Just me. I—” I stopped. Took a deep breath. “I’m going to walk away now. I think you need to keep that ring.”
“Olivia . . .” There was a warning note in his voice that made my hackles rise. I resisted the urge to turn and kept going.
“Olivia.” Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. “I came after you once. I’m not doing it again.”
No, James. You didn’t come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.
I didn’t say that. I feared if I tried, I’d end up snarling it, and I didn’t feel like snarling. I felt like . . . Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn’t really over, I realized now that it was.
I turned slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can’t give me that—”
“You can’t expect me to, Liv.”
I swallowed a small surge of anger. “You’re right,” I said, my voice soft. “I can’t. I don’t. I never did.”
I turned and walked away. He let me go.
• • •
The exterior door to Gabriel’s building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door to Gabriel’s office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I’d been running.
The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.
“Ah, good timing,” he said. “How was the walk?”
“Fine.”
Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed—unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.