SACRILEGE

If I were going to kill Seanna Walsh, how would I do it?

It was not a question Patrick had difficulty answering. He’d considered it many times, in fantasy and even in fiction, having written a few characters in whom one might recognize aspects of his son’s mother, all of whom met terrible—and terribly satisfying—fictional demises.

But now, as he stood on the corner of Main Street, the question was not how he’d do it, but how Pamela Larsen would. Which was another matter altogether.

First there was the problem of finding Seanna. He doubted Seanna had provided contact information to Pamela.

Oh, and in case you decide to escape prison so we might take tea, I’m currently residing in Grace’s building in Cainsville.

Patrick did have to smile at the image, so helpfully provided by Liv, of Seanna and Pamela at tea.

Oh, my dear, you must try the cookies. The lethal dose of arsenic adds a lovely almond flavor.

No, much too obvious.

I know, Seanna darling, at our age, it can be so difficult to get a good sleep, but I’ve found an incredible cure, a most remarkable tea, the perfect blend of nightshade and belladonna.

Nice, but poison was easily detected and not really Pamela’s style.

Please, Seanna dearest, do try the chicken sandwiches. I deboned them myself. Well, mostly.

Yes, that was more Pamela’s style. Still, he might be forgiven if he held quite another image in mind, a much more satisfying teatime pictorial of Pamela Larsen lunging across the scones and cucumber sandwiches, knife in hand, snarling, “Die, bitch!”

Crude but effective.

Yet there would be no tea. Simply murder.

So, how will you find her, Pamela? You won’t leave that to chance. You wouldn’t set foot outside your prison walls until every detail had been planned.

Patrick might not know Pamela Larsen, but he knew her daughter. Take Liv’s more deliciously devious side, multiply it tenfold, and he’d have Pamela.

So it mattered, he supposed, not how she’d know where Seanna was, but simply acknowledging that she would.

Pamela Larsen was coming to Cainsville.

Coming to murder Seanna Walsh.

And Liv expected him to ruin such a perfect scene?

Sacrilege.

No, this wasn’t about stopping Pamela. Not at all.

As he approached Rowan Street, he replayed exactly what Liv had said. She asked him to speak to Veronica or Grace first. Which seemed odd.

Patrick shook his head. His curiosity really could get the better of him sometimes.

As for why Liv wouldn’t want him to let Pamela kill Seanna, well, that was no mystery at all. She had to say that, didn’t she? Gabriel was sitting right next to her in the car, and while Patrick suspected Liv would kill Seanna herself if she could get away with it, she’d be much more circumspect in front of her new lover.

Gabriel would want Seanna dead. Yet he could not do it himself. Ergo, under other circumstances, Liv would happily turn a blind eye to Pamela’s scheme. But Liv finally had Gabriel and was more nervous than became a young woman of her cunning and resolve.

Cunning…

Interesting word choice. And there, perhaps inadvertently, he had solved the mystery. Answered that niggling feeling that said such squeamishness did not become Olivia.

Patrick had misinterpreted the point of the call entirely. It wasn’t to stop Pamela. It was to protect Gabriel. Call Patrick and tell him what was happening, and ask—demand—he do something about it, while knowing full well he wouldn’t. Therefore, when Seanna died at Pamela’s hands, Gabriel would suffer no guilt at having failed to stop it. Liv had tried to stop it. Gabriel had overheard her. Whatever happened after that…well, that was Patrick’s fault, wasn’t it? Not theirs at all.

Patrick smiled.

Clever, clever Liv. He should be furious, of course, at being played. But he admired her skill too much for that.

He appreciated the steps she took to protect his son, and he would reward her.

No, it’s my fault, Gabriel. I told Liv I’d stop Pamela. I was very clear on that. She had no reason to doubt me.

There. A selfless act. Liv would be pleased. Moreover, Matilda would be pleased, and as much as Patrick liked to pretend otherwise, he was very aware of Matilda’s importance. Currying her favor was to his benefit. She would owe him. Quid pro quo.

Now, time to give you what you want, Liv. What my son needs. For his mother to return to an unmarked grave and a cold-case file.

As Patrick walked behind Grace’s building, he spotted a middle-aged woman, her rounded figure further padded by a long down-filled jacket. A dark winter hat—pulled down as far as it would go—hid her hair and part of her face, the rest obscured by a thick scarf.

“Dressed for the occasion, I see,” he said as he ambled over. “A cold night’s dark endeavor.”

The woman let out a laugh. “Well, it is cold. This will warm me up, though.” She lifted a wine bag. “Just as soon as I get up to my friend’s apartment.”

Patrick stopped a few feet away, staying deep in shadow. “Who’s your friend?” Before she could answer, he lifted a sheet of paper and unfolded it. “Ah, now, you really did come prepared. A map of the building and all. Very thorough.”

The woman patted her pockets. “How—?”

“You dropped it,” Patrick lied, flashing his teeth in a smile, and she finally turned to him.

Pamela Larsen. I see where your daughter gets that look of hers, the one that says she knows she’s being conned but doesn’t have enough evidence to convict.

He handed back the map. “That looks like Liv’s floor.”

Pamela smiled, a wonderfully guileless smile. “It is. I’ll have to tell her I met you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She reached for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm?”

“My name. In order to tell Liv you met me, you’ll need to know who I am first.”

He stepped between her and the door, full under the light. Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed.

“You do remember me,” he said. “It was such a brief encounter, and how long ago? Thirty years, at least. But you don’t forget a fae face, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said evenly. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m afraid you won’t find Liv there. She moved into the old Carew house. Kids these days.” He shook his head. “Communications options we only dreamed of—text, e-mail, voice mail. But they still don’t talk with their parents nearly enough. Of course, in your case, I guess there’s an excuse. You don’t have Snapchat in prison, do you, Pamela?”

Pamela went still.

“Regretting the fact you can’t kill me?” he said. “You could, but I haven’t done anything to warrant it, and you need a good reason, don’t you, Pamela? Well, maybe not good. You haven’t quite sold me on your motivation for conspiring to kill James Morgan. I suspect a large part of that was just the opportunity to frame Gabriel. Which, between you and me?” He leaned closer. “Puts you squarely in my bad books. You’ll understand that, though. Paternal instinct can be just as strong as maternal.”

“Pater…?” She trailed off and then curled her lip. “You’re Gabriel’s father.” A contemptuous snort. “I knew there was more than a few drops of fae blood in him.”

“Much more. Almost as much combined fae as is in your daughter, with her fae and Cŵn Annwn blood.”

“The Cŵn Annwn are not fae.”

“They are, too, but we won’t debate that. I will only say that if you go after my son again, I will crush you.”

“I won’t. I’ve already promised Eden that.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Liv looks out for Gabriel, as much as he looks out for her. He jumped off a bridge for her. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know he fell off one, but I’m sure he’s telling a very different story. And if he did jump? Well, her trust fund wouldn’t have paid out if she died before her birthday.”

“Pamela, Pamela, Pamela. You are a bright woman. As clever as your daughter and even more underhanded. Yet when you sing that particular song, you seem as foolish and thickheaded as the woman you’ve come to kill.”

“I don’t know what—”

“No time,” he said. “Liv and Gabriel are coming to stop you, and having been in a car with my son, one cannot presume normal travel times. We must hurry. You’re here to kill Seanna. But you’ll never get to her without help. That’s why I’m here. To make sure you can do it. And make sure you get away with it.”