CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The police station wasn’t the same one we’d been to yesterday. This one was in an area of the city I didn’t recognize. An area I’d never have had any reason to visit. While some of the historically “bad” areas of Chicago had been redeveloped, this one had been left alone. Left well alone.

Was this where Gabriel grew up? I supposed so. It was where Seanna’s body had been found, in one of these buildings, probably still empty fifteen years later.

The detective who retrieved us at the front desk was young, new to his shield, given this task because of it. He didn’t even seem to notice me. He was too busy sizing up Gabriel.

“You have quite the reputation, Mr. Walsh,” he said as we walked through the station. He managed a smile that I’m sure he intended to be confident, but it wavered at the edges. “I expected you to be older.”

Gabriel grunted, taking in his surroundings.

“I don’t know what all this is about,” the detective said. “But it better not be some kind of trick. They told me to watch for tricks.”

Gabriel turned his gaze on the young man then, cold blue eyes swinging his way and pinning him, squirming, under that empty stare.

The detective began, “I’m just saying—”

“Nothing new. Nothing interesting. I make you nervous. You’re talking to hide it, which only reveals it all the more. A word of advice, detective? If you’re given the chance to take the witness stand, avoid it. You’re not ready.”

“There’s no trick,” I cut in before the detective could reply. “As Mr. Walsh explained, I was shown photographs by William Evans before he died. They were reportedly from a cold case your department has on file. We’d like to confirm that by seeing the originals.”

“You could have asked us to compare them with the ones found at the scene.”

“Yes, but given it’s my parents’ freedom at stake, I’d like to check all avenues myself.”

“Parents . . .” He stared at me. Recognition clicked. “Miss . . .”

“Taylor-Jones,” Gabriel said. “I mentioned she was accompanying me, did I not?”

“Um, right. I just didn’t make the connection.”

“Now you have. The photographs, please?”

The young man led us into the bullpen, and I realized he intended for us to identify the photos there—in front of the other detectives. Now, as he saw the detectives at their desks, Gabriel faltered. Just a split-second hesitation before he found his resolve again, his expression never losing that impassivity.

“Can we do this in private?” I asked.

“No,” Gabriel began. “This is—”

“May I do it in private?” I met the young detective’s gaze with an anxious look. “Please?”

“R-right. Of course. Let me grab the folder.”

As he hurried off, Gabriel dipped his chin, saying nothing but acknowledging what I’d done, telling me it was appreciated.

The detective retrieved the folder and led us into another hall. As we walked, he babbled about how he’d be in contact with the detectives in the Evans case, make sure they got my statement regarding the identification and the file if it was a match.

When we reached an open interrogation room, the detective led us inside. He set the folder on the table and motioned for us to sit. I did. Gabriel didn’t. He stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder, as if I was the one needing reassurance, and I shifted back, resting against his hand.

The detective kept up a steady stream of chatter as he prepared to open the folder. Telling me how the photos might be disturbing, but if I’d seen them already then he guessed I didn’t really need to be warned, blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up. Just shut up. I might have, too, if I hadn’t suspected the prattle actually let Gabriel relax as the detective focused on me.

I couldn’t see Gabriel’s face as the folder opened. I suspect he was happier that way, no one to witness his reaction. I could feel him there, though, his thumb rubbing my back the only sign of his agitation.

“Are these the photos you saw at the scene?” the detective asked.

“They are,” I said.

“And I believe I can identify the victim,” Gabriel said.

I glanced back. Gabriel’s face was blank, his eyes equally blank, fixed on the photographs.

“Her name was Seanna Walsh,” he said. “She was my mother.”

—

Things went awkwardly after that. Detective What’s-his-name—yes, I should really pay more attention—decided Gabriel was launching some scheme. By claiming a long-dead addict was his mother? That wasn’t just ridiculous—it was unbelievably offensive. I gave the detective hell. By the end of it, I think he had decided I wasn’t nearly as nice as I’d seemed. In fact, given the choice, he’d probably rather have dealt with Gabriel, who took the accusation in stride, calming me down when I lit into the detective.

Gabriel handed over the photographs he’d brought. One was of both him and Seanna. He provided his mother’s vital statistics and the name of the detective who’d handled her missing persons report. He did this all with perfect calm, perfect civility, perfect professionalism. By the end, the detective apologized. Gabriel graciously accepted it. I was still pissed.

We were halfway down the hall when the detective came jogging after us.

“Mr. Walsh,” he said.

Gabriel turned.

“The remains—” He stopped himself and flushed. “Your mother, I mean. Her body is buried at Homewood. That’s—”

“I know what it is.”

“Arrangements can be made to move her. To bury her properly, in a marked grave.”

Gabriel’s perfect calm cracked then, not enough for the detective to notice, just a hairline fracture. I could see the panic in his eyes, as he struggled to give the gracious response, to say yes, that would be fine, thank you very much. But he couldn’t. He could not act like he gave a damn where his mother’s body lay, like he’d pay a cent to move her. He just froze.

“We’ll be in touch,” I said.

Gabriel nodded stiffly, put his hand to my back, and led me out.

—

As we walked to the car, I kept sneaking glances at Gabriel. I thought I was being discreet about it. He had his shades on, gaze forward, as if lost in thought. As we turned into the lot, though, he said, “You can stop fretting, Olivia. I’m not going to collapse.”

“I know. I’m just—”

“Fretting.”

“Concerned.”

“I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare for it.” A few more steps. “This afternoon we could work on the Conway investigation, now that her death is official.” He paused, then added, “If you’re free,” as if just remembering he should check.

“I am. Nothing planned until my diner shift tomorrow.”

He checked his watch. “I should get you lunch first.”

“Can I buy this time?”

“You can.”

“I should probably drive, too.”

He bent to open the car door and looked over the top of his shades. “Did I say I was fine?”

“Just to be sure. I’m only thinking of you.”

He shook his head and waved me over to the driver’s side.

—

We passed the Mills & Jones department store. As we idled at a light, I looked over at the store, taking up half a city block of real estate, a Chicago landmark. I used to be there a few times a week, meeting my dad or hanging out with him. Since his death, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked through those massive front doors. I just can’t do it anymore.

I felt guilty about that sometimes. Guilty, too, about not taking a hand in the business. I had a seat on the board. Or I did. By now, for all I knew, they’d voted to kick my ass off. Would I care? I don’t know.

“Olivia?” Gabriel’s quiet voice.

“Hmm?”

He waved at the light, green now. I pulled through.