CHAPTER EIGHT

Wednesday morning, I drove my newly acquired VW into Chicago for my first day working with Gabriel. His office is a greystone near Garfield Park. A beautiful old building in a respectable but not exactly prestigious neighborhood. I’d expected something flashier—the Jag version of a lawyer’s office. He could afford that. So why the greystone? It meant something. With Gabriel, everything means something.

The problem with old Chicago neighborhoods is a distinct lack of parking. Gabriel gets the spot in the narrow lane between his building and the next. I was supposed to park on the street, but I got a call from Gabriel five minutes before I arrived. Apparently, the media had staked out his office hoping for a sound bite on my birth parents’ case. I parked a few blocks away, and he picked me up.

There was indeed a news van in front of his building. Gabriel roared past and veered into the parking spot sharply enough to knock me against the door. He paused before pulling up, and glanced off to the left, down the road, as if he’d spotted something.

“There’s something I need to do first,” he said.

“Okay, let me out here. I’m sure Lydia—”

“You should come with me. We need to talk.”

I sighed as the Jag roared back onto the road.

I twisted to face him. “Are you trying to give me whiplash my first day—?”

I caught sight of a familiar figure walking down the sidewalk.

“James?” I said.

Gabriel rammed the car into drive, and it lurched forward.

“Gabriel? Hold on. That’s—”

“Reporters. Yes, I see them.”

“No, it’s James.”

He frowned as if he had no idea what I was talking about, and it didn’t matter that he still had his shades on and I couldn’t see his eyes—I knew that’s what he’d spotted a moment ago. James.

“Gabriel, stop the car.”

He looked over at me. “Give me ten minutes, Olivia.”

“What is going on?”

“Ten minutes. Please.”

When I heard that “please,” my stomach dropped. I opened the door. The pavement whizzed past.

“Olivia.”

I reached for my seat belt. He hit the brakes.

“I can explain,” he said.

“Explain what, Gabriel?” I could barely get the words out, my heart pounded so hard. “What have you done?”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I got out of the car as James jogged toward us. Thirty years old. Blond hair. Trim, fit, and handsome. Dressed in a suit as expensive as Gabriel’s.

James Morgan. My ex-fiancé. We were supposed to get married this weekend, actually. I’d realized that yesterday, when my phone sent me a to-do list for the rehearsal party.

Gabriel pulled to the curb and was out of his car before James caught up.

“Liv . . .” James said.

Gabriel stepped up beside me. “If you’ve come to speak to me, you should have made an appointment.” He turned to me. “Would you excuse us, Olivia?”

“Speak to you?” I said. “Why would he—?”

“A business matter,” Gabriel said. “It will only take a moment.”

“What possible business—?”

“I hired him,” James said. “To look after you.”

I stared at James. “What?”

“I can explain later,” Gabriel said. “I’ve been trying to contact Mr. Morgan to discuss the matter—”

“What matter?”

James turned to me. “After we talked the last time, I spoke to him, hoping to contact you. He convinced me not to.”

“What?”

Gabriel’s face stayed expressionless. “If you failed to provide him with your new contact information, I could presume you didn’t wish to speak to him. I merely reiterated that—”

James stepped toward him. “You told me she needed time to herself and I should respect that, but in the meantime, since I was obviously concerned, you would act as go-between.”

“I did not say—” Gabriel began.

“You agreed to persuade her to speak to me while monitoring the situation.”

I gaped at Gabriel. “You told him—?”

“No, he misunderstood the nature—”

“There’s no goddamned misunderstanding, Walsh,” James said. “You promised to persuade Liv to speak to me. And you promised to look out for her. For a fee.”

I stared at Gabriel, and as I did, I knew James was telling the truth. Of course he was. James always did . . . and Gabriel did not. Yet I still stared, looking for something—anything—in Gabriel’s face to tell me this wasn’t true.

“It wasn’t quite like that,” Gabriel said finally.

“Not quite like that?” I said. “What part’s wrong? The one where you took money to act as a romantic go-between and did nothing? Oh, no, wait—you did do something. When I flirted with Ricky Gallagher, you did your damnedest to stop it.”

“Who’s Ricky?” James asked.

“Or was it the part where you came crawling back after I fired your ass? When you acted like you really wanted to work together again, while all you were really thinking about was the money James was paying you?”

“Olivia, you know that isn’t—”

“At Evans’s house, you said you would have left me in that basement.”

As I spoke the words, I could smell the place—the slightly musty stink overlaid with lemon laundry detergent and blood. Gabriel’s blood. He’d been badly injured, and we’d escaped to the basement, only to discover he wouldn’t fit out the window. He’d told me to leave him. When I refused, he said if the situation was reversed, he’d leave me, and I’d told him it didn’t matter. I would stay. I had stayed.

I continued. “But you wouldn’t have abandoned me to my fate, would you? Because you were being paid to protect me.”

“That’s not—”

“The whole goddamned time, you were being paid to protect me!” My voice rang out along the street, and James moved forward, his hand going to my arm, but I stepped away and looked at Gabriel. “That’s why you stayed the other night. Why you were so goddamned insistent that I get a security system, and I thought, I actually thought . . .”

I couldn’t finish. I wouldn’t humiliate myself like that.

“Olivia.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “I can explain this. Give me five minutes. Please.”

“This is why you offered me the job, wasn’t it? Here I thought I’d accomplished the impossible. I’d impressed Gabriel Walsh. But that wasn’t it at all. You offered me that job so you could keep pulling in a paycheck from James, because you hadn’t finished your task. You hadn’t earned the bonus for getting us back together.”

“No, Olivia. No. That is not—”

“Is he lying?” I said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you did not agree to protect me.”

“Yes, I did, but that is not why—”

“Don’t.” I turned to James. That’s when I saw the reporting crew. Thirty feet away. Taping us.

Gabriel noticed them. “Let’s go talk—”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

I started walking away. Gabriel continued trying—give him five minutes, let him explain. He wouldn’t raise his voice, though, not with a camera crew right there, and as soon as I was out of earshot, he went silent.

“Come this way,” whispered a voice at my ear.

I looked over, and it took a moment to focus and realize James was beside me. Oh God, James . . .

“This way,” he said again, hand on my elbow.

The camera crew was bearing down now. They hadn’t dared approach with Gabriel there, but this was James Morgan, perfectly civilized, perfectly polite, perfectly unlikely to right-hook them if they got in his face.

“Mr. Morgan?” one called. “Ms. Jones?”

“Not now, please.” James put his arm around me and steered me across the road, calling to them, “This is a private matter. Thank you.”

The crew followed, the reporter calling questions. Shoes clomped on the pavement.

“Ms. Jones isn’t giving interviews,” I heard Gabriel say. “If you would like to speak about the developments in Pamela Larsen’s case, I can spare a minute.”

I didn’t look back.