CHAPTER THIRTY

In that moment, I failed Gabriel. The officer announced he was under arrest and all I could think was, Oh my God, Pamela . . . She’d accused him of murder and now he was being arrested, and that had to be her fault. I froze in horror and dismay, and when Gabriel looked at me, that’s what he saw. As if I thought he might actually have done it.

He turned away, his shoulders straightening. His hand dropped from my back. He walked toward the police cruiser, his chin high as one officer read his Miranda rights and the second told him to put his hands behind his back. They were going to cuff him—with news cameras on every side.

I jumped forward then, saying that wasn’t necessary, that he wasn’t resisting. But Gabriel said, “Enough, Olivia,” and put his hands behind his back as the cameras snapped.

I didn’t say, I know you’re innocent, because there was no question, and I would not act as if there was. Instead, I said, “Tell me what to do.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Please. Tell me what to do.”

He kept walking. I caught his coat sleeve, ignoring the warning grunt of the officer.

“Gabriel, please. Tell me what I can do.”

He glanced at me then, and my panic must have shown, because a little of that stiffness went out of his shoulders. He started rattling off instructions. Notify Lydia. Have her lock down the office pending a search. Do not go into the office until it had been searched. Same with his apartment.

“Do you need a lawyer?” I said.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You can still call me, right?” I said. “One phone call? To let me know if there’s anything more I can do?”

He lowered his voice, turning to look at me as we reached the police car. “I’ll be all right, Olivia.”

The officer opened the door and guided him in. As I hovered there, the officer gave me a surprisingly sympathetic look and said, “You’ll have to step back, Miss Jones.”

I did.

Gabriel ducked his head to look at me out the cruiser window. “May I have a brief word with Ms. Jones? Please?”

The officer hesitated. I suspect he wasn’t as willing to be nice to Gabriel, but the request was worded so politely, the tone downright deferential, that he told his partner to hold up. Gabriel motioned me closer, and the officer stepped away. As I bent to listen, I could see the tightness in his face, the anxiety. He might be acting calm, but he’d just been arrested for murder.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it. “I didn’t do this, Olivia. Whatever you may hear, whatever you may think—”

“I know you didn’t,” I said.

I squeezed his arm, fast, the briefest touch, not giving him time to flinch.

“I’ll fix this,” I said. “You’ve said that to me many times. Now it’s my turn. I’ll fix this.”

“Take my car.” Gabriel struggled for a wan smile as he nodded for me to take his keys from his jacket pocket. “Just be careful with it.”

The cops tried to intervene, but Gabriel told them he’d only picked up the vehicle that morning, so it wasn’t evidence. The bill of sale was in the glove compartment.

As soon as the patrol car pulled away, the reporters swarmed.

I had every intention of making a calm statement. Admittedly, my past record for this had not been good, but I wasn’t going to walk away without supporting Gabriel. Except it was like trying to kneel and pray in the middle of a rugby mob. When I opened my mouth, I got shouted down. When I tried to step back, I got jostled and blocked. Just as I was ready to give up, the crowd began to part, and I heard a familiar “Hey!” and “Move!” When they saw who it was, they stepped aside, much like a herd of ravenous swine makes way for the guy carrying the fresh bucket of slop.

Ricky elbowed through to me.

“Gabriel—” I began.

“I heard,” he said, his face grim. He took my arm and turned to the guy nearest us. “Move!”

Getting me out of that crowd wasn’t as easy as getting himself in. But he managed, while also keeping his middle finger raised in front of me.

The crowd wasn’t as big as it seemed, maybe a dozen reporters and beyond them a layer of curious mourners, which pissed me off more than the journalists. The media was just doing its job, but the others were supposed to be there to honor James.

I whispered to Ricky, “I need to make a statement.” He could have said, What the hell? He’d rescued me from the mob and now I wanted to engage it? But he only nodded and led me to Gabriel’s car, where he positioned us with our backs to the vehicle, blocking anyone from coming up behind us, while also securing an escape route.

“Listen up!” Ricky said, his voice ringing over the shouted questions. “Ms. Jones is going to give a statement, and if you want to hear it, you’re going to shut the fuck up. Got that?”

A murmur of outrage from the mourners. Obviously, joining a mob at a funeral was fine, but God forbid someone should swear.

“She’s going to do this once,” Ricky said. “If you don’t let her finish, she’ll get in this car and you’ll have nothing, because she’s not answering your questions or—” He spun on a young woman, slipping up beside him with her recorder. “You! Get the hell back now.”

She scrambled away so fast you’d think he’d pulled a gun. Which is probably what they expected for the encore.

“Anyone else gets that close?” Ricky said. “We leave.” He turned to me, his voice lowered. “Go on.”

I gave my statement. Gabriel had been arrested for James’s murder. It was obviously a trumped-up charge, stemming from ongoing animosity between Gabriel and the police. The fact that they felt the need to dramatically arrest him at the funeral proved it. I felt guilty saying that after the officers had been relatively decent about how they carried out their orders, but it was the slant Gabriel would put on it.

I went on to express my dismay and anger at the fact that James’s service had been disrupted. I was appalled by the way the police—and media—had disrespected his memory. I made it absolutely clear that I supported Gabriel and that I had no doubt he’d be released quickly.

When I finished, Ricky said, “We’ll take Gabriel’s car. Do you want to drive?”

I shook my head. He reached for the passenger-door handle.

“Olivia!”

When I heard that voice, I froze.

“Go on,” Ricky murmured, the door open. “Get in and we’ll take off.”

I wanted to. But if I’d come to pay my respects to James, there was no way I could turn my back on the woman making her way toward me through the crowd.

Even before I started dating her son, Maura Morgan had barely tolerated me at family gatherings. “Poor Lena,” I’d heard her whisper when I was twelve. “That girl of hers is . . . well, she’s a little odd, don’t you think? Too headstrong by far. It’s her father’s influence. Arthur’s a smart businessman, but his manners leave something to be desired.”

When James and I got together, you would have thought he’d taken up with the town whore. Give it a few months, she must have thought, and he’d be done with his fling and settle down. When he decided to settle down with the unsuitable girl, Maura decided I wasn’t a whore after all. I was a gold digger.

I’d never let her drag me into a fight, but I had always stood up to her. Nothing she could do or say would change how James felt about me, and I’d reminded myself that, after her divorce, her son was all she had left. I was a threat to that relationship. So I felt sorry for her, which was particularly satisfying, knowing how much she’d loathe my pity.

But now, when I saw her, I froze like the proverbial headlight-stricken doe. On the outside I might be holding up, but inside I was a seething mass of panic, anxiety, and confusion over Gabriel’s arrest.

My mouth opened, no words coming out until she was right in front of me and I managed to squeak, “Maura.”

Her hand flew up and I flinched, bracing for the blow. Instead, I heard a soft gasp and opened my eyes to see Ricky holding her wrist.

“No,” he said, locking eyes with her.

“Who are . . . ?” she sputtered, trailing off as her gaze traveled up him, taking in the boots, the worn jeans, the leather jacket, and finally his face. Then she recognized him, and yanked her hand away fast.

“Maura,” I said. “I—”

“You brought your—?” She stared at Ricky, struggling to speak. “You brought a—? To my son’s—?”

“No,” Ricky said, his voice calm. He waved at his clothes. “Obviously, she did not bring me here. She came with Gabriel, to pay her respects. I was on the other side of the cemetery, in case some people”—a slow glower around the crowd—“didn’t let the fact it’s a funeral stop them from pursuing her. But I would like to offer my condolences—”

“Don’t you dare.” She enunciated each word like spitting glass.

“I offer them anyway, and I apologize for grabbing your wrist. You’re understandably distraught, and I wanted to prevent you from providing a photo op that I don’t think your son would have appreciated.”

Despite all the times I’ve stood up to Maura, I’ve never been able to render her speechless. Ricky did. All around us, cameras snapped, recording the spectacle of the society grande dame having her manners shown up by a biker a third her age.

Ricky was right. This was a photo op that James would not have appreciated. So I didn’t relish the moment. I reached over and embraced her—too quick to be thrown off—and I said, “I’m so sorry.” I know maybe having that picture in the papers would be worse for her, but it’s the one James would have wanted. I let her go; then I turned and climbed into the car.