CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

After Patrick finished with Tristan, “Jon Childs” turned himself in and confessed, and Patrick promised that Tristan would give the police evidence they needed to be certain he murdered James.

The next day, I went to the jail to confront Pamela.

Pamela now. Not my mother. Maybe never again my mother.

I didn’t know how to process what Tristan said she’d done. I wanted to say it wasn’t true. He was fae—he couldn’t be trusted. But I knew it was true. In my gut, I knew.

Gabriel drove me to the jail, but I left him outside. This I had to do alone.

I don’t remember walking into that room. Don’t remember sitting. I do remember Pamela coming out, that moment when a two-year-old girl in my soul screamed, How could you? and I had to squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists, banish that girl, and remember I was not Eden Larsen. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones. My mother was Lena Taylor. My ex-fiancé was James Morgan, deceased. My boss—and, yes, friend—was Gabriel Walsh, framed for a murder he did not commit. Framed by the woman sitting in front of me.

“I know everything,” I said as she sat.

She sighed. That was her reaction. A sigh, and a shake of her head, as if I were a child coming to her with some vicious rumor. “I don’t know what you mean, Olivia, but whatever it is—”

“It was you. Not Todd. Pamela Larsen. Not my dad.”

And that, perhaps, was the second-worst thing I could have said to her, the way I phrased that, and she flinched, and then I added the worst, a lie I needed to tell: “Dad confessed . . . after I told him how you tried to blame him.”

Pamela reeled then, and all I could think was, Good. I’m glad I hurt you, for all the ways you hurt them: my father, James, Gabriel. And me. Yes, for all the ways you’ve hurt me.

“You think you did it for me,” I said. “But you know what wasn’t about me? James.”

“Wh-what?”

I lowered my voice so the guard across the room wouldn’t hear. “You conspired with Tristan to kill James and frame Gabriel.”

It took her a moment to say, “I don’t know what you mean,” and that moment’s hesitation answered any remaining question I had.

“Gabriel was your best shot at freedom,” I said, struggling against the rage that swirled through me. “He would have gotten you out. We would have—Gabriel and I, together. You screwed yourself over. You get that, don’t you?”

She shook her head, and I understood then. I understood that it didn’t matter. That her hatred of fae was pathological, and it wasn’t so much because Gabriel was part fae—so was she—but that his role, as Gwynn, was to bring me to the Tylwyth Teg, and she could not allow that. As for freeing her, she didn’t believe that would happen, not really. After all, she was guilty. I suspected she’d only rehired him to keep him close enough to watch and to have some control over him, as leverage to separate him from me, which had failed. Step two, then, was more permanent.

“Why James?” I said, forcing as much calm into my voice as I could muster. “What did he do?”

“He was obsessed with you. I saw that when he came to speak to me. I didn’t mean for that spriggan to kill him. I only wanted him hurt enough to scare him off.”

“And then frame Gabriel for the assault.”

“Yes. Assault, not murder.”

“Then Tristan did kill James. You were horrified. You confessed to me what happened, told me he planned to frame Gabriel and you couldn’t let that happen because it went too far, much too far. Oh, wait. No. That’s not how it happened.”

“I . . .”

“I don’t know if you planned for James to die or not, but you knew it was a possibility, and when he did, you continued as planned. One innocent man died and another was due to spend his life in prison for the crime.”

“Gabriel is not an innocent man, Olivia. Far from it. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be.” She leaned in. “He wouldn’t have gone to prison anyway. He’s too good a lawyer for that.”

“James is still dead.”

“Yes, and that is a tragedy, but I had nothing—”

“James is still dead!” I spat, leaning across the table, Pamela falling back, the guard across the room shooting forward. I moved back and the guard stopped.

“James was innocent,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper now, the pain too great. “And he is dead, and as far as I am concerned, you are responsible for that, as much as if you’d put your hands around his neck yourself.”

I stood and I turned away, and as I did, she got to her feet. “Olivia, no. Please. I can explain.”

I walked to the door. “Olivia,” she called. “Please.”

I opened the door, and as it closed behind me, I heard her shout, “Eden!” and I kept walking.

—

I was now permitted to see Todd. The prison officials explained it had been an “administrative miscommunication,” which I interpreted to mean there’d been some magic at work, likely Tristan’s.

On my way into the waiting room, I’d grabbed a tissue, but if I did cry, it wasn’t going to do me much good, because by the time that door opened, it was shredded on my lap, my fingers still pulling apart every scrap big enough to shred.

Todd walked over, that tentative I’m not sure of my welcome smile playing on his lips. When I smiled, he returned it and slid into his seat.

“Hey, there,” he said.

“Hey.”

He glanced at Gabriel, standing over by the wall. “Tell him to grab a chair.”

“He’d rather stand.”

“Loom, you mean.”

I smiled again. “Exactly. More intimidating.” I took a deep breath. “I know the truth. I know who did it, and I know why, and I know it wasn’t you.” I met his gaze. “It was Pamela. All Pamela.”

Todd jerked back. “What? No. Whoever told you that—”

“She did. I figured it out, and she admitted it.”

“Then she’s lying.”

“She’s not, though I’ll admit she’s very good at it. You, on the other hand? You need to work on your technique, Dad.”

He’d opened his mouth to protest. Then, realizing what I’d called him, he froze. His mouth worked and then stopped as his eyes glistened and he shook his head. “Shit.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Whatever she said, I’m sure she exaggerated to protect me.”

“She blamed you.”

“She—?”

“She told me you were the one who did it. That she was the guilt-stricken conscientious objector who went to prison to protect you and support your actions.”

He stared, and I almost wished I could pull the words back. He didn’t deserve that. But he hadn’t deserved any of it, and that was why I had to plow on, however much it hurt him.

“She . . . she must have had a reason. A plan.” He gave a twisted smile. “Your mother always has a plan.”

“I know,” I said. “And sometimes, as much as she thinks she’s protecting the ones she loves, she hurts them. Hurts them so much.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“Maybe, but we need to stop making excuses for her. It’s time for you to tell the truth.”

“What?” He blinked hard. “No. We have an appeal. Gabriel will—”

“No, Gabriel won’t. Not for her. Even if he did, freedom is far from a guarantee. I want a guarantee. For you.”

“Your mother . . .”

“There’s more.” I told him what she’d done: ordering James’s death and framing Gabriel.

When I finished, he seemed to have aged ten years, his face sagging, his eyes dark with pain.

“I know that in some twisted way she was trying to protect me,” I said. “But she killed someone I loved and tried to destroy someone else I care about very much. There is no justifying that.”

He dipped his head in a slow nod.

“I know you feel you owe her, for what she did for me, but I think you’ve repaid that. You’ve repaid it and repaid it, and even if you still love her, you don’t owe her a thing.” I crumpled the remains of the tissue in my hand. “And I want you back. I really want you back.”

He tore his gaze from mine. “I will tell the truth,” he said. “But first, I need to let Gabriel work his magic, try to free me without turning on her.”

“What? No. Gabriel’s good, but I want guarantees, Dad. I need a guarantee.”

“Even my telling the truth doesn’t guarantee anything, sweetheart. If the appeal fails, I’ll do it. But you need to give me this chance, Liv. Whatever she’s done, I need to try it this way first.”