CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pamela Larsen lay flat on her back, her skin so pale she was lost against the white sheets. Even her lips looked white. The only signs of color were a yellowing bruise on her cheek and purple half-moons under her eyes.
She’s dying.
That’s why I’m seeing poppies.
My mother is dying.
I started to turn to Gabriel for reassurance, then stopped myself and looked over at the doctor by the foot of the bed, jotting notes on her chart.
“How is she?” I whispered.
The woman’s gaze lifted to mine. I saw nothing in it. No reaction. No clues.
“Eden . . .” Pamela whispered.
I turned. She lay there, eyes still closed, lips barely parted. One hand clutched the sheets, grip tightening.
“Eden . . .”
I walked over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she blinked, lips forming an “Oh” of surprise.
“Eden?”
I bit back the urge to correct her and nodded.
She smiled and took my hand in a squeeze so weak I barely felt it.
I asked the doctor again, “How is she?”
She told me what had happened. Where the knife went in. What damage it had done. All the coldly clinical medical terms that I didn’t give a damn about, and I stood there, nodding, sifting through her words to find the ones I really wanted. When they didn’t come, I said, “Can we step outside, please?”
“If you want to know the prognosis, barring any unforeseen complications, she’ll be fine.”
Emotion finally tinged the doctor’s voice. Regret. She’ll be fine. This was a doctor. Sworn to heal, not to judge. But judge she did, in the twist of her lips and the chill of her tone.
“Thank you,” I said. “That will be all.”
A faint widening of her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re dismissed.”
She met my gaze, indignation flashing.
Gabriel stepped forward. “Ms. Taylor-Jones would like a few moments with her mother. As it appears you have completed your visit, we’d ask that you grant her that courtesy.”
The doctor’s mouth tightened. She said nothing, though. Didn’t even look my way. Just returned the clipboard to its place and walked out.
“I want another doctor assigned to her,” I said to Gabriel. “Can you do that?”
His chin dipped.
“Thank you.”
As I turned back to Pamela, I noticed the two guards assigned to her room. The older woman stood as still as a statue, giving no sign that she’d witnessed anything. The younger man shot a smile my way, then ruined it by checking me out.
“Thank you for coming,” Pamela said, her voice a papery whisper.
“How are you?”
A wan smile. “Feeling foolish. I’ve been in prison too long to be caught off-guard like that. My own fault. I’ve been distracted.”
Distracted by the return of her long-lost daughter. I slid my hand from hers and pulled over a chair.
As I sat, she said, “You don’t want to be here.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just . . . hospitals in general.” I hesitated, then plowed forward. “Did I ever stay in one? I can’t remember.”
“You did. For a fever when you were two. Nothing serious, but you were dehydrated, so they kept you overnight.”
“Not a happy childhood experience, I take it.”
Her lips pursed, as if in remembered anger. “You’d never been away from us. Your father wanted to spend the night in a chair by your bed. They wouldn’t allow it. We stayed in the waiting room. At two in the morning, we heard you screaming because you’d woken in a strange place. Your father was furious. Tore a strip off the nurse.”
The younger guard snickered. “I hear he’s good at that.”
Pamela turned to him. She said nothing, just met his gaze with a level look. He drew back and muttered something under his breath.
How many other early childhood experiences with the Larsens had formed my character? All the things about myself I would have understood, if only my parents had said, You were adopted.
“I’m sure this is very difficult for you, Ed—Olivia,” Pamela said. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be. We wanted your grandmother to take you, but she’d had . . . problems. In the past. It didn’t matter. She was deemed unfit.”
“And there wasn’t anyone else?”
Pamela shook her head. “Your father’s parents had passed. We were both only children. So we were told adoption was the only recourse. The children’s services people tried to persuade us to let you grow up not knowing about us, but your father wouldn’t listen. That was the one thing he really fought for. Keeping access to you. And they promised it. We would get updates and annual visits for as long as you wanted to see us.”
“So what happened?”
“Money. The Taylor-Jones had it and they wanted a little girl on their terms. Which did not include a second set of parents. Particularly ones in prison.”
I shook my head. “They didn’t know who you were until a couple of years ago.”
Her voice came stronger now, anger seeping in again. “Then that’s because they didn’t want to know. They had custody of you weeks after we were arrested. I swear the adoption went through the same hour we were convicted. That’s not normal. They paid someone off. Then there’s a so-called bureaucratic mix-up, and suddenly our daughter was lost in the system.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is if you have money. Especially if the birth parents are serving consecutive life sentences for murder. We hired private investigators, but they took our money and did nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
She studied my expression. “But you’d rather I found something else to talk about. Something that doesn’t insult your adoptive parents.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze dropped and her voice lowered. “I’m sorry, Olivia. Obviously, this upsets me a great deal. But it has nothing to do with you, and from everything I can see and everything I’ve heard, the Taylor-Joneses did a . . .” She seemed to struggle before saying, “Very good job of raising you.” Another pause. Another struggle. “They gave you everything you could have wanted, and if we couldn’t be there, that’s what we would have wanted, too.”
She shifted in her bed. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, the strain of speaking well of my parents past. “On the inside, you meet young women who were adopted, even more with foster parents. You hear stories. Horrible stories. I kept reassuring myself that you were fine, but I still had nightmares. So as upset as I am with the situation, I’m glad that wasn’t an issue. Your father will be, too.” She looked up. “You haven’t been to see him yet, have you?”
I shook my head. “I need to apply for permission.”
“Then do that. Please. Nothing would make him happier.” A wistful smile. “We both loved you so much, but you were always Daddy’s girl. Do you remember anything about him?”
“I . . .” I wanted to pretend that I didn’t. But her expression was so hopeful that I found myself saying, “I remember him pushing me on a swing. I wanted to go higher but he was afraid I’d fall and skin my knees again.”
She laughed. “Yes, that would be your dad. You loved swinging and swirling. I used to worry he’d make you sick twirling you around. Or scramble your brains.” Another laugh. “Silly first-time-parent worries, I suppose.” A wistful look. “We were so young.”
I barely heard her. I was still back on what she’d said about twirling. I could still picture that in my memory except I didn’t see Todd Larsen; I saw my dad—Arthur Jones—picking me up and swirling me around.
Had Dad done that, too? Or was I really remembering . . .
My stomach clenched.
Pamela looked over at Gabriel, the first time she’d acknowledged his presence. “You’ll handle the paperwork for her.”
“Will I?” he said.
“For another five thousand you will.”
I swear his icy gaze dropped another ten degrees, but he only said, “If Olivia wishes it.”
The door opened and a nurse looked in. “Five more minutes.”
When the nurse left, I said, “About your case. You’d asked me to take a look at it.”
Her eyes widened. “N-no.” Her gaze shot to Gabriel. “You didn’t let her see—”
“She was hardly going to turn it over to these innocence organizations without knowing what she was being asked to do. And since I have your file . . .”
“You bastard.”
“I didn’t show her anything that was privileged information, Pamela.”
“No, just the details of those horrible crimes.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She reached out and took my hand. “I’m sorry, Olivia. That’s not what I meant you to do at all. What you must have read—” She sucked in air and blinked back tears. Then she met and held my gaze. “We did not do that. None of it. It was horrible. Sick. Disgusting. To even think a sane person could . . .”
Her hand started to shake. She lifted her other one and wiped away the tears. “We didn’t do it, which is why I want you to help us by taking our case to those organizations.”
“I will. First, I—”
The door opened again.
“Time’s up,” the nurse trilled, a little too cheerfully.
Gabriel met my gaze with a faint shake of his head, warning me not to tell Pamela we were investigating ourselves. She was too weak to answer questions anyway.
“I am going to pass on your case to someone,” I said. “I’m just compiling what they’ll need.”
She nodded. Was she disappointed that I wasn’t moving faster? I couldn’t tell. She only assured me she could answer any questions that arose and would love the excuse to see me again, and then the nurse hustled us out.
• • •
We’d barely gotten ten steps down the hall before Gabriel asked me to wait, and he returned to speak to the officer guarding Pamela’s room.
Gabriel spoke to the man, then shook his hand. It seemed an odd gesture . . . until I caught a flash of green, the officer being a little less proficient at accepting a bribe than Gabriel was at giving one.
When Gabriel returned, he waved me in the other direction.
“Taking the stairs?” I said.
“Service elevators. The officer said two reporters are waiting at the front door, and he believes there’s an intern by the stairwell.” He paused before pushing the elevator button. “This is your last chance, Olivia. If you’d like, I can go down, see who’s there and discreetly arrange a meeting around back.”
“Thanks, but no. Not yet.”
“As you wish.”
He pushed the button.
“About doing that paperwork to visit Todd Larsen,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Dealing with one long-lost serial-killer parent is enough for now. But if it’s worthwhile for you to make the arrangements . . .”
“My secretary can handle it. So, yes, it’s worthwhile. Thank you.” He held open the elevator door and ushered me out. “I don’t know if you’re feeling up to it, but I did manage to contact Tim Marlotte—Jan Gunderson’s ex-fiancé. He could meet with us this evening.”
“Good.” I checked my watch. “If you’d drop me off at a library, I can—”
“Ms. Jones?” a voice called.