CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
When I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. It was like . . . I’m not sure how to describe it. Like the hairs on my neck rose.
I walked into the kitchen. There was no sign of the cat. Normally, when he wasn’t curled up on his towel, he was making the arduous five-foot trek to his water bowl or litter box. I’d tried several times to send him outside to play, but he seemed to think I was trying to kick him out. Which maybe I was.
When I heard a low growl, I followed it to my bedroom. Two yellow eyes appeared under my bed. The cat came out and rubbed against my hand.
“Big bad mice scare you?”
He slunk to the doorway and peered out. Then he craned his neck to look back at me, as if to say, “Is it safe?”
I walked out ahead, and he followed. Then, with a satisfied mrrow, he plunked down on his bed.
I looked around. Something had spooked him. I knew the weather could upset animals, but I’d seen no sign of a storm or high winds. I wandered through the few rooms. No sign of a break-in. The front door had been locked, and nothing had been moved. It didn’t appear as if . . .
Wait.
I headed down to Grace’s apartment and found her setting up on the front porch.
“You bringing my scone?” she asked as I stepped out.
“It’s my day off.”
Her look said that was no excuse.
“Were you in my apartment doing maintenance?” I asked.
“I don’t do maintenance.”
“Was anyone in my apartment?”
“Not on my say-so. I don’t hand over my keys to anyone, and I don’t waltz in whenever I feel like it. I know what’s right. You’ll get twenty-four-hours’ notice if I need to come in.”
“Thank you. It just looked like someone had been in there.”
“Probably that damned cat of yours knocking stuff over. They do that if you keep them cooped up. You should let him out. At least open a window so he can leave.”
“I’m on the third floor.”
She shrugged. Before I could walk away, she said, “I want a scone.” She held out two dollar bills.
“I really wasn’t going to the diner.” I paused. “I could use a coffee, but I’m low on cash.”
She glowered and exchanged the bills for a five.
“Thank you. I’ll leave in a minute.”
She squawked as I went back inside.
Once again, when I stepped into my apartment, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked down at the cat.
“Someone was here, right?”
He stared at me.
“Come on,” I said. “Give me a hint.”
More staring at the crazy lady. I sighed and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. If someone did break in, what would they be—
I checked where I hid my laptop. It was still there, untouched.
“What then?” I muttered.
I slowly circled the kitchen and living room. When I walked into the bedroom, I felt a twinge, as if a sixth sense was telling me I was getting warm.
I walked to the dresser. Cold . . . To the closet . . . Cold. To the nightstand . . . Warmer. I turned to the bed, and felt that now-familiar prickle.
Bingo.
One of the pillowcase openings faced inward. I always make sure mine face out. I could say it’s because it looks neater, but the truth is that it’s another superstition—if the pillowcase opening isn’t facing out, bad dreams will get trapped and disturb your sleep. Crazy, but I knew damned well I hadn’t left it like this.
I yanked off the bedsheets and looked under the bed. Nothing. I grabbed the mattress with both hands and heaved it up. A line of dark powder formed a semicircle on the box spring. No, not a circle. Some kind of symbol. The sight of it made the back of my head ache.
Get rid of it.
Get rid of it now.
I shook off the impulse, retrieved my cell phone, and took pictures. Then I scooped some powder onto a piece of paper and folded it up. I put that aside and examined the remaining powder. It looked like ashes, and smelled . . . like wood, I think, but not quite. Maybe something mixed with wood.
Just get rid of it.
I did. Then washed my box spring, replaced the mattress, and remade my bed.
Had someone really broken into my apartment? What if the symbol had been there when I moved in? A good luck charm placed under the mattress by the former tenant. I knew Grace hadn’t cleaned between occupants.
It took only about twenty minutes for me to convince myself that the symbol had already been there. I didn’t delete the photos, though. Or throw out the powder carefully folded in paper. I just pushed it aside for now. Moved on to something more concrete and less unsettling. Something mundane and distracting. Like getting Grace’s scone and a coffee.
• • •
When I returned with my coffee, my brain was still buzzing, so I decided to tackle another dull task—sending a thank-you note to the reporter who’d interviewed me.
Lores’s card only bore a phone number and e-mail address. My mother had taught me that a proper thank-you card went through the mail. Gabriel might know Lores’s mailing address.
As I went to grab my cell phone, I noticed my shoes in the middle of the floor. They were upside-down. I detoured to fix them. Upside-down shoes were bad luck, and I was usually careful not to just drop them like that, but I’d kicked them off when I’d come back, still distracted by that symbol.
I got the phone and returned to the main room. I started dialing Gabriel’s number, then stopped, my gaze slipping toward the hall, thinking about the shoes.
A bad omen is a warning. A sign to stop and reconsider. Proceed with caution.
Oh, hell. I’d been doing so well since embarrassing myself over the hawthorn.
I looked down at the phone.
Stop and reconsider.
Reconsider what? Calling Gabriel? Was he going to answer the phone while on the Chicago Skyway, knock over his coffee, scorching himself, then lose control and go through the guardrail?
And yet that pause did make me reconsider. Not the safety of making the call, but the need for it. Shouldn’t I take two minutes to see if I could find Lores’s address online instead of running to Gabriel for help?
One search and the screen filled with results. News articles with Lores’s byline. I scrolled down past the search engine results. As I was zipping past, a familiar name jumped out. Gabriel Walsh. I scrolled back to it. Not my interview but one with another client of Gabriel’s. Lores had said he’d done pieces on Gabriel’s clients before.
I started scrolling again, then stopped.
No, Lores said he’d covered Gabriel’s cases before.
Close enough.
And yet . . .
I opened the article. It was an exclusive interview with a woman accused of disfiguring her daughter’s beauty pageant rival. A case so newsworthy that even I remembered it.
I checked the date. Recent enough that Gabriel should certainly remember granting the man an exclusive. Yet Lores had had to prod his memory.
I ran a new search now. Cross-referencing Lores’s articles with Gabriel’s name. I got eight hits. Eight over almost three years. Again, not unusual, given that Lores seemed to cover crime. Except that of those eight, five were exclusive interviews with Gabriel’s clients.
Son of a bitch.
I called the number on Lores’s card. He picked up on the third ring.
“Mr. Lores? It’s Olivia Taylor-Jones.”
A heartbeat of hesitation. “Yes. How are you, Ms. Jones?”
“Better after that article.” I let out a sheepish laugh. “I wanted to apologize for being such a difficult subject. I’d had a few bad encounters, and I fear I was less than polite with you. But I was very pleased with the results, so I wanted to thank you.”
“Oh. Well, you’re quite welcome. You were very easy to interview.”
“Good. Because . . .” I cleared my throat. “I have another reason for calling. You were so kind to me and so fair in your interview, and it’s made it much easier for me to go out in public. I’m old news. But I fear that will change, and I think it might be wise for us to establish a working relationship. To avoid other media interest.”
“Of course. I’d be flattered.”
“About that . . .” More throat clearing. “This is so embarrassing.”
“What is it, Ms. Jones?”
“I . . . You may know that I’m estranged from my adoptive mother right now. Which means my income is practically nonexistent. I know about your arrangement with Gabriel, and I’m wondering if . . .” A deep breath. “If it would stand with me, as well.”
“You mean . . .” Wary now, letting the words drag.
“Payment,” I blurted, then hurried on. “Not as much as you’d pay him, of course. And I can guarantee you newsworthy interviews. Exclusives on my visits with Pamela Larsen. My memories of life with her and Todd. You’d only pay if you could use it.”
“I see.” A pause.
I waited, holding my breath.
“I’m sure we could arrange something,” he said finally. “Would Gabriel be part of this arrangement?”
Now it was my turn to pause, pretending to think. “He doesn’t know I’m calling but, yes, he should know. And probably get a finder’s fee. He’d expect that.”
A dry chuckle. “Yes, he would. When would you be ready to speak to me again, Ms. Jones?”
“Mmm, no rush really. I just wanted to confirm a few things.”
He let out a curse as I hit the button to end the call. Then I speed-dialed Gabriel.