CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ten minutes into my shift, I got a call from Rose. She left a message asking me to phone back, which I would have, on my break, if her damned nephew hadn’t called three times after that.

After the first time, I’d left my phone in the back—and on vibrate—but it didn’t help.

“Liv . . .” Larry said, bringing my phone out.

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Gabriel. I saw. Don’t apologize. He’s your lawyer. Take the call in back, and I’ll cover for you.”

When Gabriel answered, I said, “Have I ever told you about Margie? The server I replaced, in part because she kept getting calls during her shift?”

“I didn’t realize you were at work, as I’m no longer in possession of your schedule.”

“And my voice mail wasn’t working?”

“I wasn’t about to trust that you wouldn’t simply delete the message unheard.”

“Texting?”

“The buttons do not accommodate larger-than-average fingers.” Which meant, apparently, that I’d hallucinated all the times we’d communicated by text message. He continued, “I was unable to arrange for a security system installation today. It will be done tomorrow. In the meantime, you will stay with Rose.”

“I will?”

“I’ll tell her you’ll be by after your shift. As will I. We need to discuss a matter relating to both your mother and Ciara Conway. Nothing urgent, but I have a busy week.”

“I don’t get off until eleven.”

“I realize that. I’ll meet you at Rose’s. I presume you’ll want to gather an overnight bag from your apartment, and I’ll ask you to wait until I arrive to do so.”

“Okay.”

Silence. Then, “I’m serious about this, Olivia. I don’t want you going to your apartment alone at night—”

“Didn’t I say okay?”

“Too quickly, suggesting you’re humoring me and have no intention of actually doing as I asked.”

“Mmm, if that was your idea of asking, I’d hate to see how you give orders. I inconvenienced you and Rose last night because I didn’t get that security system. Insisting on staying in my apartment tonight without one would be careless and immature.”

“All right. I’ll see you at eleven.”

—

“Gabriel’s running late,” Rose said as she let me inside. “He had a call from a client.”

“I’ll phone him,” I said. “We don’t need to do this—”

“He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. It’d be a bigger inconvenience if he has to turn back.”

True. A light was on in Rose’s parlor, so I headed in there.

“What’s wrong?” she said as I took a seat.

“Nothing.”

“Do you remember what I said about the key to being a good psychic?”

“Being willing to make guesses and be proven wrong? Yes, you’re wrong this time. Sorry.”

“I meant observation and interpretation.” She sat down across from me. “You have never walked into this room and not taken advantage of the opportunity to poke about. Something happened today.”

I hesitated, then said, “I saw the hound again.”

“Where?”

“In Chicago. The thing is, I wasn’t alone, and the person I was with saw it, too. But . . . something about it bothered him, more than it should have, and I’m worried. For him.”

“Was it James?”

“No. Ricky Gallagher. He’s—”

“Don’s son. Does Gabriel know you’re seeing him?”

“I’m not. It was just coffee.”

“I see. While I’ve never met the Gallaghers, I do follow them in the news, since they are my nephew’s primary clients. I’ve seen photos of young Mr. Gallagher.”

“I’m trying to reconcile with James.”

“By going to coffee with an attractive young man? I would offer to do a reading to see where that will lead, but I don’t need the cards for that.”

I glowered at her. “Can I talk about the hound? Or are you testing out a career move? Advice to the lovelorn?”

“That wouldn’t help you at all. Love doesn’t enter into this choice. Lust versus duty. The perfect conundrum for a student of Victorian literature, though, one would hope, less of a struggle for a modern young woman. May I suggest that James Morgan is a wonderful catch . . . for someone else, and that if you persist—”

“So Ricky and I saw this hound.”

She sighed but waved for me to continue.

“It seemed to . . . confuse him,” I said.

Now she leaned forward. “As if he recognized it?”

“No. And yes. It was like . . . Hell, I don’t even know how to explain it. Like when you catch a scent and it’s familiar but you can’t place it. When I see an omen, I know it means something. What do other people sense? They must trigger something, or there wouldn’t be superstitions about them. Ricky did sense something about the hound, which paid no attention to me. It was staring at him.”

“And the other times?”

“It looked at me. My concern is that it is a fetch. A harbinger of death.”

“Ricky’s death.”

“Right. You see it: you die. For me, it’s a warning, because I can read omens. But if Ricky saw it . . .” I exhaled. “I texted him, tonight, pretending I just wanted to say I enjoyed our coffee, but I let out a huge sigh of relief when he texted back. Which feels crazy.”

For ten seconds, Rose didn’t respond.

“So . . .” I finally prodded.

“I’m deciding how to tell you this without giving you ammunition to think you really are imagining things, which is what you’d prefer.”

“I don’t want—”

“I’ve told you the sight runs in the Walsh family. When I started having prophetic dreams, my relatives all told me how lucky I was, how they wished it was them. They were lying. They were thanking the gods it wasn’t them. People think it would be wonderful to see into the future. Just as, I’m sure, they think it would be wonderful to see warnings and signs. But it’s not. For every ounce it makes your life easier, it makes it a pound harder. You have a gift you cannot share without being locked in a mental institution. Which is one reason I’d urge you to mend fences with Gabriel. He accepts what you can do, and you will need someone like that in your life. Besides me.”

“I—”

“My sales pitch for my nephew ends there. Back to the point. While this is clearly no ordinary beast, others can see it. So it exists and seems supernatural in nature. But is it a fetch? Patrick’s correct—that’s the most common meaning of a large black dog. And yet . . .”

“What else is there?”

“You keep calling it a hound. But it doesn’t resemble a typical American hound dog, and that term’s not used in traditional folklore. It’s called a Black Shuck in eastern England, barghest or gytrash in northern England, moddey dhoo in Manx, Church Grim throughout England . . . but never hound.”

“Conan Doyle.”

“Ah. Hound of the Baskervilles. Of course.”

She nodded, but I sat there, thinking, until I finally said, “I thought of it as a hound before Patrick said Black Shuck. But I also thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles before he said Black Shuck. ‘There stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.’ So . . . I don’t know. I guess I was thinking Baskervilles.”

“Either way, I’m not convinced it’s a fetch,” Rose said. “I think you’re correct that others can sometimes sense the supernatural. Seeing it affected Ricky Gallagher, and he wasn’t sure why. I’ll look into folklore on black dogs and hounds. In the meantime, I believe I heard Gabriel drive up. If you’ll let him in, I’ll make tea.”

—

Rose brought tea and then left us alone. We talked about Pamela first. Gabriel had officially launched an appeal. Chandler still wouldn’t speak to him. There were no leads in Anderson’s murder, probably because the police didn’t consider it a murder at all. For them it was simple: a man loses half his foot, is facing life in prison, and ODs on morphine.

Next up on the agenda? Ciara Conway. Gabriel couldn’t do more than quietly investigate, much as I had been doing. If he wanted to ask the police about it in an official capacity, he needed an excuse . . . like having his office check into it on behalf of the elders of Cainsville.

“I could use your help obtaining theirs,” he said. “The town elders aren’t blind to my . . . unconventional business practices.”

“They’ll suspect you aren’t offering out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I can ask for compensation, but that reduces the chance they’ll agree.”

“I’ll speak to them,” I said. “But how do I explain my interest?”

“By working for me.”

I stiffened.

“It’s a way to gain work experience while helping your new town. I’m going to formalize your job offer. I know we’d planned to discuss that on your first shift. I’ll get it in writing for you now. Hours, pay, and such. I need a day or two to put something together.”

“I don’t want—”

“I would like to make the offer, which you may then refuse.” He stood. “Tell Rose I said goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”

I followed him out to the hall.

“Gabriel?” I said as he opened the front door.

He turned, a stray slip of moonlight illuminating a sliver of his face, blue eyes glowing almost preternaturally in the darkness. “Yes?”

I opened my mouth to say thank you, then stopped.

“Good night,” I said finally.

A dip of his head, the moonlight evaporating, his expression lost in the darkness. “Good night, Olivia.”

He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.