—

As we drove to the dealership, Gabriel got a call. It was Pamela Larsen, my birth mother, phoning from prison. He told me it was her, but he didn’t answer.

My relationship with Pamela was strained. When I’d discovered I could see omens, I’d remembered her teaching me all those superstitious ditties as a child. So I’d gone to her for answers. She’d brushed it off as nonsense passed along by a young and foolish mother trying to entertain her baby. I’d refused to see her until she agreed to talk.

She was trying to reach me through Gabriel because he was her lawyer. She’d hired him a few years ago to win her an appeal. He’d failed to do so. As much as she hated him—and hated me having any association with him—she hadn’t hesitated to hire him back for her latest appeal. Begging him to be allowed to see me would be difficult for her. I regretted that it had come to that. Yet I didn’t regret it enough to visit. If she wasn’t going to give me answers, I’d try Todd. Which was turning out to be a lot more complicated—logistically and emotionally—than I could have imagined.

Todd Larsen was a convicted serial killer. A monster. My memories of him should surely be equally monstrous. Except the ones I’d dredged up were bright and warm. By all accounts, I’d adored my father, and he’d adored me. When I’d been unable to get in to see him—we still weren’t sure why—he’d sent that letter, and it was everything I could have wanted . . . and everything I didn’t want.

I’d had a dad. Arthur Jones. An amazing father I lost to a heart attack a year ago. And now I had Todd, who, from that letter, had been just as good a father. I was struggling to reconcile that. I’d have to face him. I would, when I got the chance. I just hoped I could handle it.

CHAPTER FOUR

At the car dealership, Gabriel set me loose and said, “Find me something.” I tried to get his opinion, but he was having none of that. I don’t know if he was too distracted or he honestly didn’t give a damn, but he seemed serious, so I had fun.

The new Jag I chose wasn’t that different from his old one. The style suited him, and I was loath to change that. I started rhyming off options.

“I usually just pick one from the lot,” Gabriel said.

“That’s your first mistake.”

The salesman cleared his throat. “I can offer a discount on the lot models. We’ll be starting the new year soon.”

“How much of a discount?”

“I can’t say exactly, but if you come inside, we can negotiate—”

“Ballpark it for me,” I said.

“Maybe a thousand dollars.”

“Not worth it.”

Gabriel’s lips twitched in amusement. “Whatever she says.”

I listed the options I wanted and then said, “Black, inside and out. He’ll need it by next week.”

“That’s not poss—”

“I’ve picked common options and colors. You’ll find one on a lot somewhere. Have it here next week, and in the meantime . . .” I waved at their stock. “He’ll borrow one of those.”

“We can arrange a loaner, but first we need to settle financing.”

“It’s a cash sale,” Gabriel said.

Despite the cool June morning, the guy began visibly sweating. I’ll blame it on the fact that a big guy in a suit wanted to pay cash for a new Jag, suggesting . . . well, it suggested he might not really be a lawyer.

“I know your previous car is a write-off,” the salesman said. “But it will take time to get the insurance money.”

“It’s a cash sale regardless.” Gabriel lowered his shades, fixing the man with a cool stare. “Is that a problem?”

“N-no. Of course not. Come inside, and we’ll do the paperwork.”

—

The dealership visit lifted Gabriel’s mood immensely. I think my handling of the situation amused him. While I’d been following in the career footsteps of my philanthropist mother, I really was Daddy’s girl. My father had turned the family business—the Mills & Jones department store—back into the Chicago landmark it’d been in the fifties, and he hadn’t done that by letting salespeople tell him he couldn’t get stock in until next month.

We had an hour before our appointment with Chandler, so Gabriel decided to swing by the office. It’s a Garfield Park greystone, a beautiful building but not exactly the prestigious address you’d expect from a guy who pays cash for a six-figure car. It is relatively close to the Cook County jail. Given Gabriel’s clientele, that may be the main attraction.

We parked my car and his rental Jag in the narrow lane between buildings. I was telling him a story as we walked inside.

“My poor mother was on the verge of cardiac arrest,” I said. “Here we are, at this thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, and Dad’s wrangling exclusive rights for a line of designer handbags from another guest at our table. He doesn’t see the problem because, to him, if you’re going to shell out that kind of money, you’d damned well better get the chance to schmooze someone who can give you exclusive rights to his handbag line.”

“I would agree,” Gabriel said, opening the office door for me.

“So my dad says . . .”

I trailed off as I saw three people in the reception area. One was expected—Lydia, Gabriel’s executive assistant, a trim woman in her late sixties who looked as if she had a yoga mat and green-goo health shake behind her desk and could throw a would-be mugger over her shoulder.