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.

DEATH PENALTY

Gabriel pitched an empty water bottle across the room, doing a rim shot off the trash can. Lydia had given up on the recycling bin after a six-month battle of wills. She now settled for muttering loudly as she separated his trash every week.

He’d shut down his computer for the day. It was still early, but the advantage of owning your own firm was getting to take off early now and then. It wasn’t as if he’d leave empty-handed. His briefcase was already stuffed with files, and he’d synced his documents to his laptop account.

Today he had earned an early departure. He’d barely made it back to the office before being summoned to the courthouse. The jury had returned with its verdict. His client would be going to jail for twenty years. Which, Gabriel supposed, did not make it a good day for Nelson Rivers, who’d left the courtroom cursing Gabriel. He hadn’t put much venom into the curses, though. Rivers was a smart man. He might not like going to jail, but he’d known he didn’t have a hope in hell of an acquittal.

Gabriel’s day had started equally well, with Olivia’s meeting with William Evans. He’d been anxious about that, unconvinced Olivia could get anything useful on her own. But she had. And what she’d gotten could be the key to proving the Larsens’ innocence. Or at least to raising enough of a doubt to give him another shot at a career-making case.