I said yes, I was on as soon as I finished eating. Larry had said that if I ever wanted extra hours, I could come by any dinner hour that Trudy worked. She’d been with the diner since before Larry bought it. Since before the previous owner bought it, too. She was proud of her ability—at seventy—to still take on weekend dinner rushes single-handedly, but was quite willing to share the load.

As Gordon left, he murmured an apology for almost mowing down someone coming in the door. I heard a dry response in a voice I knew well. I checked my watch. Four thirty. Right on time.

I’d sat with my back to the door. Gabriel stopped at my shoulder, as if waiting for me to sense him there and turn. I took another bite of meat loaf.

He finally stepped around. As he pulled out the other chair, Veronica called, “Gabriel Walsh.”

He greeted her, staying politely on his feet.

“It’s good to see you, Gabriel,” she said. “I’ve noticed that car of yours in town more often these days. Which is not as welcome a sight when it’s flying so fast I can barely see it.”

I bit my cheek to keep from smiling. Gabriel exceeded the speed limit in Cainsville by remarkably little, never dropping the pedal until he was past the town limits.

“Yes, well, perhaps I should pay more attention—” he began.

“You should,” she said. “We have children here, Gabriel. We didn’t allow that sort of behavior when you were a little tyke, visiting your auntie. You should be more careful. And more respectful.”

He murmured, “Yes, I should. My apologies,” and even sounded like he meant it.

Veronica softened the rebuke with a smile. “It is good to see you around more.”

He nodded and lowered himself into the seat across from me. Before he could speak, Trudy approached.

“Can I get—?” she began.

Gabriel waved her away without looking.

“I think she was talking to me,” I said. “I would love a slice of apple pie if you get a sec, Trudy. Thanks.”

When I said her name, he looked up sharply. “Trudy. Sorry. I—”

“Yes, you’re only rude to people you think you don’t know. Which is a very poor way to treat anyone, Gabriel Walsh.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I will have a coffee and—”

“You know where it is,” she said and tromped off, orthopedic shoes clomping.

After a moment, Gabriel said, “Could we step out—?”

“I have pie coming. What do you want, Gabriel?”

“I know you spoke to Martin Lores. I believe—”

“—that I may have misinterpreted what he said? That you didn’t set up that interview with him? Or that you weren’t paid for it? If either of those lies comes out of your mouth, I will get you that coffee . . . and dump it over your head.”

He eyed me, as if trying to figure out whether I was serious. He considered long enough for Trudy to return with my pie. Then he cleared his throat.

“Were you pleased with the outcome of that interview, Olivia?”

“You know damn well I was. I made you cookies.”

Did he flinch? Just a little?

“You were pleased,” he said. “You admitted it was the right thing to do. So I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

His gaze met mine. His shades were off, as they had been so many times in the last week that I’d gotten used to those frozen blue eyes. Every now and then, I’d even thought I’d seen a flicker of something in them. Something human. But now they were empty again. I dropped my gaze to my pie and dug in.

After I swallowed a mouthful, I said, “Then we have nothing to talk about. You’re fired, Gabriel. As I’m sure you figured out when you realized why I asked for those files.”

His fingers drummed the table. “This is ridiculous, Olivia. I did you a favor.”

“Bullshit. You did yourself a favor. It just happened to work out in my interests, too, so you’re assuaging whatever nub of a conscience you have by pretending you did it for me. I told you I wasn’t ready for that interview. When we bumped into Lores, I was terrified. Genuinely terrified. You saw that. You didn’t care.”

“You were overreacting.”

“How much did he pay you?” I said.

“I don’t see how that’s—”

“It can’t be much for a single interview. Does it cover a week’s gas for your car? Pay for a new shirt? You didn’t need the money. I don’t even think it’s about the money. That’s just an excuse to cover up the real reason you do shit like that.” I looked him in the eye again. “Because you can. You get off on manipulating people.”

I thought that might make him flinch for real. But his gaze seemed to go even colder, that chill seeping into his voice.

“I helped you, Olivia.”

“Inadvertently. If you really gave a shit about helping me, you would have admitted you’d already called Lores and offered to coach me through it. I don’t expect you to help me, Gabriel. Not unless it helps you, too. But I do expect to be treated with respect. That wasn’t just cruel. It was disrespectful. That’s why I’m firing you.”

He leaned back in his chair, studied me, then said, “So you’re giving up on Pamela Larsen’s case?”

“No, and you know that. I’ve got your files.”

“So you plan to continue alone?”

“I do.”

He smiled. A week of working together and I’ve never seen the bastard do more than twitch his lips. This made him smile. If my coffee wasn’t so hot, I’d have thrown it at him. I was still tempted.

“How far do you think you’ll get with that, Olivia?” he said. “You’re a liberal arts grad who’s never held any job other than”—he looked around pointedly—“here. You are in no position to investigate a string of twenty-two-year-old murders. Really, I didn’t think you were that naive.”

“Good-bye, Gabriel.”

He got to his feet. “You have twenty-four hours to reconsider. If you attempt to retain my services after that, you will find my fee has risen. Significantly.”

I wanted to tell him to go to hell. Instead I looked him in the eye and said, “Good-bye, Mr. Walsh.”

He hesitated a split second, then buttoned his jacket, pulled his shades from his pocket, and strode out.