When I was about halfway down the path, I could make out the Victorian house across the road, the one with the psychic in residence. Again, I saw a face in a window. And two black circles. Binoculars. They pulled back and I smiled to myself. Psychic, my ass. In a town this small, all you needed to pull off that gig was the gift of nosiness.
A cloud moved across the sun again and I looked up. Maybe it would rain after all. That might establish me as a psychic. Look out, lady--
A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn't a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.
"Ms. Taylor-Jones?"
The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought, James has hired someone to find me.
There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit's worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.
Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was--a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn't the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.
My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad. Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That's the only way to get a good read on them. Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn't see through them.
The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.
"Is that better?" he said, his voice deep, tone amused. "You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I'd expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen." Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name--Gabriel Walsh--a Chicago address and the words "Law Firm."
Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn't care to give.
"You work for a lawyer," I said. When one brow arched, I continued, "Whatever your boss--"
"I don't have a boss, Ms. Jones."
He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.
I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.
"Oh," I said.
"A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one."
I glanced up sharply. "You were--?"
"Not her original lawyer, of course." He wasn't old enough for that. "I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately."
"I wouldn't say that's unfortunate at all."
His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.
"I suppose she sent you," I said. "That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her--"
"I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied."
"And now you want to get her back."
"No, I was fired only because she didn't give me time to quit."
"I really do need to be going," I said as I hefted my paper bag. "If you'll excuse--"
"I've come with a business proposition." He turned toward Rowan Street. "There's a coffee shop down the road. The food isn't as good as the diner's, but it's quieter."
He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.
"How did you find me?" I said.
"I had a tip." He waved toward the psychic's house. "Now, about that coffee . . . ?"