I shook my head, said, "Not interested." I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.
"You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . ."
"You'll help me gain control of those assets," I said, still walking. "For a price."
"Fifty percent." He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he's honest.
"Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren't they?"
"Their families." He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, "The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.
"I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you--"
"No, I'm just taking some time away."
"Oh?" He looked around. "So this is where you usually come on vacation?"
I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan--the one in front of the fire hydrant.
"May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?"
"I know what poverty is."
"Do you? My mistake then."
I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn't me she was looking at.
"Gabriel."
"Grace. I brought you a scone." He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty hand.
How the hell had he done that?
"Fresh from the oven," he said. "Still warm."
Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.
"You two know each other?" I said.
"We're acquainted." Gabriel turned to me. "I've made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you'll take some time to reconsider it."
"I don't need to."
"I think you might."
He
nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.
"You know who I am," I said.
"Maybe." She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. "Don't expect me to feel sorry for you."
I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.
"He said she called him." I waved toward the fortune-teller's house. "Tipped him off about me."