Omens (Cainsville 1)

It was not a short list.

I thought of spending months waiting for the forms and background checks. Months of nightmares, bureaucratic and otherwise. And what if, after all that, Todd Larsen refused to see me?

Pamela was an hour away, and she did want to see me. There had to be a way.

I glanced down the hall at the wastepaper basket, walked over, and took out Gabriel Walsh's card.

A suitably sultry voice answered his office phone. I gave my name, and she checked to see if Mr. Walsh was in. Given that Grace said he was the only lawyer at his firm, one wouldn't think she'd need to check, but she came back to tell me he was out. She would relay the message.

Twenty minutes later he returned my call. His timing was perfect--long enough so he didn't seem too eager, not so long that I might change my mind about speaking to him.

"I'd like to reconsider your offer," I said. "I'm still not convinced it's something I'm prepared to do but ... I'll hear you out."

"How about dinner?"

"Actually, before we talk, there's something I'd like you to do for me."

He didn't hesitate, as if reciprocity was to be expected. "What might that be?"

"I want to see my mother."

It couldn't have been easy to get permission, because two hours passed before I heard from him again. I suppose I should have felt guilty--making him do all this when I had no intention of reconsidering his offer. But as Grace said, men like Gabriel could be useful. And I was sure he wouldn't hesitate to use me, too.

Chapter Twenty-one

Gabriel had offered to pick me up, but while I could ill afford a taxi, I wasn't spending an hour alone in a car with him. My cab was coming at three. I quickly showered and changed.

Before I stepped into the hall, I checked for powder at my door. I don't know why I bothered. It wasn't as if the stuff was going to mess up my dark pumps. But something compelled me to check, so I did.

Nothing. Still, I stepped over the spot. As I did, I heard a girl's voice, raised in a singsong rhyme.

I looked down the hall. No kids. I hadn't seen any in the building. In fact, I hadn't seen much of anyone. Just a glimpse of a neighbor or two, ducking in or out, usually too quick for more than a "good day."

Children, though, were rarely so quiet, meaning I was pretty sure there weren't any living here. Something told me Grace wouldn't allow it. The girl must be outside then. As I started down the stairwell, though, I could hear a child skippi

ng along a hallway below, the irregular tap-tap of little shoes as she sang.

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

"Wednesday's child is full of woe," I whispered, then stopped myself.

Well, at least it wasn't superstitious doggerel. Not really. As her voice faded, I struggled to remember the rest of the poem. Which one was Friday? That was my day. Loving and giving, wasn't it? Proof that it really was just a poem, considering what I'd done to Margie that morning.

When I reached the second floor, I could hear the tapping of the girl's shoes clearly as she skipped back my way.

I opened the hall door to pop my head in and say hello. The tap-tap came closer, her voice high and clear.

Saturday's child works hard--

The hall was empty.

I blinked and looked both ways. No girl. No singing. No skipping.

I backed into the stairwell again. Everything stayed quiet. I let the door close.

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day