Omens (Cainsville 1)

A grumble sounded behind me. "I tell her not to drive right after hypnosis. If she keeps that up, it won't be the cigarettes that kill her."

I turned and thought, Snow White's mother. I don't mean the one from the modern telling of the fairy tale, the kindly queen who pricks her finger and wishes for a daughter, only to die and be replaced by the evil stepmother. My memories are of the real Grimm's fairy tales and others where Cinderella's stepmother cuts off her daughter's toes to fit in the glass slipper and the Little Mermaid kills herself after her prince chooses someone else. Even when I learned the modern ones, I preferred the brutal and macabre old versions. I always wondered why. Now, knowing who my real parents were, I suppose that was another question answered.

In the original telling, the jealous witch who persecuted Snow White was her real mother. When I looked at Rosalyn Razvan, that's who I saw. She had black hair, cut in a bob, with a perfect frosting of white. Elegantly tweezed black brows. Bone-china skin. Ruby red lips.

I knew she was Gabriel's great-aunt, but she only looked in her late fifties. He'd inherited his height from her side of the family. She was a few inches taller than me. Military posture. Sturdily built with wide hips and ship-prow breasts.

She had blue eyes, like Gabriel, but hers had more color. I'd say more warmth, too, but warm wasn't a word to describe Rosalyn Razvan.

"Your mother owes my nephew money," she said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too."

"He worked for her in good faith, and she hasn't paid her bills."

"That's what he says, and she doesn't deny it, so I guess it's true."

"And you take no responsibility for your mother's debts?"

"Considering that I didn't know Pamela Larsen was my mother until after she incurred those debts, the answer is no."

"If you pay him--and I know your adoptive family can afford to do so--then Pamela Larsen will repay you. Gabriel says she's eager to renew a relationship with you. She won't want to start by mooching off her daughter."

"If Gabriel put you up to this--"

"My nephew puts me up to nothing. He is owed money. I would like to see him get it."

I reached for the door handle to leave.

"It's an easy matter to resolve, Ms. Jones. Ask Lena Taylor for the money. Or allow my nephew to make your claim on the proceeds of Pamela's book. It will cost you nothing, and it will free you from the shadow of this debt."

I laughed and turned back to face her. "What shadow? My mother hired Gabriel because she's in jail for murdering eight people. That has nothing to do with me."

"Are you sure?"

"What? I was two years old at the time. I--"

I stopped myself. Don't feed the crazy lady, Liv. What did I expect from a fortune-teller? I grasped the door handle again.

"He'll be very persistent, Ms. Jones."

"Yes, I'm sure he will, but the guy drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. If he's in hock, he should sell it and live within his means."

"My nephew lives within his means." There was genuine annoyance in her voice now. "He's a Walsh. We pay as we

go. We owe no one."

"And neither do I. Which is why I wouldn't ask my adoptive mother for the money. As for the book, I consider that stealing a debt owed to the victims."

She eyed me with the same intense appraisal I'd gotten from her grandnephew.

"He's right," she said finally. "You have a backbone."

"You didn't believe him?"

She shrugged and put her hand on a pedestal table, letting her posture relax. "You're an attractive young woman. Gabriel isn't usually blinded by such things, but it is possible, combined with the equally blinding attractions of a healthy bank account and an intriguing back story."

"So you were ... what? Seeing if you could bully the money out of me?"