"Olivia." Sharper now, as if speaking to a sulking child. "I came after you once. I'm not doing it again."
No, James. You didn't come after me. Not really. You let me run, and you followed a week later, not to talk, but to scoop me up and take me home. Give me time to learn my lesson and realize I want to go home.
I didn't say that. I feared if I tried, I'd end up snarling it, and I didn't feel like snarling. I felt like ... Not crying, though there was a bit of that. I heard his words and his tone, and I just wanted to walk away. Go someplace quiet and grieve, because after a week of telling myself it wasn't really over, I realized now that it was.
I turned slowly. "I'm sorry. I know you don't understand this, and I don't think I can explain it. I just need time to figure things out, on my own, and if you can't give me that--"
"You can't expect me to, Liv."
I swallowed a small surge of anger. "You're right," I said, my voice soft. "I can't. I don't. I never did."
I turned and walked away. He let me go.
The exterior door to Gabriel's building opened into a short hall with stairs to one side and a polished wood door to the other. There was a second nameplate, beside the door, confirming the door let to Gabriel's office. I stood there, catching my breath as if I'd been running.
The door opened. Gabriel walked out and stopped short.
"Ah, good timing," he said. "How was the walk?"
"Fine."
Whatever had been distracting him earlier had passed--unfortunately. He noticed my tone was a little less than perfect, and I got his hawkish stare. I ignored it and headed out.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The interviews did little to improve my mood. With Marlotte, Gabriel had begun introducing me as "Ms. Jones." I never did figure out whether Marlotte understood who I really was. I suspect he didn't care. Same went for the teacher we interviewed that night. Jan's friend, though, knew exactly who I was, though I told myself that she only herded her teenage daughters away because she didn't want them hearing any gruesome details.
The teacher barely remembered who Christian Gunderson was. Jan's friend recalled more, but it quickly became apparent that Anna was right--Jan's friends had elbowed their way into the investigation because the cops were cute, not because they knew anything.
I struggled to hide my frustration, acutely aware of Gabriel's time clock ticking. It didn't help that I was worried about Pamela and how she was recuperating. I didn't want to. Yet the more I saw her, and the more I remembered of our past, the harder it was to see Pamela Larsen as a serial killer, not as the mother I'd once adored.
I stayed in my funk until Gabriel drove me to a shooting range and announced he had my gun. Had anyone ever told me I'd one day be cheered up by getting a handgun, I'd have laughed. The old Olivia might have wanted one, as a purely practical matter, given some of the places she went for her volunteer work, but she'd never have suggested it or she'd have been told simply not to go to those places.
Chances were I'd never fire this gun outside a range, but I liked having it. Gabriel seemed less happy. He clearly didn't like being the one to put a lethal weapon into the hands of a former debutante--or the child of serial killers. If something went wrong, he might feel responsible, and I got the feeling Gabriel Walsh preferred a life where he felt as little responsibility for others as possible.
So as we checked into the range, he turned into a walking, talking safety poster. Treat every gun as a loaded gun. Never point it at anything except your target. Keep your fingers away from the trigger unless you plan to pull it. When you are not carrying the gun, store it in a safe place.
"I was thinking of keeping it under my pillow. Is that okay?"
The look on his face made me wish I was faster with my cell phone camera.
"Fine," I said. "I'll keep it in my bedside drawer, in case I'm woken in the middle of the night and mistake the cat for an intruder. An honest accident."
"You're not shooting the cat. It would leave a mess."
"True. Also, the killing of small animals is the entrance ramp onto the serial killer superhighway." I paused. "Damn. I bet the cat knows that. He picked me because I can't hurt him, or I'd be fulfilling my biological destiny. So I'm screwed. The cat stays. Unless you'll kill him..." I glanced at him. "How does fifty bucks sound?"
He shook his head and ushered me to a spot on the range. "So where on the target do I aim?" I said after enduring another lecture on gun safety and a demonstration on weapon loading. "They don't have any arms or legs, so I can't just wing him."
"Which you wouldn't do anyway. If you're shooting someone, you're in honest fear for your life, meaning you need to take him down. Aim for the main body mass."
"How about the head?"
"Your chances of hitting the target at all are slight enough. Don't push it."
"Will you give me twenty bucks if I hit the head?"
"I'll give you ten if you just shut up and shoot."