That's what Edgar Chandler said yesterday, before the police took him away, having arrested him for his involvement in two murders that had been pinned on my birth parents. Only a few people knew I'd rented an apartment in Cainsville, and he wasn't one of them. After the media had swarmed, I'd taken refuge in that sleepy little village in the middle of nowhere.
A sleepy little village with disappearing gargoyles, vicious ravens, and, as of this morning, gigantic black hounds.
A sleepy little village where no one seemed to find it the least bit strange that I could read omens and see portents.
I rubbed my arms. I didn't want to see a connection between Chandler and Cainsville. I loved my new town. I loved the safety of it, the community of it, the way it had welcomed me and made me feel like I belonged.
I peeked out again. The dog was still there, and it was exactly as I remembered from this morning--a massive beast, over three feet tall, with shaggy black fur.
There was no way the dog could have followed me fifty miles. Yet what were the chances of seeing another just like it?
I took out my phone. As the camera clicked, the dog looked straight at me. Then it loped off across the lawn and disappeared through the trees.
--
A few minutes later, I caught the roar of a familiar engine and ran outside as a black Jag screeched to a stop. The door flew open. A man jumped out, ducking to avoid hitting his head.
Gabriel Walsh. Roughly thirty years old--I've never asked his age. At least six foot four--I've never measured him, either. A linebacker's build, with wavy black hair, strong features, dark shades, and a custom-tailored suit, despite the fact it was Memorial Day and he wasn't supposed to be working. He was, of course. Gabriel was always working.
When I first met my mother's former appeal lawyer, I'd mistaken him for hired muscle. A thug in an expensive suit. Three weeks later, I still thought the analogy wasn't a bad one.
He did have a reputation for ripping people apart, though usually only on witness stands. Usually.
Gabriel didn't even look at my car--or the corpse spilling out of it. His gaze shot straight to me, lips tightening as he bore down. Limped down, I should say. He'd been shot in the leg yesterday. And no, I didn't do it, as tempting as that could be sometimes.
"Where's your cane?" I called.
"I told you--"
"--to stay in the house. I only came out when I saw you drive up."
A grunt. A quick once-over. Then, "Are you all right?" His voice tinged with reluctance, as if he really hated to ask. Ah, Gabriel.
"I'm fine," I said. "And no, I didn't call the police."
"Good."
His shades swung toward the Buick. He started for it. If I'd been anyone else, he would have ordered me to stay back. Not because he wouldn't want to upset a client--such considerations aren't given space in Gabriel's busy brain. He'd insist because otherwise that client might get in his way or do something stupid, like leave fingerprints. As of yesterday, though, I wasn't just a client. He'd hired me as an investigative assistant, which damned well better mean I could be trusted near a potential crime scene.
I did hang back a few paces. Steeling myself for the sight. I didn't want to flinch in front of him.
He reached the driver's side. Stopped. Frowned. Lifted his shades. Lowered them. Looked at me.
"Did you . . . ?" He trailed off and shook his head. "Of course not."
I rounded the car to where he stood by the open driver's door. The body . . .
The body was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
No," I whispered. "I saw . . ." I swallowed. "I saw someone in the car, and when I opened the door, the body fell out. I wasn't imagining it. I touched it."
"I'm sure you did. The question is . . ."
He looked around and I moved closer, leaning into the open doorway.
"There's no blood," I said. "But the only injury I could see was her eyes. And she was cold, really cold. She hadn't died recently."