"Sorry," I said when his voice mail beeped. "It's nothing important. Talk to you later."
I'd just hung up when I had a call from Howard, my mother's lawyer. He was checking in on me, which would have been very sweet if it hadn't been a duty call on behalf of my mother. That might also have been sweet--of her--if she were the one actually calling. Still, I know better than to read too much into it. My mother doesn't handle stress well. Hell, my mother doesn't handle life well. Having the world find out her daughter's birth parents were serial killers? Then having that daughter insist on investigating their crimes? That kind of stress could drive my mother to a heart attack . . . or so she seemed to think.
When our early calls had proven difficult, she'd turned them over to Howard. Once she's ready to speak to me again, she'll be ready to come home. For now, she's hiding--in every way.
I told Howard to let her know I'd been to the house for my things and I'd borrowed the Jetta. If she wanted to talk about any of that, she could call. She didn't.
--
Next I researched the case of Ciara Conway, what little "case" there was. As Veronica said, Ciara had been reported missing Saturday. As for when she'd actually disappeared, that was harder to say. Until a month ago, she'd been a twenty-two-year-old Northwestern student, living with her long-term boyfriend. Then she'd left him.
Neither her parents nor her ex could provide a list of friends she might have couch-surfed with, and I got the impression Ciara hadn't actually "left" her boyfriend. I'd worked in shelters long enough to recognize the clues. Ciara had a problem--drugs or alcohol. Her parents and boyfriend had finally resorted to tough love. He kicked her out and told her to clean up. Her parents wouldn't take her in. She found places to stay, while her loved ones made daily checkin calls, until last Wednesday, when she'd stopped answering. By Friday, her phone was out of service, the battery dead. Now her parents and boyfriend were racked with guilt, frantic with fear, and the police weren't much help because they'd seen this scenario a hundred times and knew it was just a matter of time before Ciara came off her bender, borrowed a phone, and called for money.
She wouldn't. Ciara Conway was dead. And the only people who knew that were me and her killer.
--
I was still searching when Gabriel called back. Street noise in the background meant he was hurrying--or hobbling--somewhere.
"I'm sorry I called," I said. "I forgot you had a trial today."
"No trial. I'm simply at the courthouse speaking to a few people about your mother's new appeal, which we'll discuss later. What is it?"
"Nothing urgent. Go ahead and do whatever--"
"I'm not doing anything right now except obtaining dinner."
I told him about Ciara Conway, and my missing shirt and shoes.
"I didn't see my shoes on her," I said. "Hell, I could be mistaken about the shirt. And maybe the dead body only resembled Ciara--"
"Olivia."
I inhaled. "Stop backpedaling, I know. The body was Ciara Conway's and she was wearing my shirt, which I know I'd packed. Still, I can't see how anyone could dress her, stage her in that car, and take her away again."
"How long were you in the pool?"
"Maybe an hour."
"And twenty minutes in the house afterward, waiting for me. The yard is private, with both a fence and greenery blocking the road and the neighbors. It's risky but not impossible. Without a body, there is little we can do, but I want to speak to Chandler."
"Chandler?"
"If you found a dead body dressed to look like you, that isn't a portent. It's a threat. Edgar Chandler made a very clear one against you Sunday. Ergo, I'd like to speak to him. In the meantime, you need to talk to Pamela about omens."
CHAPTER FIVE
All my life, I've had superstitious ditties stuck in my head, popping up on cue. I'd thought I'd picked them up from a nanny or other caregiver. Then I met Pamela Larsen, heard her voice, and knew exactly who'd planted those rhymes. Speaking to her about it had been at the top of my to-do list. Yet while I'd visited Sunday night to tell her we'd proven she and my father hadn't killed Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, it definitely hadn't been the time to say, "Oh, and by the way, I can read omens."
Gabriel picked me up at six. He wanted to accompany me and drive me to my parents' afterward, to make damned sure I took that VW. On the way, I told him I wanted to make another prison visit. One that had proved impossible when I'd attempted it myself. Visiting my biological father, Todd Larsen.
I struggled with seeing Todd. My newly risen memories of him were mingled with ones of my adoptive dad, the one I grew up with, perfect memories of a perfect father, and that made it all sorts of complicated. I'd resolved a few days ago to see him. Telling Gabriel was the first step toward making that happen.
Seeing Pamela had been much easier. I'd needed Gabriel's help the first time, but since then I could visit when I liked, and we had no problem getting in today. When I arrived, she was watching the visiting room door, and as soon as I walked through, her face lit up and she rose, arms going out. We couldn't hug--that wasn't allowed--but she still reached out as if we could.
I grew up not knowing I was adopted, with people always telling me how much I looked like my parents. I had Lena Taylor's ash-blond hair, slender build, and green eyes, and Arthur Jones's height and features. They hadn't adopted me until I was almost three, and by then they'd have known I could pass for theirs. Yet after meeting Pamela Larsen, I realized any resemblance between me and my adoptive parents was purely superficial. Though Pamela is dark-haired and dark-eyed, our facial structure is the same. She's an inch or so shorter than my five-eight and about forty pounds heavier, but there's little doubt we're mother and daughter.
As I walked over to her, I smiled, which made her light up all the more. Even the sight of Gabriel didn't elicit the usual glower. As soon as we sat, though, her gaze went to him.