Visions (Cainsville 2)

I must have winced, because he said, "That was unusual. She'd cuff me when I was younger, but by that age I was big enough that she'd likely started to worry I might hit back. So when she struck me, I knew it was serious. She made me swear never to speak to him again. I asked Rose, later, why Seanna was so upset. She said she didn't know, but she told me I could speak to him. In fact, if he talked to me, I should never refuse to answer. I was to be polite and respectful to all the adults in Cainsville. And not ask questions. Above all, don't ask questions."

"So you still don't," I said. "I don't, either. That means something. It has to." I paused. "Chandler was the first to mention a Cainsville connection. Do you remember what Patrick said about mind control? That it was beyond the realm of science but prevalent in folklore and magic."

"If you're saying that we're magically blocked from asking questions . . ."

He trailed off. I knew he wanted to finish the sentence with that's preposterous. So did I. But neither of us did.

"Let's call it preternatural," I said. "If you say magic, I think of Disney witches and fairies and pixie dust, and my brain won't go there. But I see omens, and that's definitely not natural. Same with giant hounds and the Wild Hunt and hallucinations and visions and second sight."

Gabriel shook his head. "But to say that I'm being prevented from asking questions by powers beyond my control feels like an excuse."

"Now you know why I kept denying I could see omens. It feels like hearing voices and thinking, 'I don't have schizophrenia; I can speak to the dead.' There's something preternatural happening, and we know it. So let's make a list of everything we want answers on, especially connected to Cainsville. We'll put it in writing so we can't shove it under the rug."

As I pulled over a legal pad and pen, he pushed back from the desk and shook his head. "I don't think that's necessary. We certainly will look into this, but there's hardly any need for a list. We have things to do--"

"So urgent that we don't have ten minutes for this?"

He checked his watch.

"You don't have any appointments, Gabriel. You already said that."

"Yes, but I have work--"

"You came in early. It's barely eight." I looked at him. "Fine. Go on. I'll make this list and--"

"You don't need to--" He paused. "This is it. This is exactly it. There's no good reason for me to stop you from making that list. So why am I arguing?"

"It's magic."

He glowered at me then rolled his shoulders, scowling as he did, as if he could frighten the compulsion away. That's what it felt like: something compelling us not to ask questions.

"Write it," he said.

--

Ten minutes later, Gabriel got a call. A client in trouble. Urgent "I'm sitting in the precinct awaiting interrogation" trouble. He left. I stayed behind to investigate any link between Macy and Ciara, and spent two hours delving into Macy's life and Ciara's life, trying to fit the two together in a puzzle that wouldn't quite work.

Macy could have been the Conways' daughter, in both her coloring and her features. As for Macy's family, that was harder to trace. No family pics on Facebook for them. I did get an older sister, though. When I pulled up the photo, it could have been Ciara in ten years . . . except she was only four years older. Prematurely hard and old. I'd seen that same look in the photos of Seanna Walsh. Macy's sister was an addict.

With help from Lydia, I tracked down the brother, too--or his record, at least. At twenty-seven, he already had almost a dozen arrests for drugs, assault, and petty larceny. Macy, though? She was clean. A nursing school student with no arrest record.

I thought of Ciara. Of her home in the suburbs. Of her parents, so confused over the path their daughter had stumbled on, how far she'd fallen, how little they'd been able to help. There's a genetic component to addiction. I knew that from my volunteer work at a women's shelter. Gabriel obviously knew it, too--I had only to glance across his office and see the expensive bottles on his fireplace mantel, unopened gifts coated in a fine layer of dust.

I looked at the photos and the evidence of addiction. Circumstantial evidence. It wasn't enough.

The girls had been born nine days apart. But at different hospitals. So how could they have been swapped? At the doctor's office? You take your newborn in and put her down and--whoops--pick up the wrong one? Wouldn't you know what your child was wearing? By nine days, wouldn't you know what she looked like?

Crimbils.

The word sprang to mind, unbidden, and scratched there, at the front of consciousness. When I started to ignore it, my gaze moved to that list on Gabriel's desk.

Tristan said I had some kind of hereditary memory. That was what kept prompting me with words and visions. With answers. Yet I pushed them aside.

I looked up crimbils. I wasn't sure of the spelling, but I figured it was Welsh, so I added that to the search and ran through a few possibilities before I hit the one I knew was right.

Crimbils. The Welsh word for changelings. As in the usual folklore, fairies would put their own child in the cradle of a human baby, to be foster raised. Through magic, the child would initially resemble the missing infant, but over time would revert to his or her own appearance, so it would seem that the child's looks were just changing naturally.

Clearly, either Ciara or Macy was a fairy child who'd been secreted into a human family. Which would make perfect sense . . . if you lived in the Middle Ages and believed in fairies.