Deceptions (Cainsville 3)

"Obviously, or you'd have left him long ago. It's the leaving that brought out the crazy. There is absolutely no need to apologize. It comes down to this. I have you. He doesn't. He's not going to be complimentary. Insulting my intelligence? My age? My lack of a criminal record? Not exactly wounding me to the core, Liv."

"He also said you were pretty."

"I've been called worse."

We went inside and found Gabriel leaning over Lydia, hands planted on her desk. When I rapped at the open door, he frowned and checked his watch.

"I am exactly on time," I said.

"We need to talk," Ricky said to Gabriel.

Gabriel nodded. "Yes, I know. When are your classes done for the day?"

"I mean now. Same topic, but the situation is deteriorating." He turned to me. "And yeah, I mean James. That's what I meant last night, too. I just didn't want to spoil your mood with the reminder. While you don't want us solving your problems for you, in this case . . . ?"

He was right. I hated sitting back and letting them handle it. But I'd been absolutely clear with James that it was over, and I'd exhausted my know-how for dealing with the situation.

"You're welcome to sit in," Ricky continued. "But again, while I'd never suggest you let us take over . . ."

"I would," Gabriel said. "Strongly."

I wanted to at least listen in, but I wouldn't be able to without squirming and worrying that, whatever they planned, James didn't deserve it. How many women had I met at the shelter, abused by their partners, who refused to call the police? He's not a bad person. He's under a lot of stress. He doesn't mean it. I wouldn't be that woman.

"I'll do a coffee run," I said.

The moment the words left my mouth, they both stiffened.

I can't even walk down the street alone to grab a coffee. Goddamn it, James. I know I hurt you, but I do not deserve this.

"Why don't we both go," Lydia offered quickly.

Gabriel's gaze dropped to my purse in silent question. I gave him a look and said, "Of course," meaning that I had my gun. He nodded and waved Ricky into the meeting room.

--

Lydia and I hung out at the coffee shop for almost a half hour. We didn't talk about work, which was a first. It was easier outside the office for conversation to turn to the personal, and I discovered that Lydia was a widowed mother of two, with three grandkids, and was long-distance dating a record label exec from Sacramento who planned to retire to Chicago because, apparently, Lydia herself had no plans to stop working anytime soon.

When Ricky texted me an all-clear, we returned to find him waiting on his bike to say goodbye. I didn't ask him what they'd decided to do about James. Nor did I ask Gabriel when I went inside. I had to trust them.

As Gabriel had warned,

the police did want to talk to us about our prison visit to Chandler. We also had to answer more questions about the death of Macy Shaw.

I'm sure someone had connected us to both incidents, but the detective didn't seem particularly suspicious. I was the daughter of convicted serial killers. It was almost as if no one was surprised that I'd morphed into the angel of death. As long as there were no indications that I'd killed anyone myself--and there weren't--well, I was bound to attract some serious crazy.

We visited the station. We gave our statements. That was it.

--

Next we went to see Jon Childs, who hadn't replied to my initial message, or to the two calls I'd made since.

Childs lived in a corner-unit town house in University Village. Older building. Quiet, tree-lined street. No sign to show that he ran a business out of his place. In this neighborhood they'd frown on that, and given his income, I doubted he needed to advertise for clients.

His condo was dark and the mailbox overflowed with flyers. Gabriel and I were sitting in the car discussing our next move when an older woman marched over from next door and emptied Childs's mailbox.

I arrived at his front step just as the neighbor was coming down.

"Sorry to bother you. My husband"--I waved at the rental Jag--"and I were trying to figure out if Mr. Childs was home. I guess that"--I nodded at her armload of mail and flyers--"answers our question. When do you expect him back?"