He was right, of course. Pamela was his client. I was his employee.
After a moment of silence, he said, "Your job is to investigate a case thoroughly and completely, and to bring me all evidence arguing for and against acquittal. What I do with that information is not your concern."
"In general, I don't have a problem with that," I said. "Everyone is entitled to a defense, and it's up to the prosecution to prove their case. But if you ask me to help free a sociopath or a rapist--"
"I don't take those cases. Too many complications. But there are cases with ethical quandaries, even for me. You will always have the choice of refusing."
"But with Pamela . . . This is different."
"Remember that your birth parents have spent twenty-two years in prison. Whatever they did, one might argue that they've paid their debt. And pose no danger to society."
Which they don't if they killed to protect me. If, in some twisted way, that was their motive--
I got up and walked to the window.
"If you need to use the bathroom . . ." he began.
I turned a hard look on him. "I'm not going to puke on your floor, Gabriel. I just need--" I glanced at the door.
"If you want fresh air or a brisk walk, then I will gladly accompany you, but if your goal is to escape me and react in private, the answer is no." He headed for his wall cabinet. "This is a difficult subject, and we are going to abandon it immediately in favor of . . ." He pulled out a bottle.
"I don't need--"
"Stop." His gaze met mine. "You don't like me attempting to control a situation, but it works both ways. If you are upset, and you don't allow me to stay with you or offer you a drink, then where do you leave me? Sitting and staring awkwardly as you suffer, which is exactly the reaction that will bother you the most."
"I'm sorry."
He poured two drinks. "I'm not asking you to be sorry, Olivia. I'm asking you to allow me to give you this"--he handed me a glass--"and not to argue about it."
I took the drink and sat on the floor in front of the window. He turned down the lights until they were barely a glow on the ceiling, the room lit by the city outside, the sun fallen, endless lights lifting the darkness. Then he lowered himself, somewhat awkwardly, beside me and began to talk. Gradually, between the drink and the dark and the low and steady rumble of his voice, I relaxed and stretched out on the floor, until, finally, exhaustion won out, and I drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I woke in Gabriel's bed, and there was a moment in the confusion of sleep, when I smelled something that reminded me of him--his soap or his shampoo or his own faint smell--that I smiled and reached out, expecting to find him there. Of course he wasn't, and as soon as I realized what I was doing--and what I was thinking--I jumped up, guilt slapping me as hard as if he'd actually been in bed with me.
I stayed propped up on one arm, breathing hard, pushing aside the fog of sleep, until my heart rate slowed and I could tell myself I'd done nothing wrong, thought nothing wrong. Wak-ing confusion, that was all.
I dropped back onto the pillow, pulled up the sheets, and fell back to sleep.
When the dream came, it was harmless enough. I was wandering through dark and empty halls, searching for Ricky, more annoyed than worried. Something had happened--I couldn't remember what--and we'd been separated, and I needed to get back to him, which should have been much easier than it seemed. I kept walking and calling and walking and calling . . .
That's when I fell in the hole. Or it seemed to be a hole, and I seemed to have fallen in, but with the illogic of dreams, I couldn't quite be sure. One moment I was wandering and the next I was in the dark, and in a full-out panic, the air thinning with each breath as I raced around the room, one hand on the walls, searching for an exit, for a ladder, for a hatch, anything, knowing I wouldn't find it because I'd been searching for hours and I was trapped here in this box. A huge wooden box. When I realized that's what it was, I screamed until my throat was raw. I was running around the perimeter of the room one more time when I kicked something. I crouched, feeling around in the pitch-dark. My fingers closed on a thin metal rectangle.
My phone! I fumbled to turn it on, holding my breath until . . .
Yes, it switched on. It had barely any power, but I had a signal. My fingers flew to the keypad, speed-dialing, and I thought I was calling Ricky, but when the name popped up, it was Gabriel's.
The call nearly went to voice mail before he answered.
"Oh God, thank God." The words rushed out. "I'm trapped. There's not much air, and I've lost Ricky, and I need your help. I really need your help."
Silence.
"Gabriel?"
"Yes?"
I gripped the phone tighter and raised my voice. "Can you hear me? I'll text if you can't. I don't have much battery left."