Rituals (Cainsville 5)

He paused before opening his car door. "May I ask what she wanted?"

"We can talk at my place."

He got in. When my door closed, he cleared his throat and then said, "You're obviously shaken, which means it was more than a stray relative seeking free legal advice. I've mentioned that I faced a false paternity suit before..."

I burst out laughing, mostly in relief. The paternity suit had been a scam that backfired spectacularly. Anyone who knew Gabriel wouldn't have attempted it. He'd never be careless about anything that could cost him money.

He continued, "Ah, well, I can assure you, it won't be the first time a relative--real or otherwise--popped from the woodwork hoping for a handout. I'm sure your family has their share of experience with that. And in mine, there are even more empty hands and wild stories intended to fill them. But we can work as well at your house as in the office, and Rose has been asking us to tea. Text, and tell her we'll come at four."

--

We drove to my house. Well, it's not actually mine. I'm halfway through a two-month trial run. The elders offered me the Carew house for an excellent price, purportedly because it belonged to my great-great-grandmother and has stood empty for years. The truth is that they're desperate for me to put down roots in Cainsville.

It's a gorgeous place. A stately Queen Anne with a half tower, forming a window seat in my bedroom. In the past month, I'd been making the house mine. I'd lived in a Cainsville apartment for six months and never even added a throw pillow. Here, I had pillows, art, garden furniture...I still claimed I hadn't made up my mind, but I was feathering this nest as fast as I could.

We walked in the front door. I kicked off my shoes. Gabriel lined his up on the mat, which he'd bought last week. He might counsel me not to make a decision too hastily, but I wasn't the only one adding the little touches that turned this house into a home.

Gabriel headed straight to the kitchen to warm up the coffee machine. Even if we don't have coffee right away, he'll make that detour, as if the front door leads directly to the machine. Then he joined me in the parlor, where I'd curled up on the couch. He took the other end.

I shifted to sit sideways. "There's no easy way to say this. The woman who came to the office claims to be your mother."

His brows shot up. "She claims that my mother isn't Seanna Walsh? That's a first."

"This woman says she is Seanna."

He looked at me, those eerily pale blue eyes fixed on mine, and for a moment that's all I could see--those ice-blue irises ringed with a blue so dark it looked black. Then he laughed, and the sound was so unexpected, I jumped.

"I don't mean to laugh," he said. "Obviously, you were concerned about how I might react to this impostor. I appreciate that concern, Olivia. And yes, as much as I'd like to say that I don't care--never cared--the truth is that until six months ago this was indeed my greatest fear--that I'd walk into the office one day and Seanna would be sitting there with her hand out. I shouldn't say I was glad to learn she was dead. But I was. It lifted a weight."

"I don't blame you."

"My mother is clearly dead," he said. "Dealing with an impersonator will not rattle me. Nor will it resurrect old memories."

I wanted to leave it at that. Shove it aside until the DNA test came back, and once it was negative, I could breathe a sigh of relief. But Gabriel knew me too well.

When he saw my expression, he said, "You don't honestly believe there's a chance she is Seanna, do you?"

"Of course not. I saw the coroner's photos. Yes, this woman looks like her, but she'd need to, in order to pull it off. And her story is preposterous."

"What is her story?"

"Oh, some crap about a bargain with a cop." I rose from the sofa and headed for the kitchen. "Do you want coffee? Rose brought over fresh chocolate chip cookies. Your favorite."

I grabbed two mugs and stuck one under the coffeemaker as I hit the button. I was taking out a plate for the cookies when a form darkened the kitchen doorway, shadow stretching across the sun-dappled floor.

"What exactly was her story?" he asked.

"Like I said, some bullshit--"

"I'd like to hear the whole thing."

I told him. When I finished, he walked to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. Then he stiffly lowered himself into it.

"It's ridiculous," I said, bringing over the coffees, sloshing slightly. I put them down and crossed my arms to hide my shaking hands. "Fake her death to escape a bounty? Not even actually fake it, but only switch photos six months later and expect she'll be legally declared dead? There are a million easier ways to disappear. It's a preposterous scheme."

"Seanna's always were." He took the coffee but only placed it in front of him. "She was a petty thief who fancied herself a con artist. That was her idea of career aspiration. Unfortunately, she lacked the intelligence--or the patience--to carry out a proper con. This is exactly the sort of thing she'd come up with and then be shocked when the officer didn't hold up his end of the bargain."

"It isn't her."