Omens (Cainsville 1)

She pulled away from the guard's grip, but made no move to come closer.

"Eden," she breathed.

"It's Olivia."

She flinched. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Olivia. Look at you. So beautiful."

That voice. Dear God, that voice.

Thursday's child has far to go.

Was the rest of it from her, too? All the rhymes and superstition I couldn't pry from my brain? Not from some long forgotten nanny. From Pamela Larsen.

And what else? Forget the silly rhymes. What else had she taught me? How much more of me came from her? How much of me was a lie? Even something as simple as my birthday was obviously false.

Thursday's child has far to go.

Pamela had turned to Gabriel.

"I'd like to speak to my daughter alone."

"You know that isn't possible," he said.

"I don't know how you tricked her into coming here, but if you made her pay you a dime--"

"She didn't even contribute gas money. She asked to see you, and I thought it might be a good opportunity to remind you of my outstanding bill."

She turned back to me. "You asked to see me?"

Did I imagine it or did Gabriel wince? I opened my mouth to say it wasn't exactly like that, but her face glowed and a little girl inside me basked in the radiance, and wouldn't--couldn't--do anything to bring back the shadows.

Damn. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I took a deep breath and straightened. "We'll be fine, Mr. Walsh. Thank you."

He nodded and went to stand by the door. Pamela shot him a look, but he only glanced at me, brows arching to ask "Is this okay?" I nodded.

"You are so beautiful, E--Olivia," Pamela said. "Your father would--" Her hands flew to her mouth again, head dropping, eyes squeezed shut. "I wish he could see you. He'd be so happy. So proud."

She took a moment to compose herself as the guards ushered us to the table. I could feel Gabriel's gaze on me, but didn't look over.

"The Joneses have treated you well?" she said after a moment.

"My parents have been great."

She flinched at "parents" and I felt a pang of sympathy, as hard as I tried to fight it.

"Tell me about yourself," she said. "Your life."

I managed to give her a brief biographical sketch, the kind I'd provide a stranger. When I finished, she leaned forward, her cuffed hands reaching across the table.

A throat-clearing from the guard stopped her short, but she stayed bent forward as she lowered her voice and said, "I know this is a huge shock for you. They--they tell me you didn't even realize you were adopted."

"That's right."

"So you don't ... remember us?"

"No."