That was the old Gabriel. The guy who had amassed a small fortune before his thirtieth birthday, with nothing to spend it on, yet driven by the compulsion to keep growing his stockpile. Driven by the boy from the streets, who hadn't known where his next meal would come from, let alone how he'd ever realize his dream of law school. That boy could never look at his assets and say, "It's enough."
I don't think Gabriel ever would be able to say he had enough. He was learning other priorities, though, like having time off for rest and recreation. And he was learning that having money meant he could be pickier with his cases. He wanted one that intrigued him. That challenged him. The murder of Alan Nansen had been neither...until now.
We would meet with Heather later that morning. First, I researched the case.
Alan Nansen owned a restaurant. Eclipse was a bit trendy for my tastes, which translated to "I like it...but not enough to make dinner reservations three weeks in advance." Gabriel and I had eaten there once, and I'd been with my adoptive dad when the place first opened a few years ago.
Running a successful restaurant meant Alan Nansen kept late hours on the weekends, and whoever targeted the Nansen house knew that. The first break-in happened on a Saturday night while Alan had been working, Heather home asleep. The burglar had stolen her purse before something scared him off. Then came two attempted invasions, also on weekend nights. Neither effort was successful, and police speculated that the intruder realized the Nansens had upped their security and backed off. That would make sense the first time. But twice more?
And if the Nansens knew these attempts were coming on weekend nights, couldn't they have changed their schedule temporarily? That seemed wiser than buying a gun.
Then, nearly two weeks ago, Alan Nansen came home early. Under the circumstances, you'd think he'd call and warn Heather. Instead, he came home and walked into the bedroom, and she shot him.
I hated to agree with Gabriel that Nansen's death was more inevitable than tragic. That sounded callous. But given the way it played out, yes, there was an air of inevitability to it.
So once again I had questions.
Lots of questions.
Ten
Olivia
We were with Heather Nansen. Anyone else might see her home and wonder what she'd done to piss off her wealthy family. It was a small house in a good neighborhood, one that would be out of reach for the average thirty-year-old, but definitely not what you'd expect given who her parents were. It made sense to me, though.
My house was twice the size of this one, but probably half the price, given the hour's drive from Chicago. I came into my trust fund a few months ago. Five million dollars. And the only thing I did with it was pay off my mortgage. Sure, I liked my designer footwear, but I'd been able to scrimp for an annual pair with my diner paycheck. I also liked fast cars, but my adoptive dad left me a garage of them, and I only used one. I wasn't particularly frugal, but I grew up with money, so I was just accustomed to it. Which meant that while I had some champagne tastes, my trust fund wasn't a winning lottery ticket to be spent indulging fantasies I couldn't afford before. So I understood Heather Nansen's choice. Her house was exactly what a childless couple might need, no more and no less.
When Heather answered the door, she looked... Well, I don't know how someone was supposed to look two weeks after accidentally shooting her husband. On the way over, I'd thought about that. My fae blood meant that, like Gabriel, I suffered from an inherent lack of empathy. A voice had always whispered that I was a little bit cold, a little bit ruthless. I've thought about how that shaped me, growing up, feeling like I lacked something essential. I had looked at my adoptive mother, a renowned philanthropist, and I'd tried to develop that sense of goodness by immersing myself in volunteerism and charity work. Now, given that she abandoned me for Europe after the news about my biological parents--and doesn't intend to return--I had to wonder exactly how much of that philanthropy was innate goodness...and how much was self-interest, that her charity work gave her purpose and stature.
When I learned who my biological parents were, that seemed to answer part of my puzzle. If I lacked empathy, well, I had convicted serial killers for parents. Learning I also had fae blood finally silenced that voice. I had a friend who struggled in school until she was diagnosed with a learning disorder, and I remembered how relieved she'd been. That had baffled me--the diagnosis didn't cure her. Now I understood her relief. The diagnosis meant that she wasn't failing because she didn't work hard enough--she had a disability she needed to accommodate. That was what my lack of a fully formed conscience meant. I wasn't a heartless bitch--I had a deficit that I needed to accommodate, which I'd been doing all my life.
On the way here, I'd practiced. I was about to meet a woman who'd accidentally killed her husband. To prepare myself, I recalled my memory dream. I had been that Matilda, whoever she was. I had been madly in love with my Arawn. And I had caused his death. How had she felt?
Shattered. That was what I remembered. It was a brick thrown through a window, shattering her universe in an instant. His death would have broken her at any time, but having been responsible for it...? That was devastating.
I needed to be ready for that with Heather. For a woman who had killed the man she loved. Unintentionally but not even accidentally, not really--it wasn't as if the gun misfired. She'd made a mistake, like the Matilda in my memories.
Heather Nansen answered the door dressed in jeans and a blouse, no makeup, her hair looking clean but shoved back carelessly. No bags under her eyes, yet she moved slowly, as if exhausted. She met us with a forced half-smile and ushered us indoors.
"My dad wanted to be here," she said, "but I told him no. Just because he insists on paying the bill doesn't mean he gets to micromanage my case."
She led us inside, down a hall, into the living room. "Can I get you...?" she began and then trailed off with a look of blank confusion, like a robot that realized it should know the rest of that line but found itself unable to access the data.
"We're fine," I said.
She nodded. And then she just stood there.
Shock. That's what it looked like--she was a woman going through the motions. After nearly two weeks, I would think that would pass into grief. Like when my dad died. I spent twenty-four hours in full-out Olivia mode, taking care of every detail while my mother broke down. I'd proven I was my father's daughter, efficient and collected. Then, once I'd contacted everyone who needed to be told and written the obituary and spoken to the funeral director, I collapsed in a puddle of ugly-crying grief.
Was Heather Nansen still in efficiency mode? Taking care of all details? Or was this her grief, her way of handling it--moving forward while periodically shorting out?
I considered the possibility that Alan Nansen's death was not an accident. I had to. Even before I started working for a defense attorney, I loved mysteries. I wrote my master's thesis on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'd grown up dreaming of "being a detective" the way other kids think of "being a rock star," as a fantasy so unattainable I never dared voice it. I grew up in a world where being a PI or even a police detective was not an acceptable career goal.
So I had to consider the chance that the woman in front of me killed her husband. It was the perfect setup. Stage break-ins when he wasn't home to witness them. Use that as an excuse to buy a gun. Then wait until he came home early one night and, whoops, did I do that?
But while I didn't see a shattered wife in front of me, I didn't see a relieved one either. Unless she'd masterminded the perfect murder...and then realized that she didn't feel as good about it as she'd expected. That she missed him.
Or that she might actually need a defense lawyer.