Maybe the friendship part bothered more than it ought, but I … well, I don’t make them easily. Or I make them too easily. My calendar used to overflow with lunches and coffees and get-togethers, my in-box brimming with messages from high school friends, college friends, friends I met through my volunteerism. Then my world went to hell, and I found myself alone. Sure, when I retrieved messages, there were friends checking up on me. How was I doing? Did I need anything? When I sent back reassuring notes, they went quiet. Not abandoning me, but presuming I had it under control. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones—I always had everything under control. As for the thought that I might need a shoulder to sob on? Olivia Taylor-Jones didn’t sob. So they went their own way, presuming I’d be in touch when I was ready for lunches and coffees again. And that stung, just a little, but it wasn’t their fault.

If there’s a ten-point scale of friendship, I don’t think I’ve had anyone rate above a six since high school. There are dozens of fours and fives, but that’s where they stay and that’s where I like it. So when things had gone so horribly wrong, there’d been no one there to say, “Call me, damn it. We’re going for a drink, whether you like it or not.” Even James had backed off after we’d argued.

Into that void came Gabriel. The furthest thing from a potential friend I could imagine. And yet, in the last month, closer to me than any actual friend had been in years. He was the guy who came running when I called. Who stuck by me no matter how bad—or dangerous—things got. The guy who might not say, “We’re going for a drink, damn it,” but took me driving instead and bought me mochas to raise my spirits. Like a puppy starving for attention, I’d eagerly lapped it up.

James had been played by Gabriel, but it was nothing compared with the way I’d been played. And despite it all, I missed him. Missed him and hated myself for it.

After Wednesday morning, Gabriel had sent several “call me” texts. By evening, they’d escalated to complete messages, asking to talk, telling me he wanted to explain the situation, could we meet and discuss it? There were moments when I thought he sincerely wanted to do that. Then came a text on Friday—need to talk re: Pamela’s case—and I understood exactly why he was so eager to smooth things over.

I called him back at lunch.

Before he could speak, I said, “You’re worried that I’m going to convince Pamela to fire you. I wouldn’t do that. I want her to have the best legal representation possible, and that’s still you.”

Silence, broken only by the hiss of a less than perfect connection. Then he said, slowly, “I appreciate your support. And in return…”

“In return?”

“What would you like in return?”

Anger sizzled through me. “I’m not bargaining, Gabriel. I’m saying I won’t jeopardize her defense out of spite. This is a clean break.”

“Break?” he said.

“Yes. As we agreed, I’ll pay your bill in full as soon as my trust fund comes due, and I won’t interfere with you and Pamela, so there is no need to call again trying to mend this—”

“Is that what you want?”

“What?”

“In return for supporting me as Pamela’s lawyer, you want me to promise not to contact you?”

“Did I say I’m not bargaining here, Gabriel?” I snapped. “You have got the case, and you’ll get your bill paid. There are no strings attached. No expectations. I’m telling you so you don’t need to call, pretending you want to smooth this over, because you’re worried about losing Pamela’s case. You won’t.”

“Meaning that if I attempt further contact, you will rescind your support?”

“Are you even listen—?” I clipped the word off so hard I nipped my tongue and cursed. “Fine. If that helps you understand it, let’s go with that. It’s a bargain. Or a threat. Whichever you prefer. Your bill will be paid, and I will not interfere with Pamela’s case, if you don’t contact me again. Now, I’m going to hang up—”

“Wait,” he said. “I understand you wish to end our working relationship, but if you’re serious about giving Pamela the best defense possible, I cannot agree to no contact. You were a critical part of the investigation that prompted her new appeal, and as such—”

“You’ll need to speak to me.”

“In a purely professional capacity. Related only to that case. While it will be months before an appeal is heard, I will need to talk to you. Soon. We can meet at the diner if that’s simplest.”

“The phone works perfectly well.”

Silence. Then, “This would be easier in person, Olivia.”

“At some point, yes, I’m sure that will be necessary. For now, though, the phone will do. Better yet, e-mail me any questions, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”

Pause. “All right, then. In the meantime, Rose needs to speak to you.”

“I really don’t have time for—”

“She’s had … I don’t know exactly. A vision. A reading. Something that bothered her, and she’d like to speak to you about it.”

I’m sure she would. And I’m sure it would go something like, “I’ve had a vision of great calamity befalling you if you don’t pay my nephew’s bill.”

Gabriel continued before I could cut in. “I would like you to speak to her, Olivia. About her vision and about what happened earlier this week. The hound, the poppies, and Ciara Conway.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, of course. You are—or were—my client, which means I certainly would not discuss the fact that you found a dead body. However, I’d like you to tell her. I think it would help.”

“I haven’t seen anything since Monday. Not even an omen.”

“I’d still like you to speak to Rose, Olivia. She has important—”

“I should go. E-mail me those questions.”

“One last thing…”

I exhaled through my teeth, breath hissing into a “Yes?”

“About Todd. Your father. I would like—” He cleared his throat. “In recognition of the fact that I may have overstepped my bounds accepting payment from James—”

“May?” The word came out between a snarl and a squeak.

“I would like to continue facilitating your reunion with Todd. As you know, that’s not proving as easily done as it should be. Lydia is investigating, and I would like her to continue doing so. Without charge.”

I hesitated. Damn it. He was right that I’d hit roadblocks trying to see Todd myself, but I really didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Gabriel.

“Hold off,” I said. “For now. I’ll … give it some thought. We can talk later.”

I hung up before he could argue. When I got home that evening, I called James and agreed to dinner the next night.

I know people often think being rich means a life of leisure. It can, if your goal is to do as little as possible, but most who have enough cash to quit working don’t. My father definitely didn’t, and I learned from his example. I like to be very busy—it’s the only thing that truly clears my mind. So for the past couple of days, I’d come home from work and, well, worked.

What I wanted to do was dive back into the Larsen case. I’d meant what I said about wanting them to have the best possible chance at a solid appeal, and my personal issues wouldn’t interfere with that. I’d be fine with investigating and turning over my work to Gabriel for free.

The problem was that he had the case files. I had only a partial copy. I’d spent a couple of hours compiling notes on the other victims—then researching them online—but I felt as if I was investigating with a patch over one eye, my field of vision and depth perception shot to hell. Was that really because I didn’t have the full file? Or because I didn’t have my detecting partner? I won’t lie. I missed him. I’ve said that. Won’t say it again.

Before they were caught, my parents had been known as the Valentine Killer. It meant that they’d killed couples … in Chicago, where Valentine’s Day will forever be tainted by the memory of a bloody mob massacre. No one used that name anymore. From the time of their arrest, they’d become “the Larsens.”