“Chandler?”

“If you found a dead body dressed to look like you, that isn’t a portent. It’s a threat. Edgar Chandler made a very clear one against you Sunday. Ergo, I’d like to speak to him. In the meantime, you need to talk to Pamela about omens.”

CHAPTER FIVE

All my life, I’ve had superstitious ditties stuck in my head, popping up on cue. I’d thought I’d picked them up from a nanny or other caregiver. Then I met Pamela Larsen, heard her voice, and knew exactly who’d planted those rhymes. Speaking to her about it had been at the top of my to-do list. Yet while I’d visited Sunday night to tell her we’d proven she and my father hadn’t killed Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, it definitely hadn’t been the time to say, “Oh, and by the way, I can read omens.”

Gabriel picked me up at six. He wanted to accompany me and drive me to my parents’ afterward, to make damned sure I took that VW. On the way, I told him I wanted to make another prison visit. One that had proved impossible when I’d attempted it myself. Visiting my biological father, Todd Larsen.

I struggled with seeing Todd. My newly risen memories of him were mingled with ones of my adoptive dad, the one I grew up with, perfect memories of a perfect father, and that made it all sorts of complicated. I’d resolved a few days ago to see him. Telling Gabriel was the first step toward making that happen.

Seeing Pamela had been much easier. I’d needed Gabriel’s help the first time, but since then I could visit when I liked, and we had no problem getting in today. When I arrived, she was watching the visiting room door, and as soon as I walked through, her face lit up and she rose, arms going out. We couldn’t hug—that wasn’t allowed—but she still reached out as if we could.

I grew up not knowing I was adopted, with people always telling me how much I looked like my parents. I had Lena Taylor’s ash-blond hair, slender build, and green eyes, and Arthur Jones’s height and features. They hadn’t adopted me until I was almost three, and by then they’d have known I could pass for theirs. Yet after meeting Pamela Larsen, I realized any resemblance between me and my adoptive parents was purely superficial. Though Pamela is dark-haired and dark-eyed, our facial structure is the same. She’s an inch or so shorter than my five-eight and about forty pounds heavier, but there’s little doubt we’re mother and daughter.

As I walked over to her, I smiled, which made her light up all the more. Even the sight of Gabriel didn’t elicit the usual glower. As soon as we sat, though, her gaze went to him.

“If you’re here to convince me to hire you again—”

“I am not. I’m accompanying Olivia.”

Her lips pressed together. “I don’t appreciate you using my daughter to get to me. I haven’t decided who’ll represent me. When I do, I’ll let you know. I’m interviewing other lawyers now.”

“Excellent.”

Her lips compressed again.

I cut in. “As entertaining as it is to watch you two outstare each other, that’s not what I’m here for. Gabriel is your best chance for an appeal, but ultimately it’s your choice.”

“Has he asked you to pay for my defense?” she said.

“I would not,” Gabriel said. “While I have made initial inquiries on your behalf, testing the waters for the appeal, we can discuss those later. For now, Olivia has unrelated questions.”

“I…” I took a deep breath. “There’s no way to say this without sounding like I’m nuts, so I’m just going to go for it. I can see omens. See them, read them, interpret them.”

I explained what had been happening. I didn’t get far before her eyes widened. She turned to Gabriel. “I’d like you to leave.” She paused and, though it seemed painful, added, “Please.”

He glanced at me. I nodded. When he was gone, I finished my explanation. Then she sat there, saying nothing.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” I said.

“No, I don’t think I do, Olivia.”

I leaned forward, my voice softening. “I know this isn’t easy to talk about, but I have to understand. It’s…” I tried for a smile. “It’s freaking me out a little, and I could really use some help.”

It took a lot to admit that. I’d proven my birth parents innocent of two murders, and I wanted to seize on that and declare them innocent of all. But I couldn’t. I didn’t dare, because if I did, I don’t think I could handle finding out I was wrong.

For twenty years, I’d had a father I adored and a mother I loved. Then I’d discovered the Larsens and all those lost memories flooded back. I’d had another father I’d adored, in Todd. And a mother who’d loved me with a fierce and deep maternal passion that Lena Taylor could never quite manage.

I kept my distance now, as a cushion. Protecting my sanity and, yes, my heart—though I squirmed at the notion. I’m not an emotional person. But I am someone who loves deeply and completely. Someone who can be hurt just as deeply and completely.

I was taking a chance by letting her see how much I needed her answers. A chance by letting her see how much I needed her.

When I said the words, I saw something inside her reach out—then shut down, as hard and as fast as Gabriel could, that wall dropping behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry, baby.” She reached out as if she could take my hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I jerked back as if she’d slapped me. “You’re the one who taught me all those superstitions. I hear your voice in my head, saying them.”

Her lips worked as if preparing a lie, but after a moment she said, “Yes, that was me.” She leaned across the table, her manacled hands resting on it. “I was young, Olivia. As young as you are now, and not nearly as educated or as worldly. My mother had filled my head with those superstitions, and I thought they were fun. Silly and fun and harmless. So I passed them along to you.”

“What about the fact that the omens I see really do predict future events?”

She shifted, as if uncomfortable. “The thing with superstitions is that it’s very easy to find justification. If you search hard enough—”

“I know. Find a lucky penny and win two bucks on a scratch card. Voilà, it worked.”

This was exactly what I’d been telling myself all my life. Omens were like horoscopes—if you want to believe, you can find “proof.” I had expected this very argument from Gabriel, always logical and rational. I had not expected it from Pamela, and it was made so much worse by the fact that I could tell she was lying to me. Lying after I’d opened myself up to her.

“I know that’s why people believe in superstitions and petty magics,” I continued. “If I see a death omen, though, someone dies. But I’m the only one who sees it. I notice eight crows on a wire and everyone else sees six.”

Her head jerked up. “You’ve spoken to someone about this?”

“No,” I lied. “I’ve only asked what they see.”

She leaned even farther across the table. “Do you know why I’m in here, Olivia? Because I was a foolish girl playing at being a good witch, with amulets and brews to protect my family from colds and misfortune. Then someone tipped off the police, claiming we were responsible for these ritualistic murders, and my silly Wiccan baubles damned us more than DNA ever could. Whatever you think you’re experiencing, you must tell no one. For your own sake.”

I met her gaze. “What am I experiencing?”

She pulled back. “I have no idea. You’ve been under a lot of stress, and—”

“I’m sorry I bothered you with this,” I said, rising stiffly.

She put her hand on mine as the guard cleared her throat in warning. “Don’t be angry, Olivia,” she said. “I know that look. Your grandma used to call it ‘getting your dander up.’ You’d do it every time—”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I came to talk about this. If you won’t help, I’ll go.”