That made me smile. He noticed and arched his dark brows. I met his gaze. It wasn’t easy, but it gave me something to do. Look him straight in those cold eyes and don’t back down until—
The door opened. I jumped. Gabriel stood, partly blocking my view.
A guard entered first. Then a woman. No, not just a woman. Pamela Larsen. My mother.
After hearing how much I looked like her, I was braced to see a face that would ensure I wasn’t going to regain my comfort with a mirror anytime soon. She was shorter than me by a couple of inches. Heavier, too, almost plump. Dark, gray-laced hair to her shoulders. Eyes of an indeterminate blue-green shade. Maybe there was a resemblance, but I didn’t see a carbon copy of myself.
What did I see?
My mother.
I recognized her. I felt a leap in my gut, the burst of joy that a two-year-old might feel. I felt it, and I disowned it. Looked away and shut down that part of myself, hard and fast.
She hadn’t noticed me yet as her gaze fixed on Gabriel. That made it easier.
“Gabriel,” she said. “I should have known.” She stepped closer. “Are you trying to get your money again? You scammed me, you bastard. You stole my appeal, and you expect me to pay you? The fact I didn’t gouge out your eyes with your gold pen should prove I’m innocent.”
She turned to the guard. “Take me back. We’re done here.”
“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, Pamela,” Gabriel said. “I brought someone to see you.”
“I don’t care who—”
Gabriel stepped aside. She stopped. Her cuffed hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh.” She inhaled. She rushed toward me, but the second guard yanked her back.
She spun on the woman. “That’s my daughter, you heartless bitch. My little girl.”
“You know the rules, Pamela.”
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.”
The grief on her face cut through me and I wanted to say I did remember her, snatches of memories, good memories. I clamped my mouth shut and struggled to keep my face as expressionless as possible.
She leaned toward me a little more. “We didn’t murder those young couples, Olivia. If you remember anything about us, you know we didn’t.”
I glanced at Gabriel. I didn’t mean to. His face gave nothing away, but I knew what he was thinking. My parents had been convicted by a jury of their peers. They’d lost their first appeal and several subsequent attempts. Was I desperate enough—foolish enough—to entertain even the slightest doubt of their guilt?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t come here to . . .”
I couldn’t finish that. What would I say? I came here because I already know you’re a monster and I needed to see you so I could believe that in my heart, too. Except now . . .
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I looked at her and the temperature in the tiny room seemed to jump twenty degrees. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek and I had to struggle for breath.
I got to my feet. “I need . . . I have to step outside.”
Pamela leapt up. “No, please, E—Olivia. I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gabriel held open the door and I hurried out over Pamela’s protests. Once I heard that door close behind me, I stopped, facing the corridor wall, breathing in and out.
I was smarter than this. I knew she was guilty. I wanted to come here and feel that, and instead the doubt had crept from my heart to my head.
The door opened. I jumped. Gabriel stood, partly blocking my view.
A guard entered first. Then a woman. No, not just a woman. Pamela Larsen. My mother.
After hearing how much I looked like her, I was braced to see a face that would ensure I wasn’t going to regain my comfort with a mirror anytime soon. She was shorter than me by a couple of inches. Heavier, too, almost plump. Dark, gray-laced hair to her shoulders. Eyes of an indeterminate blue-green shade. Maybe there was a resemblance, but I didn’t see a carbon copy of myself.
What did I see?
My mother.
I recognized her. I felt a leap in my gut, the burst of joy that a two-year-old might feel. I felt it, and I disowned it. Looked away and shut down that part of myself, hard and fast.
She hadn’t noticed me yet as her gaze fixed on Gabriel. That made it easier.
“Gabriel,” she said. “I should have known.” She stepped closer. “Are you trying to get your money again? You scammed me, you bastard. You stole my appeal, and you expect me to pay you? The fact I didn’t gouge out your eyes with your gold pen should prove I’m innocent.”
She turned to the guard. “Take me back. We’re done here.”
“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, Pamela,” Gabriel said. “I brought someone to see you.”
“I don’t care who—”
Gabriel stepped aside. She stopped. Her cuffed hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh.” She inhaled. She rushed toward me, but the second guard yanked her back.
She spun on the woman. “That’s my daughter, you heartless bitch. My little girl.”
“You know the rules, Pamela.”
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.”
The grief on her face cut through me and I wanted to say I did remember her, snatches of memories, good memories. I clamped my mouth shut and struggled to keep my face as expressionless as possible.
She leaned toward me a little more. “We didn’t murder those young couples, Olivia. If you remember anything about us, you know we didn’t.”
I glanced at Gabriel. I didn’t mean to. His face gave nothing away, but I knew what he was thinking. My parents had been convicted by a jury of their peers. They’d lost their first appeal and several subsequent attempts. Was I desperate enough—foolish enough—to entertain even the slightest doubt of their guilt?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t come here to . . .”
I couldn’t finish that. What would I say? I came here because I already know you’re a monster and I needed to see you so I could believe that in my heart, too. Except now . . .
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I looked at her and the temperature in the tiny room seemed to jump twenty degrees. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek and I had to struggle for breath.
I got to my feet. “I need . . . I have to step outside.”
Pamela leapt up. “No, please, E—Olivia. I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gabriel held open the door and I hurried out over Pamela’s protests. Once I heard that door close behind me, I stopped, facing the corridor wall, breathing in and out.
I was smarter than this. I knew she was guilty. I wanted to come here and feel that, and instead the doubt had crept from my heart to my head.
