When I hadn’t given him the signs he was hoping for—I don’t flirt with unavailable guys—he’d finally asked point-blank. If Eva wasn’t in the picture, would I go to Paris with him?
I should have said, “Get her out of the picture and then ask.” Force him to take a chance. But at the time, the question spoke to me of honesty, not a lack of spontaneity. So I said yes, and Eva Talbot got the breakup talk.
Now I was reading a piece about a charity dinner last night where James and Eva had been spotted together. Complete with a photo of them at the table, James leaning over to whisper something, Eva gazing at him adoringly. Sources confirmed the two were seeing each other again, Eva consoling him. There was even a quote from her, after the dinner, about poor James and all he’d been through.
Bitch.
That was the most vitriol I could work up for Eva, though. Only a little more for James. I stared at that picture and I thought of us, at our last dinner together, how happy we’d been.
I’d given that up. Willfully given it up. And he’d already moved on.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
W ith Gabriel gone, my reluctance to impose on Ida and Walter Clark faded fast. As long as I refilled the gas tank and paid with returned favors, I could justify borrowing their car for my Thursday morning meeting with Dr. Evans.
When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Evans was on the front porch, waiting to be picked up by a friend for brunch.
We chatted before she left. She knew who I was, obviously, but she gave no indication that my parents’ purported actions reflected on me. The tragedy of her son was past.
She told me to go on inside. Her husband was in his office, and he had a tendency to ignore the doorbell, presuming someone else would answer it.
When I walked in, Evans was deep in a client file, scribbling notes. I waited until he was finished writing before clearing my throat.
“Olivia,” he said, smiling as he stood. He checked the clock. “It is that time, isn’t it? My apologies.”
He waved me to the client seat and poured coffee. He didn’t ask what I took, but made it with cream, the way I’d had it the last time.
“I think Gabriel Walsh may have taken a couple of pages from the file,” I began—to explain how Gabriel would know about the file, if he did an end run around me to get to Evans. “I had to stop by his office after our interview. I kept the file in my sights, so I don’t know how he could have gotten it.”
“Oh, I have a good idea,” Evans said as he dropped sugar cubes into his coffee. “Gabriel Walsh’s mother made her living with her light fingers, and I don’t mean she was a pianist.”
“A pickpocket.”
He nodded. “There’s much that’s said about Mr. Walsh, most of it unsubstantiated. That is not. His mother had a record of arrests. None of it stuck. She was very good at her vocation. Her son apparently learned the trade. His juvenile records were sealed, but I have it on good authority that he was charged with pickpocketing himself. Just the once. Which likely only means that he was even more skilled than his mother.”
I remembered the scone the first time we met. Apparently, he still had the touch.
“Well, I am sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what he saw, but I’m going to presume he knows what is in the file. He won’t be able to do anything with it, though. He doesn’t have an excuse to investigate now.”
“You’ve fired him?”
I nodded. “Your warnings already had me concerned. Taking those pages was the last straw.” I sipped my coffee and looked thoughtful, maybe even a little despondent. “I know it was the right move, but I’m not sure how I’ll proceed without him. I don’t think anyone connected to the crimes is going to speak to the Larsens’ daughter.”
He smiled. “I think I can persuade the other families that helping you is the right thing to do.”
“Oh? I’d really appreciate that.”
“And I’m sure you have questions about that file,” Evans said. “Why don’t we start by discussing that.”
• • •
There wasn’t much more Evans could tell me. He explained a few things about brother–sister incest. More than I cared to know on the subject.
Evans warned me not to get hung up on the incest angle. I needed to see it as any obsessive relationship. Killing the object of your desire might seem crazy, but it was, sadly, not that unusual with truly obsessed stalkers.
As the meeting seemed to be winding down, I said, “You said I could ask you questions. About the Larsens. About serial killers. Do you have time for that now?”
“Of course.” He leaned back. “From the phrasing of that question, I presume that you haven’t ruled out the possibility your parents did commit murder.”
“I can’t. If Christian—or someone else—killed Jan and Peter, that still means the Larsens could have killed the others. I have to prepare myself in case I really am the daughter of sociopaths. Or psychopaths. Or whatever you’d call them.”
“First, Olivia, I wouldn’t get too tangled in terminology. Even within the field, we can’t agree on it. When we zero in on so-called sociopaths or psychopaths, we’re generally referring to people who seem unable to tell right from wrong.”
“Can’t tell right from wrong? Or don’t care? Because from what I know, people like that are very good at fitting in, playing a role, which suggests they know the difference, and they can pretend to abide by the rules when it suits them.”
“That would be the mark of a high-functioning individual with antisocial personality disorder. They know the difference, but they see no reason to follow the rules if it doesn’t suit their needs. Sound familiar?”
Did he mean me? I tried not to react.
“Your former lawyer?” he prompted when I didn’t answer.
“Gabriel?”
Did I think Gabriel was a sociopath? No. As furious as I was with him, I didn’t think that.
“I don’t know him that well,” I said. “But I understand what you’re saying.”
“Good, then you’ll see why he concerns me. Now back to the topic. If your parents did kill these couples, it is highly likely they have some form of antisocial personality disorder. What does that mean for you? First, bear it in mind when you speak to your mother. She may appear to be a loving and kind parent . . . for a reason.”
I should have said, “Get her out of the picture and then ask.” Force him to take a chance. But at the time, the question spoke to me of honesty, not a lack of spontaneity. So I said yes, and Eva Talbot got the breakup talk.
Now I was reading a piece about a charity dinner last night where James and Eva had been spotted together. Complete with a photo of them at the table, James leaning over to whisper something, Eva gazing at him adoringly. Sources confirmed the two were seeing each other again, Eva consoling him. There was even a quote from her, after the dinner, about poor James and all he’d been through.
Bitch.
That was the most vitriol I could work up for Eva, though. Only a little more for James. I stared at that picture and I thought of us, at our last dinner together, how happy we’d been.
I’d given that up. Willfully given it up. And he’d already moved on.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
W ith Gabriel gone, my reluctance to impose on Ida and Walter Clark faded fast. As long as I refilled the gas tank and paid with returned favors, I could justify borrowing their car for my Thursday morning meeting with Dr. Evans.
When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Evans was on the front porch, waiting to be picked up by a friend for brunch.
We chatted before she left. She knew who I was, obviously, but she gave no indication that my parents’ purported actions reflected on me. The tragedy of her son was past.
She told me to go on inside. Her husband was in his office, and he had a tendency to ignore the doorbell, presuming someone else would answer it.
When I walked in, Evans was deep in a client file, scribbling notes. I waited until he was finished writing before clearing my throat.
“Olivia,” he said, smiling as he stood. He checked the clock. “It is that time, isn’t it? My apologies.”
He waved me to the client seat and poured coffee. He didn’t ask what I took, but made it with cream, the way I’d had it the last time.
“I think Gabriel Walsh may have taken a couple of pages from the file,” I began—to explain how Gabriel would know about the file, if he did an end run around me to get to Evans. “I had to stop by his office after our interview. I kept the file in my sights, so I don’t know how he could have gotten it.”
“Oh, I have a good idea,” Evans said as he dropped sugar cubes into his coffee. “Gabriel Walsh’s mother made her living with her light fingers, and I don’t mean she was a pianist.”
“A pickpocket.”
He nodded. “There’s much that’s said about Mr. Walsh, most of it unsubstantiated. That is not. His mother had a record of arrests. None of it stuck. She was very good at her vocation. Her son apparently learned the trade. His juvenile records were sealed, but I have it on good authority that he was charged with pickpocketing himself. Just the once. Which likely only means that he was even more skilled than his mother.”
I remembered the scone the first time we met. Apparently, he still had the touch.
“Well, I am sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what he saw, but I’m going to presume he knows what is in the file. He won’t be able to do anything with it, though. He doesn’t have an excuse to investigate now.”
“You’ve fired him?”
I nodded. “Your warnings already had me concerned. Taking those pages was the last straw.” I sipped my coffee and looked thoughtful, maybe even a little despondent. “I know it was the right move, but I’m not sure how I’ll proceed without him. I don’t think anyone connected to the crimes is going to speak to the Larsens’ daughter.”
He smiled. “I think I can persuade the other families that helping you is the right thing to do.”
“Oh? I’d really appreciate that.”
“And I’m sure you have questions about that file,” Evans said. “Why don’t we start by discussing that.”
• • •
There wasn’t much more Evans could tell me. He explained a few things about brother–sister incest. More than I cared to know on the subject.
Evans warned me not to get hung up on the incest angle. I needed to see it as any obsessive relationship. Killing the object of your desire might seem crazy, but it was, sadly, not that unusual with truly obsessed stalkers.
As the meeting seemed to be winding down, I said, “You said I could ask you questions. About the Larsens. About serial killers. Do you have time for that now?”
“Of course.” He leaned back. “From the phrasing of that question, I presume that you haven’t ruled out the possibility your parents did commit murder.”
“I can’t. If Christian—or someone else—killed Jan and Peter, that still means the Larsens could have killed the others. I have to prepare myself in case I really am the daughter of sociopaths. Or psychopaths. Or whatever you’d call them.”
“First, Olivia, I wouldn’t get too tangled in terminology. Even within the field, we can’t agree on it. When we zero in on so-called sociopaths or psychopaths, we’re generally referring to people who seem unable to tell right from wrong.”
“Can’t tell right from wrong? Or don’t care? Because from what I know, people like that are very good at fitting in, playing a role, which suggests they know the difference, and they can pretend to abide by the rules when it suits them.”
“That would be the mark of a high-functioning individual with antisocial personality disorder. They know the difference, but they see no reason to follow the rules if it doesn’t suit their needs. Sound familiar?”
Did he mean me? I tried not to react.
“Your former lawyer?” he prompted when I didn’t answer.
“Gabriel?”
Did I think Gabriel was a sociopath? No. As furious as I was with him, I didn’t think that.
“I don’t know him that well,” I said. “But I understand what you’re saying.”
“Good, then you’ll see why he concerns me. Now back to the topic. If your parents did kill these couples, it is highly likely they have some form of antisocial personality disorder. What does that mean for you? First, bear it in mind when you speak to your mother. She may appear to be a loving and kind parent . . . for a reason.”
