All that she could have guessed without her books—or even the second sight. The real question was what the engraved symbols meant. She’d managed to identify a few as Celtic, and they supported the protection theory. There were also a sun and a moon, the symbols linked, with writing below. No matter how hard she dug, though, she found nothing that would help her decipher the writing.
When she held the tusk, she felt unsettled. The urge to put it away, hide it away, was almost overwhelming. The thing didn’t feel evil. It just felt . . . as if it didn’t belong here, in her house, in her hand. In Cainsville.
That’s what she felt most of all. That it didn’t belong in Cainsville. This was no ordinary town. She’d always known that. As for exactly what its peculiarities hid, she’d been raised not to question, and she didn’t. Her soul rested quietest that way. Eden’s soul would, too. As would Gabriel’s. So she told them about the tusk and the folklore and the symbols she’d deciphered, and as for the rest—her feelings about it and Cainsville and their connection—she said nothing at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The police station wasn’t the same one we’d been to yesterday. This one was in an area of the city I didn’t recognize. An area I’d never have had any reason to visit. While some of the historically “bad” areas of Chicago had been redeveloped, this one had been left alone. Left well alone.
Was this where Gabriel grew up? I supposed so. It was where Seanna’s body had been found, in one of these buildings, probably still empty fifteen years later.
The detective who retrieved us at the front desk was young, new to his shield, given this task because of it. He didn’t even seem to notice me. He was too busy sizing up Gabriel.
“You have quite the reputation, Mr. Walsh,” he said as we walked through the station. He managed a smile that I’m sure he intended to be confident, but it wavered at the edges. “I expected you to be older.”
Gabriel grunted, taking in his surroundings.
“I don’t know what all this is about,” the detective said. “But it better not be some kind of trick. They told me to watch for tricks.”
Gabriel turned his gaze on the young man then, cold blue eyes swinging his way and pinning him, squirming, under that empty stare.
The detective began, “I’m just saying—”
“Nothing new. Nothing interesting. I make you nervous. You’re talking to hide it, which only reveals it all the more. A word of advice, detective? If you’re given the chance to take the witness stand, avoid it. You’re not ready.”
“There’s no trick,” I cut in before the detective could reply. “As Mr. Walsh explained, I was shown photographs by William Evans before he died. They were reportedly from a cold case your department has on file. We’d like to confirm that by seeing the originals.”
“You could have asked us to compare them with the ones found at the scene.”
“Yes, but given it’s my parents’ freedom at stake, I’d like to check all avenues myself.”
“Parents . . .” He stared at me. Recognition clicked. “Miss . . .”
“Taylor-Jones,” Gabriel said. “I mentioned she was accompanying me, did I not?”
“Um, right. I just didn’t make the connection.”
“Now you have. The photographs, please?”
The young man led us into the bullpen, and I realized he intended for us to identify the photos there—in front of the other detectives. Now, as he saw the detectives at their desks, Gabriel faltered. Just a split-second hesitation before he found his resolve again, his expression never losing that impassivity.
“Can we do this in private?” I asked.
“No,” Gabriel began. “This is—”
“May I do it in private?” I met the young detective’s gaze with an anxious look. “Please?”
“R-right. Of course. Let me grab the folder.”
As he hurried off, Gabriel dipped his chin, saying nothing but acknowledging what I’d done, telling me it was appreciated.
The detective retrieved the folder and led us into another hall. As we walked, he babbled about how he’d be in contact with the detectives in the Evans case, make sure they got my statement regarding the identification and the file if it was a match.
When we reached an open interrogation room, the detective led us inside. He set the folder on the table and motioned for us to sit. I did. Gabriel didn’t. He stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder, as if I was the one needing reassurance, and I shifted back, resting against his hand.
The detective kept up a steady stream of chatter as he prepared to open the folder. Telling me how the photos might be disturbing, but if I’d seen them already then he guessed I didn’t really need to be warned, blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up. Just shut up. I might have, too, if I hadn’t suspected the prattle actually let Gabriel relax as the detective focused on me.
I couldn’t see Gabriel’s face as the folder opened. I suspect he was happier that way, no one to witness his reaction. I could feel him there, though, his thumb rubbing my back the only sign of his agitation.
“Are these the photos you saw at the scene?” the detective asked.
“They are,” I said.
“And I believe I can identify the victim,” Gabriel said.
I glanced back. Gabriel’s face was blank, his eyes equally blank, fixed on the photographs.
“Her name was Seanna Walsh,” he said. “She was my mother.”
—
Things went awkwardly after that. Detective What’s-his-name—yes, I should really pay more attention—decided Gabriel was launching some scheme. By claiming a long-dead addict was his mother? That wasn’t just ridiculous—it was unbelievably offensive. I gave the detective hell. By the end of it, I think he had decided I wasn’t nearly as nice as I’d seemed. In fact, given the choice, he’d probably rather have dealt with Gabriel, who took the accusation in stride, calming me down when I lit into the detective.
Gabriel handed over the photographs he’d brought. One was of both him and Seanna. He provided his mother’s vital statistics and the name of the detective who’d handled her missing persons report. He did this all with perfect calm, perfect civility, perfect professionalism. By the end, the detective apologized. Gabriel graciously accepted it. I was still pissed.
When she held the tusk, she felt unsettled. The urge to put it away, hide it away, was almost overwhelming. The thing didn’t feel evil. It just felt . . . as if it didn’t belong here, in her house, in her hand. In Cainsville.
That’s what she felt most of all. That it didn’t belong in Cainsville. This was no ordinary town. She’d always known that. As for exactly what its peculiarities hid, she’d been raised not to question, and she didn’t. Her soul rested quietest that way. Eden’s soul would, too. As would Gabriel’s. So she told them about the tusk and the folklore and the symbols she’d deciphered, and as for the rest—her feelings about it and Cainsville and their connection—she said nothing at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The police station wasn’t the same one we’d been to yesterday. This one was in an area of the city I didn’t recognize. An area I’d never have had any reason to visit. While some of the historically “bad” areas of Chicago had been redeveloped, this one had been left alone. Left well alone.
Was this where Gabriel grew up? I supposed so. It was where Seanna’s body had been found, in one of these buildings, probably still empty fifteen years later.
The detective who retrieved us at the front desk was young, new to his shield, given this task because of it. He didn’t even seem to notice me. He was too busy sizing up Gabriel.
“You have quite the reputation, Mr. Walsh,” he said as we walked through the station. He managed a smile that I’m sure he intended to be confident, but it wavered at the edges. “I expected you to be older.”
Gabriel grunted, taking in his surroundings.
“I don’t know what all this is about,” the detective said. “But it better not be some kind of trick. They told me to watch for tricks.”
Gabriel turned his gaze on the young man then, cold blue eyes swinging his way and pinning him, squirming, under that empty stare.
The detective began, “I’m just saying—”
“Nothing new. Nothing interesting. I make you nervous. You’re talking to hide it, which only reveals it all the more. A word of advice, detective? If you’re given the chance to take the witness stand, avoid it. You’re not ready.”
“There’s no trick,” I cut in before the detective could reply. “As Mr. Walsh explained, I was shown photographs by William Evans before he died. They were reportedly from a cold case your department has on file. We’d like to confirm that by seeing the originals.”
“You could have asked us to compare them with the ones found at the scene.”
“Yes, but given it’s my parents’ freedom at stake, I’d like to check all avenues myself.”
“Parents . . .” He stared at me. Recognition clicked. “Miss . . .”
“Taylor-Jones,” Gabriel said. “I mentioned she was accompanying me, did I not?”
“Um, right. I just didn’t make the connection.”
“Now you have. The photographs, please?”
The young man led us into the bullpen, and I realized he intended for us to identify the photos there—in front of the other detectives. Now, as he saw the detectives at their desks, Gabriel faltered. Just a split-second hesitation before he found his resolve again, his expression never losing that impassivity.
“Can we do this in private?” I asked.
“No,” Gabriel began. “This is—”
“May I do it in private?” I met the young detective’s gaze with an anxious look. “Please?”
“R-right. Of course. Let me grab the folder.”
As he hurried off, Gabriel dipped his chin, saying nothing but acknowledging what I’d done, telling me it was appreciated.
The detective retrieved the folder and led us into another hall. As we walked, he babbled about how he’d be in contact with the detectives in the Evans case, make sure they got my statement regarding the identification and the file if it was a match.
When we reached an open interrogation room, the detective led us inside. He set the folder on the table and motioned for us to sit. I did. Gabriel didn’t. He stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder, as if I was the one needing reassurance, and I shifted back, resting against his hand.
The detective kept up a steady stream of chatter as he prepared to open the folder. Telling me how the photos might be disturbing, but if I’d seen them already then he guessed I didn’t really need to be warned, blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up. Just shut up. I might have, too, if I hadn’t suspected the prattle actually let Gabriel relax as the detective focused on me.
I couldn’t see Gabriel’s face as the folder opened. I suspect he was happier that way, no one to witness his reaction. I could feel him there, though, his thumb rubbing my back the only sign of his agitation.
“Are these the photos you saw at the scene?” the detective asked.
“They are,” I said.
“And I believe I can identify the victim,” Gabriel said.
I glanced back. Gabriel’s face was blank, his eyes equally blank, fixed on the photographs.
“Her name was Seanna Walsh,” he said. “She was my mother.”
—
Things went awkwardly after that. Detective What’s-his-name—yes, I should really pay more attention—decided Gabriel was launching some scheme. By claiming a long-dead addict was his mother? That wasn’t just ridiculous—it was unbelievably offensive. I gave the detective hell. By the end of it, I think he had decided I wasn’t nearly as nice as I’d seemed. In fact, given the choice, he’d probably rather have dealt with Gabriel, who took the accusation in stride, calming me down when I lit into the detective.
Gabriel handed over the photographs he’d brought. One was of both him and Seanna. He provided his mother’s vital statistics and the name of the detective who’d handled her missing persons report. He did this all with perfect calm, perfect civility, perfect professionalism. By the end, the detective apologized. Gabriel graciously accepted it. I was still pissed.
