We were halfway down the hall when the detective came jogging after us.
“Mr. Walsh,” he said.
Gabriel turned.
“The remains—” He stopped himself and flushed. “Your mother, I mean. Her body is buried at Homewood. That’s—”
“I know what it is.”
“Arrangements can be made to move her. To bury her properly, in a marked grave.”
Gabriel’s perfect calm cracked then, not enough for the detective to notice, just a hairline fracture. I could see the panic in his eyes, as he struggled to give the gracious response, to say yes, that would be fine, thank you very much. But he couldn’t. He could not act like he gave a damn where his mother’s body lay, like he’d pay a cent to move her. He just froze.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
Gabriel nodded stiffly, put his hand to my back, and led me out.
—
As we walked to the car, I kept sneaking glances at Gabriel. I thought I was being discreet about it. He had his shades on, gaze forward, as if lost in thought. As we turned into the lot, though, he said, “You can stop fretting, Olivia. I’m not going to collapse.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“Fretting.”
“Concerned.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare for it.” A few more steps. “This afternoon we could work on the Conway investigation, now that her death is official.” He paused, then added, “If you’re free,” as if just remembering he should check.
“I am. Nothing planned until my diner shift tomorrow.”
He checked his watch. “I should get you lunch first.”
“Can I buy this time?”
“You can.”
“I should probably drive, too.”
He bent to open the car door and looked over the top of his shades. “Did I say I was fine?”
“Just to be sure. I’m only thinking of you.”
He shook his head and waved me over to the driver’s side.
—
We passed the Mills & Jones department store. As we idled at a light, I looked over at the store, taking up half a city block of real estate, a Chicago landmark. I used to be there a few times a week, meeting my dad or hanging out with him. Since his death, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked through those massive front doors. I just can’t do it anymore.
I felt guilty about that sometimes. Guilty, too, about not taking a hand in the business. I had a seat on the board. Or I did. By now, for all I knew, they’d voted to kick my ass off. Would I care? I don’t know.
“Olivia?” Gabriel’s quiet voice.
“Hmm?”
He waved at the light, green now. I pulled through.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Under normal circumstances, Gabriel orders an average-sized meal and eats it all, never picking anything out, never leaving anything. But there’s no hint of voraciousness. He approaches food the way he seems to approach everything in life: with dispassionate intent.
Usually, he just glances at the menu, and I can never tell if that’s decisiveness or a complete lack of interest in the options. Today, he considered. And he ate as if he actually tasted the food.
What was it like to find out that your mother hadn’t abandoned you after all? That she’d been dead for half your life? As Rose said, this didn’t change anything about the kind of parent Seanna Walsh had been. Gabriel had probably spent his childhood waiting for the day when she would leave for good. When it came, he carried on. At fifteen. Not only surviving, but putting himself through law school. That’s an act of will I cannot even begin to fathom.
After walking out of the worst neighborhoods of Chicago and into a life with six-figure sports cars and four-figure suits, did he ever worry that Seanna would find out what he’d made of himself and show up on his doorstep with her hand out?
I’m sure he had. I’m sure, too, that he’d feared what would happen if he refused. That she’d go to the papers, tell them about his past, what he came from. The rumors were already there, and he did nothing to stop them. A defense attorney from the wrong side of town, with a juvenile record, and questionable sources of income? It only meant that he understood some of his clients in a way no Ivy League suit ever could. What Gabriel would fear was a different sort of public reaction to his past. Not condemnation or scorn. Pity.
Now she was gone. Forever. Was he relieved? Yes, I think he was.
As we walked to the parking lot after lunch, Gabriel glanced behind us twice.
“Is someone there?” I asked.
“Perhaps . . .” A slow scan of the busy road. “A reporter most likely.” He handed me the car keys. “If we’re approached, keep going. I’ll deal with it.”
When we reached the lot, Gabriel turned sharply, and I saw James striding our way.
“I’d like to speak to Olivia,” James said as he approached.
“I’m sure you would,” Gabriel said, sliding between us. “However, that is normally accomplished by a phone call, not waylaying her in a parking lot.”
“I was dining downtown and spotted her—”
Gabriel motioned to James’s hand. “You’re still holding your keys, and you’re short of breath.”
James dropped his keys into his pocket and stepped sideways to address me. “An associate saw you in the restaurant and called me. He was concerned about your choice of dining companion.”
“And you came running to her rescue?” Gabriel said. “How noble.”
“No, I came to speak to her, because I seem to be having some difficulty accomplishing that.” Another sidestep, Gabriel having eased over to block him again. “If you won’t return my calls, I have no way of communicating with you, Liv. I don’t know where you work. I don’t know your new address.”
“Perhaps, given your penchant for waylaying her, you can understand why she wouldn’t be eager to share that information.”
James glowered at Gabriel. He had to look up to do it, and I could tell he didn’t like that.
“This is a private conversation,” James said. “Could you leave, please, Mr. Walsh?”
“Absolutely not.”
James pulled out his wallet. “How much?” he asked.
“How much what?”
“Mr. Walsh,” he said.
Gabriel turned.
“The remains—” He stopped himself and flushed. “Your mother, I mean. Her body is buried at Homewood. That’s—”
“I know what it is.”
“Arrangements can be made to move her. To bury her properly, in a marked grave.”
Gabriel’s perfect calm cracked then, not enough for the detective to notice, just a hairline fracture. I could see the panic in his eyes, as he struggled to give the gracious response, to say yes, that would be fine, thank you very much. But he couldn’t. He could not act like he gave a damn where his mother’s body lay, like he’d pay a cent to move her. He just froze.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
Gabriel nodded stiffly, put his hand to my back, and led me out.
—
As we walked to the car, I kept sneaking glances at Gabriel. I thought I was being discreet about it. He had his shades on, gaze forward, as if lost in thought. As we turned into the lot, though, he said, “You can stop fretting, Olivia. I’m not going to collapse.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“Fretting.”
“Concerned.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare for it.” A few more steps. “This afternoon we could work on the Conway investigation, now that her death is official.” He paused, then added, “If you’re free,” as if just remembering he should check.
“I am. Nothing planned until my diner shift tomorrow.”
He checked his watch. “I should get you lunch first.”
“Can I buy this time?”
“You can.”
“I should probably drive, too.”
He bent to open the car door and looked over the top of his shades. “Did I say I was fine?”
“Just to be sure. I’m only thinking of you.”
He shook his head and waved me over to the driver’s side.
—
We passed the Mills & Jones department store. As we idled at a light, I looked over at the store, taking up half a city block of real estate, a Chicago landmark. I used to be there a few times a week, meeting my dad or hanging out with him. Since his death, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked through those massive front doors. I just can’t do it anymore.
I felt guilty about that sometimes. Guilty, too, about not taking a hand in the business. I had a seat on the board. Or I did. By now, for all I knew, they’d voted to kick my ass off. Would I care? I don’t know.
“Olivia?” Gabriel’s quiet voice.
“Hmm?”
He waved at the light, green now. I pulled through.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Under normal circumstances, Gabriel orders an average-sized meal and eats it all, never picking anything out, never leaving anything. But there’s no hint of voraciousness. He approaches food the way he seems to approach everything in life: with dispassionate intent.
Usually, he just glances at the menu, and I can never tell if that’s decisiveness or a complete lack of interest in the options. Today, he considered. And he ate as if he actually tasted the food.
What was it like to find out that your mother hadn’t abandoned you after all? That she’d been dead for half your life? As Rose said, this didn’t change anything about the kind of parent Seanna Walsh had been. Gabriel had probably spent his childhood waiting for the day when she would leave for good. When it came, he carried on. At fifteen. Not only surviving, but putting himself through law school. That’s an act of will I cannot even begin to fathom.
After walking out of the worst neighborhoods of Chicago and into a life with six-figure sports cars and four-figure suits, did he ever worry that Seanna would find out what he’d made of himself and show up on his doorstep with her hand out?
I’m sure he had. I’m sure, too, that he’d feared what would happen if he refused. That she’d go to the papers, tell them about his past, what he came from. The rumors were already there, and he did nothing to stop them. A defense attorney from the wrong side of town, with a juvenile record, and questionable sources of income? It only meant that he understood some of his clients in a way no Ivy League suit ever could. What Gabriel would fear was a different sort of public reaction to his past. Not condemnation or scorn. Pity.
Now she was gone. Forever. Was he relieved? Yes, I think he was.
As we walked to the parking lot after lunch, Gabriel glanced behind us twice.
“Is someone there?” I asked.
“Perhaps . . .” A slow scan of the busy road. “A reporter most likely.” He handed me the car keys. “If we’re approached, keep going. I’ll deal with it.”
When we reached the lot, Gabriel turned sharply, and I saw James striding our way.
“I’d like to speak to Olivia,” James said as he approached.
“I’m sure you would,” Gabriel said, sliding between us. “However, that is normally accomplished by a phone call, not waylaying her in a parking lot.”
“I was dining downtown and spotted her—”
Gabriel motioned to James’s hand. “You’re still holding your keys, and you’re short of breath.”
James dropped his keys into his pocket and stepped sideways to address me. “An associate saw you in the restaurant and called me. He was concerned about your choice of dining companion.”
“And you came running to her rescue?” Gabriel said. “How noble.”
“No, I came to speak to her, because I seem to be having some difficulty accomplishing that.” Another sidestep, Gabriel having eased over to block him again. “If you won’t return my calls, I have no way of communicating with you, Liv. I don’t know where you work. I don’t know your new address.”
“Perhaps, given your penchant for waylaying her, you can understand why she wouldn’t be eager to share that information.”
James glowered at Gabriel. He had to look up to do it, and I could tell he didn’t like that.
“This is a private conversation,” James said. “Could you leave, please, Mr. Walsh?”
“Absolutely not.”
James pulled out his wallet. “How much?” he asked.
“How much what?”
