I lined up the target and fired three rounds. Gabriel leaned across the barrier, as if to reassure himself that he wasn't imagining the trio of holes.
"It would have been much more impressive if I'd shot out my initials." I motioned him back, aimed again, and fired three more. "Hmm. You're right. Best not to aim for the head. Only two out of three that time."
"You've used a gun before."
"No, I'm just naturally good at killing things. You should see me with a knife." I reloaded. "My dad kept a gun at home for security. When I was a teenager he decided I should have access to it, and Mum insisted on lessons. Dad and I made an annual trip to the range. Father-daughter quality time."
"And you didn't see fit to tell me this?"
I shrugged. "You would have thought I fired a gun once and was exaggerating to avoid paying for lessons." I pulled the target forward. "Also, having never used this particular caliber or model, I really should practice. So if it's okay with you, that's what I'll do for the rest of my hour." I unhooked the target, then handed it to him. "But since I'm still paying, you can change the targets."
He wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.
"Don't grumble," I said. "Or I'll bake you
more cookies."
On Saturday, Gabriel took me to see Pamela. It was a brief visit, barely ten minutes before they kicked me out. She was doing fine. I'd known that--Gabriel had been keeping me updated on her condition. She wasn't ready to go back to jail yet, though. She'd been spiking a fever. Nothing serious, but enough to keep her in the hospital.
With such a short visit, there wasn't time for much more than greetings and good-byes. She did ask how I was coming along on turning over her case. Gabriel covered for me there, lying and saying he was setting up the appointments. No way she could call us on it. That's one advantage to dealing with someone in jail.
After the visit, Gabriel and I went for lunch. We talked. Nothing earth-shattering there, either. Just talk really. About the case and not about the case. I enjoyed his company. There was, I admitted, the possibility I enjoyed it a little too much. I could say I was just lonely, but there were times over that weekend when I was keenly aware that Gabriel Walsh was not an unattractive man.
At Anna Gunderson's place, I'd acknowledged a physical appeal of a very masculine man, but said I didn't see it myself. I lied. Or maybe I'd changed my opinion. It could be because Gabriel was so different from James, and I wanted to distance myself from my ex-fiance. Oh, hell, let's be perfectly honest. It was probably just hormonal. I like sex. A lot. Two weeks of chastity wasn't exactly torture, but after all I'd gone through emotionally, I really could have used the distraction. Put a good-looking, virile man in prolonged close contact with me and even if I'd never thought of him as my type, a primitive part of me still occasionally shouted, "Hell, yeah!"
With Gabriel, the attraction only blazed in blessedly brief flares, usually when he came close enough for me to be physically aware of him. Then that would pass, and he'd revert to being simply a guy I found fascinating. Yes, I found him fascinating--his world, his thoughts, his opinions, his entire way of looking at life.
However I felt, though, I knew better than to take that fascination or that attraction beyond a business relationship, even if he had been interested, which he gave absolutely no sign of being. And I was glad of that. As much as I enjoyed sex, I've never been able to manage it without emotional involvement. Gabriel didn't do emotional involvement.
I'm sure there were many women who'd made the mistake of thinking they'd be the one to break through that ice and make a connection. I wasn't ever going to join them in their delusion.
Damned Cookies
Gabriel Walsh leaned back in his office chair, fingers drumming the arm while he scowled at his laptop, as if its failure to automatically write briefs was inexcusable. It was Monday, and his murder trial had just wound up. The jury had retired to decide on a verdict and it looked like a long wait. His client didn't need hand-holding, so Gabriel had come back to the office to get some work done. Or that was the plan. He had yet to actually accomplish anything.
It wasn't that he was anxiously awaiting a verdict. He knew what it would be. Guilty. And that didn't bother him, because his success could be measured by the very fact that the jury needed time to deliberate at all. When the case hit the papers, it was presumed his client would plead guilty. Anything else would be a waste of taxpayers' money since the outcome was inevitable.
It was the idiot's own fault. Dissolving a corpse in quicklime? Any fool with a basic knowledge of chemistry knew quicklime was a preservative, and it could only be used to destroy a body if done with extreme care. His client had not taken extreme care. The result was a corpse that was only superficially burned. His client was guilty and would go to jail, but Gabriel had given him a hell of a defense, one that would bolster his own reputation better than any easy victory.
So what was keeping him from his work? That box of cookies.
Damn Rose. She swore she wouldn't meddle, but she always found a way. If he confronted her, she'd snap back, "I told the girl you like cookies. Is that a state secret?" It wasn't, of course. It had been a very thoughtful thing for Olivia to do. But under the circumstances, such a show of appreciation was a direct jab at his conscience.
He had nothing to feel guilty about. If he knew one thing about life, it was this: look out for yourself. No one else would do it for you. If you were cheated or tricked, it was your own fault, and a lesson best learned before the world devoured you. So he had done nothing wrong. And yet...
He eyed the box. He should just throw the damned thing into the trash. But he couldn't, because it would suggest he felt that prickle of conscience. So he should eat them. But if he did, and he couldn't get them down, that, too, would suggest guilt.
Or it might suggest inedible cookies. Olivia had said it was the first time she'd baked. She'd seemed so pleased with herself, too. Perhaps that was what really bothered him. The smug joy she'd taken in doing a task that was for many a chore.
His efforts to mask his annoyance with Olivia's "life choices" had been less successful than he'd like. That irked him. His clients routinely made decisions he found repugnant. Olivia's choice was, in contrast, a minor thing, but he found himself unable to hide his response.
He suspected that Olivia's particular life choice hit a little too close to home. Olivia "giving up" her life of privilege reminded him of his mother and Lent. They'd never set foot in a church--he didn't even know if they were Catholic--but every Lent, she gave up something, just for fun. While one could argue there were many things Seanna Walsh could give up that would improve her life--and her son's--it was never any of those, but something frivolous, like chocolate. A meaningless sacrifice. She'd made him do it, too. He'd cheated, sneaking candy bars into his room, but those stolen snacks had been as bitter as a guilty conscience, made all the more stomach-churning by the conviction that he had nothing to feel guilty for.
Olivia giving up her life of privilege was just as meaningless. She should accept her advantages and be grateful for them. But no, she'd voluntarily walked away, taken a smelly apartment and a menial job, and it was, for her, a grand adventure. Like a suburbanite roughing it in a cabin without electricity or running water. If it got too rough? Pack it in and go home.
Real poverty was not a choice. If you knew what that was like, then you would look at Olivia Taylor-Jones and you wouldn't be impressed. She had everything she wanted. Turning her back on that was the foolish act of an immature, spoiled child.
Except that Olivia was not particularly immature or spoiled. Which, he could argue, only made her decision all the more repugnant.