Patrick said that if I was forced to choose between Ricky and Gabriel, he had no doubt whom it would be. I remembered the smug smile on his lips, the conviction in his eyes.
I cared about Gabriel. Deeply. But we weren't Gwynn and Matilda, no more than Ricky and I were Arawn and Matilda.
I sent back a message. Talk tomorrow. And the light across the road went out.
--
I woke to a message that Gabriel had headed home the night before, so I needed to drive myself to the office. I arrived expecting to talk to him about my vision, only to discover he'd retreated with his door closed. He'd left work for me in the meeting room. Lydia buzzed to tell him I was there. He didn't come out.
Gabriel had left me Pamela's file. The note on top gave me instructions. Or I think they were instructions. It was exactly two words: Inconsistencies. Motive. Motive was underlined twice.
If there were inconsistencies in the Larsens' case, he'd have found them by now. As for motive--seriously? No one had figured out my parents' motive during their trial. How the hell was I supposed to?
More information would help. Hell, actual sentences would help. But I dug in.
--
When a client arrived, I gathered my work and went into the reception area. The client--a guy wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit--glared as if I'd cut him off in traffic. Gabriel ushered him into the meeting room without a glance my way.
It was not a long session. It consisted of a lot of angry words from the client, followed by the only two that counted: You're fired.
The man stormed out. Then his shoes squeaked as he pulled up in front of me.
"Let me give you a word of advice, girlie," he said. "Unless you want your boyfriend defending traffic violations, you'd better back the hell off and let him do his job."
Gabriel beat me to a reply, saying, "Ms. Jones is my employee and my client."
"Really?" The man snorted. "If you aren't at least getting some pussy out of the deal, then you really are an idiot. You want some advice, boy? A couple hundred bucks will buy you better and won't cost you clients."
The man stomped out. Gabriel glanced at Lydia. "Please move Mr. Harris's file to the drawer for former clients and prepare his final bill. How many is that so far?"
"Three, but you've--"
"That's all I asked." He turned his gaze my way, just for a second, empty eyes meeting mine; then he returned to his office.
I slid my chair up to Lydia's desk. "He's lost three clients because of me?"
"Three minor clients, with minor cases. Since Edgar Chandler's confession, I'm fielding a half-dozen calls from potential clients a day. He's not mentioning that part because he's fuming about something. I take it you two had a falling-out?"
"Actually, no. There's a reason he might be annoyed with me, but this is beyond annoyance."
"Then it's stress. It'll pass."
Maybe, but if he was that upset with me, working it out might decrease his stress.
I rapped on his door. When he didn't answer, I turned the handle.
"Yes?" he said, voice crackling with such irritation you'd think I'd pranced in ahead of a marching band.
"Can we talk?"
He waved a hand across his desk, covered in files.
I closed the door behind me. "I wanted to apologize."
"I'm busy, Olivia." An emphatic gesture at his desk.
"If you're upset about last night . . ."