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As we approached the doors, I said, “You asked what I know about her. Is there something you want to tell me?”

He said nothing. I thought he was considering, but we went through two doors and he didn’t say another word.

“If there’s something I should know about her, I’d like to hear it.”

He made a noise in his throat, as if he preferred to keep silent on the subject but couldn’t quite bring himself to say there was nothing I should know. I glanced over, in the vain hope of seeing an actual expression. Instead, I forgot what I’d been asking.

He must have taken off his sunglasses when we’d come in. To say he had blue eyes sounds so innocuous that I’m reluctant even to name the color. They were ice. Not cool in that sexy way that sends delicious shivers down your spine. I mean cold. Completely and utterly cold.

The irises were such an unnaturally pale blue that for a second I thought they weren’t real. Couldn’t be real. They must be colored contacts meant to throw a prosecutor or reluctant witness off balance. But this wasn’t the kind of color you could get from contacts.

The edges of the irises were dark. Blue, I suppose, but I didn’t look close enough to be sure. The impression I got was of black rings around pale irises. Black lashes, too, so thick and long that they should have been gorgeous frames to a pair of remarkable eyes. They weren’t. The contrast between the dark pupils, the dark lashes, and those odd dark rings set against the pale irises and whites was too unsettling.

Dear God, was I crazy? This might be the most terrifying thing I’d ever done in my life, and the only person I had for support was this man? This complete stranger I couldn’t even look in the eyes?

“Yes?” he said.

“Nothing.”

I let him take the lead.

Chapter Twenty-two

Getting inside took a while. Finally they escorted us to a room with a table and three chairs.

I paused inside the doorway. “So she’ll just … come in here?”

“Is that a problem?” Gabriel asked as he headed for a chair.

“No, I just thought there’d be a barrier.”

He turned those cold eyes on me. I must have flinched. I saw it on his face, and I was sure what would come next. A look of amusement for a reaction he must get all the time. But his brows drew together in a frown, as if he didn’t understand why I’d pulled back. Then he turned away and sat before he said, “Would you like a barrier?”

“No. I just…”

“Expected more security for a woman convicted of horrifically murdering eight people? If it was your father, yes, you’d never get so close to him. But in situations like this, the woman is seen as the lesser threat.”

“Bullied and pushed by the real killer. She’s the weak partner.”

“Weak…” He rolled the word out, tasting it.

“I don’t mean—”

“No, I understand. You’re correct. The woman is always seen as the follower.”

“And is—?” I began.

When I didn’t finish, he looked over. “Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

He waved me to a chair. “They do still take precautions. She’ll be cuffed and allowed no physical contact.”

“Good.”

I took my seat. Then we waited. He kept looking over at me, and it wasn’t in any way a woman likes to be looked at by a man. His gaze was impersonal, yet all too personal, too probing, too intense. I told myself he was just concerned that I’d break down and, God forbid, he might have to deal with it. But it felt as if my every twitch was being studied and evaluated.

It didn’t help that there wasn’t even a poster I could pretend to read. Just a stark, white room that smelled of chemicals and body odor. Overhead, a fan turned, catching on each revolution. I’m sure I jumped with every click. I’m equally sure Gabriel noticed. I wanted to leap up and shout, “Yes, I’m nervous. In fact, I’m about five seconds away from hurling my lunch onto the floor, so stop looking at me like that or if I do hurl it, I’ll aim for your lap.”

That made me smile. He noticed and arched his dark brows. I met his gaze. It wasn’t easy, but it gave me something to do. Look him straight in those cold eyes and don’t back down until—

The door opened. I jumped. Gabriel stood, partly blocking my view.

A guard entered first. Then a woman. No, not just a woman. Pamela Larsen. My mother.

After hearing how much I looked like her, I was braced to see a face that would ensure I wasn’t going to regain my comfort with a mirror anytime soon. She was shorter than me by a couple of inches. Heavier, too, almost plump. Dark, gray-laced hair to her shoulders. Eyes of an indeterminate blue-green shade. Maybe there was a resemblance, but I didn’t see a carbon copy of myself.

What did I see?

My mother.

I recognized her. I felt a leap in my gut, the burst of joy that a two-year-old might feel. I felt it, and I disowned it. Looked away and shut down that part of myself, hard and fast.

She hadn’t noticed me yet as her gaze fixed on Gabriel. That made it easier.

“Gabriel,” she said. “I should have known.” She stepped closer. “Are you trying to get your money again? You scammed me, you bastard. You stole my appeal, and you expect me to pay you? The fact I didn’t gouge out your eyes with your gold pen should prove I’m innocent.”

She turned to the guard. “Take me back. We’re done here.”

“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, Pamela,” Gabriel said. “I brought someone to see you.”

“I don’t care who—”

Gabriel stepped aside. She stopped. Her cuffed hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh.” She inhaled. She rushed toward me, but the second guard yanked her back.

She spun on the woman. “That’s my daughter, you heartless bitch. My little girl.”

“You know the rules, Pamela.”

She pulled away from the guard’s grip, but made no move to come closer.

“Eden,” she breathed.

“It’s Olivia.”

She flinched. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Olivia. Look at you. So beautiful.”

That voice. Dear God, that voice.

Thursday’s child has far to go.

Was the rest of it from her, too? All the rhymes and superstition I couldn’t pry from my brain? Not from some long forgotten nanny. From Pamela Larsen.

And what else? Forget the silly rhymes. What else had she taught me? How much more of me came from her? How much of me was a lie? Even something as simple as my birthday was obviously false.

Thursday’s child has far to go.

Pamela had turned to Gabriel.

“I’d like to speak to my daughter alone.”

“You know that isn’t possible,” he said.

“I don’t know how you tricked her into coming here, but if you made her pay you a dime—”

“She didn’t even contribute gas money. She asked to see you, and I thought it might be a good opportunity to remind you of my outstanding bill.”

She turned back to me. “You asked to see me?”

Did I imagine it or did Gabriel wince? I opened my mouth to say it wasn’t exactly like that, but her face glowed and a little girl inside me basked in the radiance, and wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything to bring back the shadows.

Damn. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I took a deep breath and straightened. “We’ll be fine, Mr. Walsh. Thank you.”

He nodded and went to stand by the door. Pamela shot him a look, but he only glanced at me, brows arching to ask “Is this okay?” I nodded.

“You are so beautiful, E—Olivia,” Pamela said. “Your father would—” Her hands flew to her mouth again, head dropping, eyes squeezed shut. “I wish he could see you. He’d be so happy. So proud.”