Visions (Cainsville #2)(101)

There are, however, areas where . . . well, a little gentrification wouldn’t be a bad thing, if it meant architectural preservation. Pockets where the beautiful old homes and buildings are in sore need of a little support—financial and structural. Macy’s street was marked by neglect. While the residents couldn’t afford the massive renovations needed to return their homes to their former glory, you got the feeling most wouldn’t see the point anyway. The long grass and weeds in the yards hid some, but not all, of the trash littered there. People sat on dilapidated front porches, eyes narrowing as we went by, more like junkyard dogs than proud home owners.

We passed one house with three men on the porch. All had the build of retired construction workers: wide shoulders, brawny biceps, and potbellies. None was over thirty, though. The porch was the most decrepit one on the street, so run-down that it made me nervous to see one guy leaning against the railing.

As we passed, Gabriel murmured, “Move to my other side, please.”

His gaze was fixed on the road ahead, with no sign that he’d even seen the men, but he said again, “Olivia? My other side. Please.”

By the time I figured out what he meant, the three were on their feet, coming off the porch, and I wasn’t about to scurry behind Gabriel then. He still tried to move in front of me, but I put out my arm to stop him.

He took off his shades and fixed his gaze on them, his eyes chilling further with every step they took.

“Humor me,” I whispered.

“I would prefer—”

“I know.”

“You want something here?” one of the men said.

Gabriel moved so close I could feel him against my back. The guy stopped. His gaze traveled up. He was only my height, meaning he had to look a long way up to meet Gabriel’s eyes, and when he did, he stopped walking. His two confederates flanked him, but neither moved another inch.

The lead guy looked back at me. “You want something here?” he repeated.

“Not from you.” I turned to the one with the smallest potbelly. “Tommy Shaw?”

The guy froze.

“Jane Walker,” I said. “Bail bonds—”

Tommy bolted. One of his friends lunged forward, fists up. Gabriel hit him with a right hook that knocked him off his feet. The other friend stopped midjump. He looked at Gabriel. He looked at his buddy on the ground. He ran.

“Take him instead,” I said to Gabriel, waving at the guy on the ground, his nose streaming blood. “I’m sure someone wants him.”

The guy scrambled up and tore off.

“Sorry about that,” I said to Gabriel. “I thought they’d all run.”

He adjusted his right sleeve. “It was a reasonable gamble with an acceptable outcome. Far better than having to take on all three. I wasn’t looking forward to removing my jacket. It’s a new shirt.” He motioned for me to resume walking. “Thank you for recognizing Ms. Shaw’s brother. That certainly made things easier.”

“It also means that we don’t need to worry about meeting up with him at the house.”

That house was three doors down. We knocked at the front door. When Macy answered, Gabriel had the screen door open and blocked the inside door. She did try to shut it on him, but halfheartedly, stopping when Gabriel held up her driver’s license.

“You dropped this the other night,” he said. “May we talk?”

She glanced around.

“Your brother took off,” I said. “But you might not want the neighbors to see you chatting to us on the front step.”

“Right. Um, come in.” She backed up. “My parents are out . . .”

“Excellent.” Gabriel pushed open the door. “We’ll keep this short.”

She escorted us into the living room and cleared away beer bottles and a pizza box before we sat on the sofa.

“Sorry,” she said. “My brother. He never picks up after himself.”

Judging by the condition of the room, no one did. Her cheeks reddened when I surveyed the overflowing ashtrays and clutter. I stopped looking and lowered myself to the sofa.

“I’m sorry I took off the other night,” she said as she gathered an armful of clothing.

“It was a traumatic experience,” Gabriel said.

She nodded. “I tried to look Miss, um, Jones up, but I couldn’t get any contact information. Otherwise, I’d have called you.”

“Let me properly introduce myself, then. Gabriel Walsh.” He held out his card. “For next time.”

She took it with some reluctance.

“And this, as you know, is Ms. Jones,” he said.

“Olivia. Please. I’m so sorry for what happened the other night. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what did happen. You know who my parents are. Unfortunately, the crazies seem to be coming out of the woodwork. I’m still not sure what message that man wanted to convey, but he seems to have been a, uh, fan of theirs.”

She looked appalled. “Fan? Of—”

“It happens,” Gabriel cut in. “There are some seriously disturbed individuals out there, which is why I came to assist Ms. Jones, along with her . . .” He seemed to struggle for the word. “Friend,” he said finally. “It’s a very difficult and dangerous time for Ms. Jones.”