Visions (Cainsville #2)(2)

When I first met my mother’s former appeal lawyer, I’d mistaken him for hired muscle. A thug in an expensive suit. Three weeks later, I still thought the analogy wasn’t a bad one.

He did have a reputation for ripping people apart, though usually only on witness stands. Usually.

Gabriel didn’t even look at my car—or the corpse spilling out of it. His gaze shot straight to me, lips tightening as he bore down. Limped down, I should say. He’d been shot in the leg yesterday. And no, I didn’t do it, as tempting as that could be sometimes.

“Where’s your cane?” I called.

“I told you—”

“—to stay in the house. I only came out when I saw you drive up.”

A grunt. A quick once-over. Then, “Are you all right?” His voice tinged with reluctance, as if he really hated to ask. Ah, Gabriel.

“I’m fine,” I said. “And no, I didn’t call the police.”

“Good.”

His shades swung toward the Buick. He started for it. If I’d been anyone else, he would have ordered me to stay back. Not because he wouldn’t want to upset a client—such considerations aren’t given space in Gabriel’s busy brain. He’d insist because otherwise that client might get in his way or do something stupid, like leave fingerprints. As of yesterday, though, I wasn’t just a client. He’d hired me as an investigative assistant, which damned well better mean I could be trusted near a potential crime scene.

I did hang back a few paces. Steeling myself for the sight. I didn’t want to flinch in front of him.

He reached the driver’s side. Stopped. Frowned. Lifted his shades. Lowered them. Looked at me.

“Did you . . . ?” He trailed off and shook his head. “Of course not.”

I rounded the car to where he stood by the open driver’s door. The body . . .

The body was gone.





CHAPTER TWO


No,” I whispered. “I saw . . .” I swallowed. “I saw someone in the car, and when I opened the door, the body fell out. I wasn’t imagining it. I touched it.”

“I’m sure you did. The question is . . .”

He looked around and I moved closer, leaning into the open doorway.

“There’s no blood,” I said. “But the only injury I could see was her eyes. And she was cold, really cold. She hadn’t died recently.”

He nodded. I didn’t see any doubt in his expression, but my heart still pounded, my brain whirring to prove that I hadn’t imagined it. No, that I hadn’t hallucinated it.

“Poppies,” I said. “There are poppies in the rock garden. I saw them right before I found the body.”

I hurried around the garage with Gabriel limping after me.

There were no poppies in the rock garden.

“I took a picture to make sure I wasn’t imagining them,” I said. “There were clearly—”

My photo showed the garden. With rocks. And ivy. And moss. And no poppies.

“They were there,” I said. “I swear—”

“Am I questioning that?”

“No, but—”

“Then stop panicking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You found a body, and you called me, and now it’s gone, and you’re panicking because you can’t prove it was there. I don’t doubt you saw something. We’ll figure out what it was.”

—

As I led Gabriel to the sitting room, his gaze flitted around, discreetly checking out the antiques, any one of which would pay the annual rent on my new apartment.

“Yes, this is what I walked away from,” I said. “I know how you feel about that.”

“I said nothing.”

“But you’re thinking something.”

“Only that it’s a very nice house.”

Gabriel knows what it’s like to be poor, having been raised by a drug-addicted pickpocket mother who’d disappeared when he was fifteen, leaving him to survive on his own. A street kid who put himself through law school. So no, he was not impressed by the debutante who walked away from her Kenilworth mansion to work in a diner in Cainsville.

“Did you collect your things?” he asked.

“I did, including my laptop, so you can have your old one back. Don’t worry, though, I’ll pay rent for the full week.”

I smiled, but he only nodded. I walked to the love seat. My dad’s spot, where we used to sit together. As I sank into it, I began to relax.

Gabriel stopped beside my mother’s chair, a spindly antique.

“That is not going to hold you,” I said.

“Does it hold anyone?”

“Barely. Lovely to look at, but hellishly uncomfortable to sit on.”

He surveyed the others. They all seemed made for people about six inches shorter than Gabriel.

I stood. “Take this.”

“No, I—”

“Sit. Put your leg up. You’re supposed to keep it elevated.”

He grumbled but lowered himself onto the love seat and turned sideways to prop up his leg, proving it was hurting more than he’d let on.

I perched on my mother’s chair. “So apparently I hallucinated a dead body.”