Visions (Cainsville #2)(29)

“Either way, I’m not convinced it’s a fetch,” Rose said. “I think you’re correct that others can sometimes sense the supernatural. Seeing it affected Ricky Gallagher, and he wasn’t sure why. I’ll look into folklore on black dogs and hounds. In the meantime, I believe I heard Gabriel drive up. If you’ll let him in, I’ll make tea.”

—

Rose brought tea and then left us alone. We talked about Pamela first. Gabriel had officially launched an appeal. Chandler still wouldn’t speak to him. There were no leads in Anderson’s murder, probably because the police didn’t consider it a murder at all. For them it was simple: a man loses half his foot, is facing life in prison, and ODs on morphine.

Next up on the agenda? Ciara Conway. Gabriel couldn’t do more than quietly investigate, much as I had been doing. If he wanted to ask the police about it in an official capacity, he needed an excuse . . . like having his office check into it on behalf of the elders of Cainsville.

“I could use your help obtaining theirs,” he said. “The town elders aren’t blind to my . . . unconventional business practices.”

“They’ll suspect you aren’t offering out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I can ask for compensation, but that reduces the chance they’ll agree.”

“I’ll speak to them,” I said. “But how do I explain my interest?”

“By working for me.”

I stiffened.

“It’s a way to gain work experience while helping your new town. I’m going to formalize your job offer. I know we’d planned to discuss that on your first shift. I’ll get it in writing for you now. Hours, pay, and such. I need a day or two to put something together.”

“I don’t want—”

“I would like to make the offer, which you may then refuse.” He stood. “Tell Rose I said goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”

I followed him out to the hall.

“Gabriel?” I said as he opened the front door.

He turned, a stray slip of moonlight illuminating a sliver of his face, blue eyes glowing almost preternaturally in the darkness. “Yes?”

I opened my mouth to say thank you, then stopped.

“Good night,” I said finally.

A dip of his head, the moonlight evaporating, his expression lost in the darkness. “Good night, Olivia.”

He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


At lunch, I called Ricky to discuss where to meet tomorrow. It took my entire break. What can I say? He’s a good conversationalist.

When my phone rang early that afternoon, I saw who was calling and . . . and I hesitated. Then I felt bad about hesitating and called James back.

“I’ll make it quick,” he said. “I had lunch with the deputy mayor, and he asked me to join his table at a fund-raiser tonight. It’s a plus one, of course, which means I’m in the market for a guest and really hoping you’ll say yes, because if my mother finds out I have tickets, you know who I’ll have to take. I’d rather have you on my arm.”

“So that’s why I’m invited? Ornamental value?”

“Of course. Why else?”

I laughed.

“Come with me, Liv. It’s not a public statement. I’ll deflect any questions about our relationship. It’ll be as painless as possible, and I’ll take you for ice cream afterward.”

“Scooter’s?”

“Technically, that’s frozen custard. But yes, Scooter’s. So you’ll come?”

“For the custard.”

—

In the past month, I’d learned a lot about myself. I might even have matured, though I’m not sure I’d go that far. What I had not done, though, was develop any greater appreciation for charity dinners.

It was worse now, with everyone knowing who I really was. I got cold shoulders. I got sidelong looks. I got stares. I saw matrons in evening gowns whip out their phones, and they may have just been messaging a friend, but I suspect some were tweeting OMG, I can’t believe who’s here! complete with photos.

But I’d come for James, so I pushed all that aside, and I chatted and I smiled and I laughed. I flirted and I charmed. I even danced.

I was slow dancing with James as he was whispering in my ear. I listened to his voice and smiled at his sardonic commentary, and I felt the familiar warmth of him, inhaled the familiar smell of him, and I remembered why I’d wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man. I was happy.

The feel of his body against mine reminded me of something else I’d missed in the last month and made me wonder why the hell I hadn’t dragged him to the nearest hotel last week. And then . . .

I sensed something. James led me off the floor afterward, but I didn’t hear a word he said because I was busy listening and looking and inhaling, trying to find what had caught my attention.

I’ve always been particularly receptive to sensory input. Step into a busy room like this and my brain used to reel, looking for signs in every sight, sound, and smell. Now I know what’s happening, and that initial blast fades quickly once my brain realizes no omens need to be interpreted.

Except now something did need interpretation, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. It was only a prickle that said, “Pay attention.”