Visions (Cainsville #2)(46)



“Doesn’t seem like it. Looks like some kind of sicko serial—” He stopped, his pale face flushing again. “Sorry, Miss Jones.”

“I meant, couldn’t she have been killed within Cainsville, if not necessarily in this house?”

He looked as if I’d suggested aliens had murdered Ciara Conway. “We don’t get that sort of thing here.”

“I’m sure Cainsville has a very low murder rate—”

“It has no murder rate,” he said. “Never been a homicide. Accidents, sure, but that’s it.”

I glanced at Gabriel, expecting a faint eye roll that said he’d dispute this—in private—later. But he nodded and said, “Chief Burton’s right. Which is not to say that I share his opinion that this murder absolutely could not have taken place within the town limits, but it seems unlikely. However, given the hiding place for the body, the killer may have a connection to Cainsville, as Ms. Conway did.”

“Hopefully an equally distant one,” Burton said. A rap sounded at the door. “That’d be Doc Webster. If you two would like to get on home, you can just let her in on your way out.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for making this easy.”

Another frown, as if he was trying to figure out why he wouldn’t have made it easy, and I was reminded yet again why I loved this town.

“Next time you come by the diner, coffee and pie are on me,” I said.

His frown deepened. “That wouldn’t be right, Miss Jones, but thank you for offering.”

Gabriel had gone ahead to let Dr. Webster in. I stopped partway to the door and turned back to Burton.

“I’d like to apologize to the owners for breaking in,” I said. “Are they local?”

“She was. Died a few years back.” He hastened to add, “Cancer. She was seventy. Had a husband, but I’m not sure if he’s around anymore. Alive, I mean. The house was hers, and he moved back to the city after she died. He never really got used to Cainsville. Left as soon as he could.” A note of wonder in his voice, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“So it’s owned by her children?”

“Never had any. They married late in life. Nephew owns it, I think. Maybe great-nephew. He’s never lived here, and there’s some reason it can’t be sold. Contested will, maybe? It’s complicated. Damned shame, too, place like this. Should have a family living in it. You leave a house like this empty and . . .” He waved toward the attic, as if to say harboring corpses was the fate that befell abandoned homes. “Damned shame.”

It was.



TC hadn’t scratched up Gabriel’s car, which was a relief because I had not failed to note that he’d never actually replied when I said I wouldn’t be on the hook for damages. I took him back to my apartment and he happily trotted inside. TC, that is—not Gabriel, although he did come in, without comment or request, rather like the cat, presuming he’d be welcome and making himself at home.

Gabriel watched TC settle into his cardboard-box bed. “He certainly seems happy to be home, which suggests he didn’t leave willingly.”

I got the lone can of tuna down from a cupboard. “Or he did, and he regrets it now.”

I opened the can. TC sprang up and flew onto the counter, purring urgently as I dumped the tuna onto a plate.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “And I’m not sure I ever will. Too many unknowns, which seems to be the story of my life these days.”

I pointed Gabriel in the direction of the files I’d brought home. While he fetched the pages he needed, I looked around the tiny kitchen.

“Can I make you a coffee? Tea? I’ve got a few Dr Peppers in the fridge. After tonight, they’d probably go down a lot better with a couple ounces of rum or whiskey, but I haven’t gotten around to alcohol stocking. Sorry.”

Gabriel waved off the apology. “Soda’s fine. I don’t usually drink.”

“I suspected that,” I said as I got out the pop. “No matter how bad a day we have, you’ve never said, ‘God, I could use a drink right now.’ I know I have. Silently. Many times.”

“Then say so. I’m not a recovering alcoholic, Olivia. Nor do I have any issue with others imbibing. I do have a drink sometimes, socially, but otherwise . . . it’s not for me.”

Because of his mother. I was sure of that. Whatever mistakes she’d made, he was determined not to repeat them or share her weaknesses. Which is probably why I’d known never to say, “God, I could use a drink,” in front of him.

“Rose has a liquor cabinet,” he said, rising. “Put those back and we’ll go over there, get you something.”

I shook my head. “I was kidding. I don’t need—”

“I saw her light on. We should speak to her anyway, about your vision.”

I sighed. “I’m not running to her every time something strange happens to me.”

“Why not? She enjoys the challenge. This isn’t like running to a fortune-teller every time you have a decision to make. You are experiencing events with a clear preternatural origin. You can’t simply ignore them.”

He looked impatient, a little annoyed, as if I was refusing to visit the dentist for a sore tooth.

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