Visions (Cainsville #2)(64)

The detective retrieved the folder and led us into another hall. As we walked, he babbled about how he’d be in contact with the detectives in the Evans case, make sure they got my statement regarding the identification and the file if it was a match.

When we reached an open interrogation room, the detective led us inside. He set the folder on the table and motioned for us to sit. I did. Gabriel didn’t. He stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder, as if I was the one needing reassurance, and I shifted back, resting against his hand.

The detective kept up a steady stream of chatter as he prepared to open the folder. Telling me how the photos might be disturbing, but if I’d seen them already then he guessed I didn’t really need to be warned, blah, blah, blah. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up. Just shut up. I might have, too, if I hadn’t suspected the prattle actually let Gabriel relax as the detective focused on me.

I couldn’t see Gabriel’s face as the folder opened. I suspect he was happier that way, no one to witness his reaction. I could feel him there, though, his thumb rubbing my back the only sign of his agitation.

“Are these the photos you saw at the scene?” the detective asked.

“They are,” I said.

“And I believe I can identify the victim,” Gabriel said.

I glanced back. Gabriel’s face was blank, his eyes equally blank, fixed on the photographs.

“Her name was Seanna Walsh,” he said. “She was my mother.”

—

Things went awkwardly after that. Detective What’s-his-name—yes, I should really pay more attention—decided Gabriel was launching some scheme. By claiming a long-dead addict was his mother? That wasn’t just ridiculous—it was unbelievably offensive. I gave the detective hell. By the end of it, I think he had decided I wasn’t nearly as nice as I’d seemed. In fact, given the choice, he’d probably rather have dealt with Gabriel, who took the accusation in stride, calming me down when I lit into the detective.

Gabriel handed over the photographs he’d brought. One was of both him and Seanna. He provided his mother’s vital statistics and the name of the detective who’d handled her missing persons report. He did this all with perfect calm, perfect civility, perfect professionalism. By the end, the detective apologized. Gabriel graciously accepted it. I was still pissed.

We were halfway down the hall when the detective came jogging after us.

“Mr. Walsh,” he said.

Gabriel turned.

“The remains—” He stopped himself and flushed. “Your mother, I mean. Her body is buried at Homewood. That’s—”

“I know what it is.”

“Arrangements can be made to move her. To bury her properly, in a marked grave.”

Gabriel’s perfect calm cracked then, not enough for the detective to notice, just a hairline fracture. I could see the panic in his eyes, as he struggled to give the gracious response, to say yes, that would be fine, thank you very much. But he couldn’t. He could not act like he gave a damn where his mother’s body lay, like he’d pay a cent to move her. He just froze.

“We’ll be in touch,” I said.

Gabriel nodded stiffly, put his hand to my back, and led me out.

—

As we walked to the car, I kept sneaking glances at Gabriel. I thought I was being discreet about it. He had his shades on, gaze forward, as if lost in thought. As we turned into the lot, though, he said, “You can stop fretting, Olivia. I’m not going to collapse.”

“I know. I’m just—”

“Fretting.”

“Concerned.”

“I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare for it.” A few more steps. “This afternoon we could work on the Conway investigation, now that her death is official.” He paused, then added, “If you’re free,” as if just remembering he should check.

“I am. Nothing planned until my diner shift tomorrow.”

He checked his watch. “I should get you lunch first.”

“Can I buy this time?”

“You can.”

“I should probably drive, too.”

He bent to open the car door and looked over the top of his shades. “Did I say I was fine?”

“Just to be sure. I’m only thinking of you.”

He shook his head and waved me over to the driver’s side.

—

We passed the Mills & Jones department store. As we idled at a light, I looked over at the store, taking up half a city block of real estate, a Chicago landmark. I used to be there a few times a week, meeting my dad or hanging out with him. Since his death, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked through those massive front doors. I just can’t do it anymore.

I felt guilty about that sometimes. Guilty, too, about not taking a hand in the business. I had a seat on the board. Or I did. By now, for all I knew, they’d voted to kick my ass off. Would I care? I don’t know.

“Olivia?” Gabriel’s quiet voice.

“Hmm?”

He waved at the light, green now. I pulled through.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


Under normal circumstances, Gabriel orders an average-sized meal and eats it all, never picking anything out, never leaving anything. But there’s no hint of voraciousness. He approaches food the way he seems to approach everything in life: with dispassionate intent.