Visions (Cainsville #2)(69)

“I don’t know.” More finger drumming. Then he stopped himself. “We should learn more about Glenys Carew. Find out if there’s anyone here who remembers her. Some of the elders might.”

“Okay.” I closed the laptop. “It’s late.”

“It is. You should get to bed. I’ll stay.”

There was no reason for Gabriel to stay. Did I argue, though? No, I did not. I got out fresh towels for him, said good night, and went to bed.

—

When I got into my room, I texted Ricky.

Heading to bed. Gabriel still here. Sleeping on my sofa bed. Again.

I waited for the reply, wondering how I would interpret a delay. Taking a while to respond because he was busy at the clubhouse? Or because he wasn’t sure what to say about Gabriel staying over?

His reply came less than ten seconds later. LOL. Must be comfortable.

I exhaled. He’d given no signs that he was jealous of my time with Gabriel, but I kept waiting for it. I’m not sure how many guys would be fine with their girlfriend’s boss sleeping on her sofa. I sent a final text and went to bed.





SECURITY


Gabriel sat on the edge of the sofa bed and looked around the moonlit apartment. The window shade was an inch short on all sides, and he could have blamed his sleeplessness on the light streaming through, but that wasn’t the problem.

He opened the blind. Next door was a two-story house, the roofline below the window. There were no larger buildings on this side, no way for anyone to peer into Olivia’s apartment. Or so she’d say. He had only to look at the tree between the apartment and the next house to see an easy vantage point for anyone.

TC hopped up onto the sill and peered out into the night with him, their reflections mirrored on the glass. Gabriel closed the blind. Then he turned to Olivia’s door. Silent now. He’d heard the tap-tap of texting earlier.

He checked the locks and security system. He’d expected to feel at ease when the alarms were installed. Yet he could still sense a threat out there, and the only thing that helped was prowling the damned apartment. What had Morgan called him? Olivia’s pit bull. He bristled at the implication, but that was exactly what he felt like, checking and rechecking the locks.

A dead body outfitted to look like her would seem as overt a threat as one could imagine. But for a threat to be effective, there had to be an “if” attached to it. If you do X, then Y will happen. No “if” had been given. That was not how the game was played.

Was the X somehow implicit? If you continue investigating your parents’ case, you’ll end up like this girl. But when the body appeared in Olivia’s car, Chandler was already in jail. When the head was left in her bed, she had already walked away from Gabriel and the investigation.

Was it the opposite, then? Keep digging or you’ll die? If so, the message was far too obtuse.

He needed to speak to Chandler, damn him. He’d been digging for dirt on the man, but it was hard to find blackmail material that would rattle someone already facing multiple murder charges. Until then, Gabriel had no answers. No clear certainty even that Olivia was under a direct threat. Yet a gnawing anxiety said she was and that he needed to do something about it. Which was almost as bad. Why did he need to do something about it?

Caring about her did not explain this obsessive need to look out for her. She could manage that surprisingly well. When she did call him during an emergency, it was only because she needed legal advice.

Olivia was smart. She was capable. She had a gun and the will to use it. So what kept him running to her aid? Making excuses to spend the night and then spending it prowling her damned apartment? He had no idea. And that, perhaps, unsettled him more than anything.

One more check of the windows and then the door lock. He paused there, fingers on the handle.

Check outside.

He growled softly at the urge. Yet he didn’t resist it. Once the anxiety settled, he’d be able to sleep. He was halfway out the door when he felt something brush his legs and looked down to see TC. The cat didn’t seem to be making a run for it—he was simply accompanying him.

“Stay here,” he murmured.

He managed to avoid the ridiculous temptation to add, “Watch over her.” TC wasn’t a guard dog, and he certainly hadn’t protected her from the last intruder. Because he hadn’t been there. Because he’d been taken. Someone had known the cat would have alerted Olivia to an intrusion, and so TC had been removed and shut in the Carew house where the killer was storing the body.

On the front stoop, Gabriel looked around. Checking for that sixth sense that told him a threat was near. “Sixth sense” wasn’t the right term. That implied a preternatural power. This was an innate ability to survey a situation and note a threat where others saw none. Such as knowing when Seanna had needed a fix and didn’t have drugs or the money to buy them, so he should stay away until she scored. Or when she brought home a man, that sense told him which ones wouldn’t care if he was in the next room, which would kick his ass onto the street . . . and which might try to crawl into his bed.

The older he got, the more crucial the skill had become. By the time he was eight, he could no longer count on meals from Seanna. She’d deemed him old enough to fend for himself so she could save some precious drug money. When you need to steal everything from food to clothing to school supplies, the threats multiply a hundredfold. It’s not just the police or the people you’re stealing from. It’s older kids, who’ll notice the bills in your pocket and try to swipe them. It’s teachers, who’ll notice if you’re exhausted and dirty and call children’s services. It’s your own mother, who’ll notice you have new shoes and demand some of whatever you stole, and lock you out on the street if you don’t pay your share of the nonexistent rent for a hole she gets free for banging the landlord.