He didn’t say a word for the first half of the trip, which was good because, considering how fast he drove, I really preferred he kept his attention on the road. When he whipped past a cruiser, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

“We’re fine,” he said. “I drive this route regularly. They used to pull me over, but it got tedious. Now I offer a generous contribution to their annual fund-raiser, and we call it even.”

“Nice.”

“Efficient.”

We fell back into silence.

• • •

Zooming along the highway, I managed to close my eyes and soon realized I was enjoying the rumble of the road beneath me, the sensual perfection of Bach coming from the car’s stereo, the rich smell of fine leather. I also realized I felt safe for the first time in four days. Cocooned in a world I knew.

“Safe” probably wasn’t the right word to use with a man like Gabriel in the driver’s seat, but even he seemed to add to the ambience, like a tacit chauffeur who could play bodyguard in a pinch.

He didn’t speak until we were within sight of the prison gates. Then he pulled onto the shoulder and sat there, hands on the wheel, gaze forward, car idling.

Now it was coming. The sales pitch, delivered before we passed those gates. Damn. I’d gotten so close, too.

After a moment, he said, “What do you know about Pamela Larsen, Ms. Jones?”

“Olivia, please.”

He glanced over then. Even if I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew the look—telling me he wasn’t falling for that. This was all business, and if I was being friendly, I had an ulterior motive.

“Olivia, then,” he said. “What do you remember of your mother?”

“A week ago, I’d have said nothing. But I’ve been remembering things. I’m not sure if they’re real.”

“And you want to see if she’s what you remember?”

“I want to face her.”

“Face her.” He rolled the words out, considering them. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“That wouldn’t be in my best interests.” He swung the car back onto the road. “And clearly you are resolved on the matter.”

• • •

Gabriel said nothing as he parked. Nor as we got out of the car. He just silently steered me in the right direction.

Having him beside me was a comfort as I approached the looming jail. Again, I knew that was silly. I was hardly in danger of being jumped by rioting prisoners. But right or wrong, as I listened to the distant clang and imagined a cell opening, imagined Pamela Larsen coming out to meet me, having a silent monolith at my side did make me feel better.

As we approached the doors, I said, “You asked what I know about her. Is there something you want to tell me?”

He said nothing. I thought he was considering, but we went through two doors and he didn’t say another word.

“If there’s something I should know about her, I’d like to hear it.”

He made a noise in his throat, as if he preferred to keep silent on the subject but couldn’t quite bring himself to say there was nothing I should know. I glanced over, in the vain hope of seeing an actual expression. Instead, I forgot what I’d been asking.

He must have taken off his sunglasses when we’d come in. To say he had blue eyes sounds so innocuous that I’m reluctant even to name the color. They were ice. Not cool in that sexy way that sends delicious shivers down your spine. I mean cold. Completely and utterly cold.

The irises were such an unnaturally pale blue that for a second I thought they weren’t real. Couldn’t be real. They must be colored contacts meant to throw a prosecutor or reluctant witness off balance. But this wasn’t the kind of color you could get from contacts.

The edges of the irises were dark. Blue, I suppose, but I didn’t look close enough to be sure. The impression I got was of black rings around pale irises. Black lashes, too, so thick and long that they should have been gorgeous frames to a pair of remarkable eyes. They weren’t. The contrast between the dark pupils, the dark lashes, and those odd dark rings set against the pale irises and whites was too unsettling.

Dear God, was I crazy? This might be the most terrifying thing I’d ever done in my life, and the only person I had for support was this man? This complete stranger I couldn’t even look in the eyes?

“Yes?” he said.

“Nothing.”

I let him take the lead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Getting inside took a while. Finally they escorted us to a room with a table and three chairs.

I paused inside the doorway. “So she’ll just . . . come in here?”

“Is that a problem?” Gabriel asked as he headed for a chair.

“No, I just thought there’d be a barrier.”

He turned those cold eyes on me. I must have flinched. I saw it on his face, and I was sure what would come next. A look of amusement for a reaction he must get all the time. But his brows drew together in a frown, as if he didn’t understand why I’d pulled back. Then he turned away and sat before he said, “Would you like a barrier?”

“No. I just . . .”

“Expected more security for a woman convicted of horrifically murdering eight people? If it was your father, yes, you’d never get so close to him. But in situations like this, the woman is seen as the lesser threat.”

“Bullied and pushed by the real killer. She’s the weak partner.”

“Weak . . .” He rolled the word out, tasting it.

“I don’t mean—”

“No, I understand. You’re correct. The woman is always seen as the follower.”

“And is—?” I began.

When I didn’t finish, he looked over. “Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

He waved me to a chair. “They do still take precautions. She’ll be cuffed and allowed no physical contact.”

“Good.”

I took my seat. Then we waited. He kept looking over at me, and it wasn’t in any way a woman likes to be looked at by a man. His gaze was impersonal, yet all too personal, too probing, too intense. I told myself he was just concerned that I’d break down and, God forbid, he might have to deal with it. But it felt as if my every twitch was being studied and evaluated.

It didn’t help that there wasn’t even a poster I could pretend to read. Just a stark, white room that smelled of chemicals and body odor. Overhead, a fan turned, catching on each revolution. I’m sure I jumped with every click. I’m equally sure Gabriel noticed. I wanted to leap up and shout, “Yes, I’m nervous. In fact, I’m about five seconds away from hurling my lunch onto the floor, so stop looking at me like that or if I do hurl it, I’ll aim for your lap.”