She nodded. Was she disappointed that I wasn’t moving faster? I couldn’t tell. She only assured me she could answer any questions that arose and would love the excuse to see me again, and then the nurse hustled us out.

• • •

We’d barely gotten ten steps down the hall before Gabriel asked me to wait, and he returned to speak to the officer guarding Pamela’s room.

Gabriel spoke to the man, then shook his hand. It seemed an odd gesture . . . until I caught a flash of green, the officer being a little less proficient at accepting a bribe than Gabriel was at giving one.

When Gabriel returned, he waved me in the other direction.

“Taking the stairs?” I said.

“Service elevators. The officer said two reporters are waiting at the front door, and he believes there’s an intern by the stairwell.” He paused before pushing the elevator button. “This is your last chance, Olivia. If you’d like, I can go down, see who’s there and discreetly arrange a meeting around back.”

“Thanks, but no. Not yet.”

“As you wish.”

He pushed the button.

“About doing that paperwork to visit Todd Larsen,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Dealing with one long-lost serial-killer parent is enough for now. But if it’s worthwhile for you to make the arrangements . . .”

“My secretary can handle it. So, yes, it’s worthwhile. Thank you.” He held open the elevator door and ushered me out. “I don’t know if you’re feeling up to it, but I did manage to contact Tim Marlotte—Jan Gunderson’s ex-fiancé. He could meet with us this evening.”

“Good.” I checked my watch. “If you’d drop me off at a library, I can—”

“Ms. Jones?” a voice called.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I froze. The voice had come from my left. I wheeled the other way to—

To do what? Run for the nearest exit?

I adjusted my shirt, fixed on a pleasant look, and turned—to nearly smack into Gabriel’s wide back.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he blocked me. “Ms. Jones isn’t giving interviews right now, but if I can take your card, we’ll be sure to consider you.”

“I just want five minutes of her time, Mr. Walsh. Please. My name is—”

“I know who you are.”

“Then you know I’ve covered several of your cases. Satisfactorily, I believe. I’d have heard from you otherwise.”

Gabriel paused.

“Five minutes,” the man repeated. “You’re free to advise your client against answering any of my questions. I’d like a picture, but it will be posed. I’m not going to sneak a shot of Ms. Jones racing from her mother’s bedside.”

Gabriel glanced back at me, then turned to the reporter. “May we have a moment?”

He took me aside without waiting for a response.

“I know, I know,” I muttered before he could say anything. “I should do this. It’s one guy. A few questions. Posed photos. You can vouch for his rep. I just wish . . .” I exhaled. “Do I look all right?”

“Yes, but if it’ll make you feel better, I can buy you a few minutes in the restroom. As long as you promise not to crawl out the window.”

“Tempting . . .” I glanced around Gabriel at the reporter. A small guy with a potbelly. Well groomed. Unassuming. He met my gaze with a polite smile.

“Two minutes with a mirror,” I said. “Then I’ll do it.”

• • •

I didn’t ace the interview. My mind was still with Pamela—worrying about her and getting annoyed with myself for worrying. On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate my performance a six. Still, it was a lot better than my earlier encounters.

Naturally he wanted to know my thoughts on my biological parents. An interview without that was useless. So I said I was still processing the news, still in shock, blah blah. Not the most exciting answer but an honest one. My others were less honest. I didn’t lie outright, but I hinted—strongly—that I was living in Chicago and looking for work. The only questions I refused were about James. That was one topic I wasn’t ready to speak on.

There was a question that I kicked myself for not expecting. What was I doing with my mother’s former lawyer? Luckily, Gabriel smoothly covered for me, saying that he was facilitating contact with Pamela Larsen, ensuring that I got everything I needed from my biological mother—medical information and so on. When we finished, the journalist—a freelancer named Martin Lores—exchanged cards with Gabriel and promised to call with publication details.

• • •

We were in the car before Gabriel spoke.

“You handled yourself very well, Olivia.”

I gazed out the window. “I did adequately.”

I vaguely heard him say something as he backed the car out, but I didn’t quite catch it.

“Olivia?” he prodded.

“Sorry. Just . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “This whole media thing has me feeling . . . helpless. I was looking forward to taking control of the situation, and I didn’t get the chance.”

A pause. “I see.” Awkward. Damn it. I’d overshared.

I settled into my seat. “Go ahead, set the appointment for seven and dump me at the nearest library.”

“Skip the research. It’s not critical. We’ll get dinner and I’ll distract you with tales of my day in court.”

“The guy who dissolved his victim with quicklime? Or was it chemical hydrolysis?”

“Chemical hydrolysis. Or that’s what he would have used, had he killed the man, which he most certainly did not.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Okay, take me to dinner and distract me.”

• • •

We’d been inside Tim Marlotte’s condo for less than five minutes before we knew exactly what had gone wrong between him and Jan, and why he hadn’t been terribly distraught over their breakup. It wasn’t the tasteful decor that gave it away. This was Wicker Park, a trendy neighborhood filled with wannabe artistic types. According to Anna Gunderson, Marlotte had recently given up a bank job to pursue dreams of being a sculptor. So I wasn’t jumping to any conclusions . . . until a guy my age slipped into the foyer and gave Marlotte a kiss before leaving the apartment.