“If it’s not the pain, is it the house? Or the case?” he asked.

“Of every murder we’ve investigated, I hate this solution the most. I mean, obviously, finding out Pamela was an accomplice to James’s death hurt the most. But I understood it. This one …”

“You don’t understand?”

“I do and I don’t, and it keeps going around and around in my head, like a conundrum I need to solve, and I just can’t.”

“If you’re at all concerned that Melanie wasn’t responsible—”

“No, she was. The problem is how I feel about it. What she did. What Ciro did. Terrible things because they loved someone. Melanie to protect Pepper and ease her suffering. Ciro to get Lucy back and ease his own suffering. There was guilt there, too, in both. Melanie blamed herself for sending Pepper on that job. Ciro blamed himself for not getting Lucy farther away from the lamiae. I hate what they did. I want to write them off the same way I did Edgar Chandler and Macy Shaw and Tristan. Cold-blooded killers.” I glanced at him. “You’re right, you know.”

“About what?”

“Motive. You said it wasn’t important. It shouldn’t be. Judge them for what they did, not why they did it. I know that isn’t what you meant, but motive it muddles everything, and I want cut-and-dried. I want …”

“Monsters.”

I twisted to look at him. “Yes, damn it. I want monsters.”

Several long minutes of silence passed. Then he said, softly, “This isn’t really about Melanie and Ciro. It’s about Pamela.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“It would be easier if she were a monster,” he said. “It would be even easier if she killed four monsters to cure you and could therefore be absolved. But there’s James.”

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. “Whatever James did to me, he did it under compulsion, and he was never an actual threat. And there’s you, too. What she tried to do to you.”

He straightened. “Disregard that. It was a poor effort, and I survived it unscathed.”

“No, Gabriel. I cannot disregard that. You may—I will not. Ever.”

“She thought she was protecting you. And I believe the other cases feed into another, unspoken, aspect of it—that she blames herself. As Melanie and Ciro did. She bore a child, knowing her blood came with risks. That led to you having spina bifida. Then you were in danger from James and from me because of everything that’s happened since you discovered she’s your mother. That does not excuse what she did. But it is not as simple as ‘Pamela Larsen is a monster.’”

I went quiet, a distant clock ticking. “I don’t know how to reconcile that,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to put her out of my life. I know I said I was fine with you handling her case, and logically I am, but emotionally …” I shook my head. “There’s a reason I haven’t done one single minute of work on it.”

Silence. Then, in that same soft tone, “If I refuse to represent Pamela …”

“The chances of freeing my father plummet. I won’t have that. I can’t. I need to accept that setting my father free might also free Pamela.”

“Yes.” That’s all he said. All that could be said.

“Can we talk about that?” I said. “Just talk. I know that’s not really your thing—”

“I’m here, Olivia. For anything you need.”

When I still hesitated, he put out his hand. I took it, and he tugged me to sit beside him, so I could lean back against his shoulder.

“Talk to me,” he said.

And I did.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

A week later, I was back where it all began: in the clubhouse with Ricky. No business to attend to, just hanging out, playing darts and poker, drinking and having a good time. We stayed until it cleared out. Then we took off for the backwoods, one of the last times we’d get the chance before winter set in.

A hunt, a chase and sex, wonderful and wild sex. Afterward, I discovered this was no spontaneous trip. Ricky had left a care package out there—a blanket, sleeping bag, champagne, and an assortment of snacks ranging from strawberries to chocolate.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked as I sipped my champagne.

“Us.”

Which was as good a cause as any, and we drank and ate and talked, and capped off the evening making love under the stars. It was as perfect a night as I could imagine, and when I woke the next morning, snuggled into his arms, he said, “I love you. You know that, right?” and there was something in his voice …

I looked up at him. “I love you, too,” I said carefully.

“I mean it,” he said. “This is like nothing I’ve ever had before. Like nothing I thought I would have.”

I nodded, still feeling a buzz of uncertainty, that tone in his voice …

He shifted and tugged me on top, so I was looking down at him. “I thought I had it good before. Everything going according to plan. That was good. It was comfortable. And I was perfectly content. Happy, even. Then you came along and shot those plans out the door, shot that life out the door, and it’s like skidding on the bike, when you know you haven’t lost control yet but you’re right there, on the edge, and it’s fucking incredible and …” He exhaled. “Shit, I really suck at metaphors.”

I managed a chuckle, relaxing a little.