“Bravo,” Tristan said. “Guilty as charged—on all counts, though I suspect dear Pamela won’t appreciate my saying so. There’s very little of your father in you, Eden. Poor Todd, always trying to do the right thing, a coward hiding behind the cloak of conscience. Like your mother, you’ll do whatever it takes to protect those you love. I think you and I can come to an agreement, as long as I promise not to harm your darling boys.”

“I don’t need your promise. You’re right, I’ll protect them—by myself, as my mother did for me. I’m my father, too, though. I can worry that my voice of conscience is too soft, but it’s loud enough that I want nothing to do with you and your plans. Here’s mine. Once I get help for Ricky, you’re coming with us—to the Tylwyth Teg or the Cwn Annwn or whoever wants to deal with you. So—”

“Actually, I believe I can simplify this next step,” said a voice from the ladder. Patrick pulled himself up, fastidiously wiping his hands on his trousers as he stepped into the room. “Tristan, good to see you—particularly in that position. You’ve caused a lot of trouble, and I’m going to win a heap of gratitude turning you over to the elders.” He looked at me. “Don’t worry. I know you don’t trust me enough to turn him over so easily. Gabriel will accompany me back to Cainsville with Tristan, while you take care of the boy.”

Patrick walked over and looked down at Tristan. “Nicely done, Liv. You took my instruction well. After both you and Gabriel called today, asking about spriggan, I knew something was up. Fortunately, Gabriel was more forthcoming with a name. Tristan’s associate, Alis, supplied the rest after some effort. She told me where to find you. I arrived just in the nick of time, before anyone got hurt.” He looked at Ricky. “Well, close enough.”

Patrick smiled at me, very pleased with himself. It wasn’t only the elders he wanted to win gratitude from.

I pretended not to be impressed, and said only, “Gabriel’s hurt, too. He’ll be fine to accompany you, but he can’t carry Ricky. That’ll be your job.”

His brows shot up. I hauled Tristan to his feet and led him out.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

After Patrick finished with Tristan, “Jon Childs” turned himself in and confessed, and Patrick promised that Tristan would give the police evidence they needed to be certain he murdered James.

The next day, I went to the jail to confront Pamela.

Pamela now. Not my mother. Maybe never again my mother.

I didn’t know how to process what Tristan said she’d done. I wanted to say it wasn’t true. He was fae—he couldn’t be trusted. But I knew it was true. In my gut, I knew.

Gabriel drove me to the jail, but I left him outside. This I had to do alone.

I don’t remember walking into that room. Don’t remember sitting. I do remember Pamela coming out, that moment when a two-year-old girl in my soul screamed, How could you? and I had to squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists, banish that girl, and remember I was not Eden Larsen. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones. My mother was Lena Taylor. My ex-fiancé was James Morgan, deceased. My boss—and, yes, friend—was Gabriel Walsh, framed for a murder he did not commit. Framed by the woman sitting in front of me.

“I know everything,” I said as she sat.

She sighed. That was her reaction. A sigh, and a shake of her head, as if I were a child coming to her with some vicious rumor. “I don’t know what you mean, Olivia, but whatever it is—”

“It was you. Not Todd. Pamela Larsen. Not my dad.”

And that, perhaps, was the second-worst thing I could have said to her, the way I phrased that, and she flinched, and then I added the worst, a lie I needed to tell: “Dad confessed . . . after I told him how you tried to blame him.”

Pamela reeled then, and all I could think was, Good. I’m glad I hurt you, for all the ways you hurt them: my father, James, Gabriel. And me. Yes, for all the ways you’ve hurt me.

“You think you did it for me,” I said. “But you know what wasn’t about me? James.”

“Wh-what?”

I lowered my voice so the guard across the room wouldn’t hear. “You conspired with Tristan to kill James and frame Gabriel.”

It took her a moment to say, “I don’t know what you mean,” and that moment’s hesitation answered any remaining question I had.

“Gabriel was your best shot at freedom,” I said, struggling against the rage that swirled through me. “He would have gotten you out. We would have—Gabriel and I, together. You screwed yourself over. You get that, don’t you?”

She shook her head, and I understood then. I understood that it didn’t matter. That her hatred of fae was pathological, and it wasn’t so much because Gabriel was part fae—so was she—but that his role, as Gwynn, was to bring me to the Tylwyth Teg, and she could not allow that. As for freeing her, she didn’t believe that would happen, not really. After all, she was guilty. I suspected she’d only rehired him to keep him close enough to watch and to have some control over him, as leverage to separate him from me, which had failed. Step two, then, was more permanent.

“Why James?” I said, forcing as much calm into my voice as I could muster. “What did he do?”

“He was obsessed with you. I saw that when he came to speak to me. I didn’t mean for that spriggan to kill him. I only wanted him hurt enough to scare him off.”