I headed for a cab idling in front of the prison and climbed inside. Gabriel opened the other rear door, folded himself into the backseat, and gave the driver his address.

“Get the hell out,” I said. “Now.”

“I think you should both get out,” the driver said.

Gabriel handed him a hundred-dollar bill. The man pocketed it and put the car in drive.

Gabriel turned to me. “Earlier, I apologized for treating you poorly. While I know apologies are the normal way of expressing regret, I’ve never seen the point. In the rare instance that I do regret my actions, it would seem that the proper way to show it is through action. I behaved badly earlier. I am now making amends.”

“By stealing my keys and kidnapping me?”

He handed back my keys. I glowered at him.

“If you agree to return to my apartment with me, I’ll tell the driver to go back and we’ll take your car.”

“Oh, sorry, not kidnapping. Just coercion.”

“It’s a lesser charge.”

“Would stabbing you with my switchblade be a defensible action against that lesser charge?”

“No. However, as your lawyer, while I’m not supposed to advise you on how to commit a crime, I might suggest that if one wanted to stab a second party with one’s switchblade, one should wait until both parties have relocated to her car. That avoids witnesses”—he nodded at the driver—“and would allow her to claim defense against kidnapping, if the second party is driving.”

“I hate you.”

“So you’ve said. It’s situational. I don’t take it personally.”

“You should. I realize interpersonal relationships aren’t your forte, but a word of advice? You don’t fix problems by forcing people to do what you want.”

“Then I’ve been doing it wrong for a very long time. At immense profit and professional success.” He looked at me over his shades. “Perhaps you’re doing it wrong.”

“Gabriel . . .”

He removed his sunglasses. “While I cannot imagine otherwise wanting to force someone to spend time with me, I would concede that it’s probably not prudent—and certainly not legal—to do so. However, given that you are armed with both a knife and a gun, the choice is, ultimately, yours.”

“So you’ll understand if I stab or shoot you to escape?”

“Hypothetically, yes.”

The cabdriver cleared his throat. “I think I would like—”

“Take us back to the prison.” Gabriel turned to me. “It’s settled, then? You’ll come to my apartment?”

“Is that actually a request?”

He put his shades back on. “It’s beginning to seem prudent. May we take my car? I feel yours would be safer overnight in the parking lot.”

“Overnight?”

“Hypothetically.”

—

Back at the condo, we talked. Gabriel wasn’t convinced that I was right about my parents’ guilt. But that was his job, wasn’t it? Could he properly defend Pamela if he knew she’d committed the crimes?

“Most of the clients I defend are guilty,” he said. “They pay me to introduce reasonable doubt to the contrary. Which I do.”

“But if Pamela did it, how can I help you with her appeal?”

“I don’t believe that’s your decision to make.”

He was right, of course. Pamela was his client. I was his employee.

After a moment of silence, he said, “Your job is to investigate a case thoroughly and completely, and to bring me all evidence arguing for and against acquittal. What I do with that information is not your concern.”

“In general, I don’t have a problem with that,” I said. “Everyone is entitled to a defense, and it’s up to the prosecution to prove their case. But if you ask me to help free a sociopath or a rapist—”

“I don’t take those cases. Too many complications. But there are cases with ethical quandaries, even for me. You will always have the choice of refusing.”

“But with Pamela . . . This is different.”

“Remember that your birth parents have spent twenty-two years in prison. Whatever they did, one might argue that they’ve paid their debt. And pose no danger to society.”

Which they don’t if they killed to protect me. If, in some twisted way, that was their motive—

I got up and walked to the window.

“If you need to use the bathroom . . .” he began.

I turned a hard look on him. “I’m not going to puke on your floor, Gabriel. I just need—” I glanced at the door.

“If you want fresh air or a brisk walk, then I will gladly accompany you, but if your goal is to escape me and react in private, the answer is no.” He headed for his wall cabinet. “This is a difficult subject, and we are going to abandon it immediately in favor of . . .” He pulled out a bottle.

“I don’t need—”

“Stop.” His gaze met mine. “You don’t like me attempting to control a situation, but it works both ways. If you are upset, and you don’t allow me to stay with you or offer you a drink, then where do you leave me? Sitting and staring awkwardly as you suffer, which is exactly the reaction that will bother you the most.”

“I’m sorry.”

He poured two drinks. “I’m not asking you to be sorry, Olivia. I’m asking you to allow me to give you this”—he handed me a glass—“and not to argue about it.”