“Oh God.”

My hands flew up. I had a mental flash of Pamela’s hands going to her mouth and yanked mine away.

I’d lived with her for the first few years of my life. When I’d seen her, there’d been no doubt how I’d once felt about Pamela Larsen. How much of her had I absorbed? How much did I still unknowingly emulate?

“Stop. Just stop,” I muttered, then wheeled and found Gabriel right behind me.

“Oh,” I said.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there, as if patiently waiting for me to finish my breakdown.

After a moment of silence, he said, “Would you like to . . . ?” and waved to a chair down the hall.

“No, I’m okay.”

“Take a moment then.”

“Really, I’m fine. She’s just not . . .”

“What you expected.”

“Not what I wanted.”

“Ah.” Another nod.

We stood there for a minute, then I said, “She thinks you ruined her appeal chances on purpose, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“That wouldn’t be in my best interests.”

“So why does she think it?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t win.”

“But you gave it your best shot.”

I expected another brow arch, to say of course he had, but he just stood there, cold eyes betraying nothing.

So what should I do? I wanted to ask. The impulse shamed me. Yet I suddenly felt very young and very lost and very confused. And Gabriel Walsh happened to be the only person here.

“Yes?” he said.

I shook my head. “I should get back in there.”

“If you like.”

He didn’t move, as if to say the choice was mine. We could still leave, despite my promise to return. I could run. Hide. Refuse to hear anything else she had to say.

I took a deep breath and said, “I’m ready.”

• • •

“I’d like you to do me a favor, Olivia,” Pamela said after I sat down again.

I tensed.

“I have a list of names. People who might be interested in fighting for a new appeal for your father and me.”

“Lawyers.”

She shot a pointed look at Gabriel. “We’re done with lawyers. We need help from someone less opportunistic. It’s a list of journalists and organizations who might be willing to take up our cause.”

“Nonprofit organizations?” I said carefully. “Like the Innocence Project?”

“Not them specifically. They only deal with wrongful convictions based on DNA. But nonprofit, yes. Specifically, the Center on Wrongful Convictions out of Northwestern, but I’ve listed some national organizations as well. I’d never ask you to spend a penny on us, Olivia. You’ve already lost too much by being our daughter. I’m not even asking you to plead our case with these people. Just to pass along the information.”

“Is there something specific you need them to look at? That’s how it works, isn’t it? There needs to be a specific problem with the conviction.”

Another glance at Gabriel. “It seems my daughter knows more about law than some who’ve passed the bar.” She turned back to me. “Yes, I have something specific for them. The murder of Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson.”

Niles Gunderson’s daughter. An image of the old man flashed in my memory, his eyes wild with crazed grief.

She continued. “There’s a reason we couldn’t have done it, which was overruled because of the other evidence that tied the cases together. It goes both ways, though. Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that for me, Olivia? Just pass on the case to these people? I’ve tried, but it’s so difficult contacting anyone from in here.”

I had to hold every muscle tight to keep from glancing at Gabriel for his opinion. I didn’t want to do anything for her. I shouldn’t. And yet, if these people could prove her innocent . . . If she could be innocent. Yet I shouldn’t think that. Shouldn’t dare to hope that.

For at least two minutes, I couldn’t answer, mired in doubt and fear. But then I realized it wasn’t about hoping she was innocent. It was about doing whatever it took to be sure that the jury had made the right decision, beyond doubt—reasonable or otherwise.

“Yes,” I said.

• • •

I wrote down the names of the organizations she wanted me to contact. Then our visiting time ended.

Before Pamela was taken back to her cell, she told Gabriel she’d transfer five thousand to his account, in partial payment of her bill. Each time he brought me to visit—of my own free will—she’d add another five thousand.

I could tell he didn’t like that. It was money owed to him, not payment for playing escort. But he agreed.

“Now I’d like a moment alone with my daughter,” she said.

The guard cleared her throat.

“You don’t count. I was talking to him. Out of the room this time.”

Gabriel adjusted his cuffs and leaned back in his chair.

“I’d like you to leave, Gabriel.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would. And I will next time. If the five thousand has found its way into my account.”

She glowered at him. Then she looked at me. I got to my feet. He stood then, too, and waited, expressionless.

Before I could step away, she rose. Her fingers brushed my wrist. I jumped. Gabriel moved forward so smoothly I didn’t notice until he was between us, his hand at my back, barely touching the fabric as he steered me toward the door, murmuring, “We should go.”

“You won’t keep me from her, Gabriel Walsh,” Pamela said.

Her voice was low. I didn’t turn to see her expression. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

“I don’t intend to,” Gabriel said. “But, sadly, our time is done today. I’ll leave my account number at the front, so you can transfer the money.”

“I have it.”

“I’ll leave it anyway. To ensure there’s no mistake.”

I said good-bye then and he ushered me out the door.

• • •

Before we’d gone into the prison, I’d told myself I’d call a cab for the ride home. No matter what the cost, I wasn’t riding with Gabriel. But by the time we did leave . . . ?