“Okay . . .”

“Let’s get back to this, shall we?” She poked at the powder again. “Monkshood to warn you that danger is near. Yellow carnation for rejection. Rhododendron telling you to beware.”

“In other words, a no-holds-barred ‘scram and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’ Could it be Grace? She has a key to my apartment.”

Rose shook her head. “The only complaint she’s made is about your cat, and even then, she’s only grumbling. For Grace, that’s as close to a seal of endorsement as you’ll get.”

She looked at the photos again. “Let me think on this and see if the cards will provide direction. In the meantime, I heard that my nephew brought you that gun?”

I nodded.

“Good. Keep it close.”

• • •

Saturday was my day off. Dr. Evans had e-mailed me the evening before to get my work schedule. He was working on setting up some interviews for the next week. He’d also invited me over Sunday, to talk some more if I wanted. I hadn’t given him an answer yet, but I planned to go. Talking to him did help.

Having no plans for the day, I decided to sleep in . . . and my phone rang at seven thirty.

I checked the number. A Chicago-area one I didn’t recognize.

I answered.

“Ms. Lars—” a woman began. She stopped herself. “My apologies. Ms. Jones?”

“Yes . . .”

“This is Dr. Yvonne Escoda. I was contacted by the office of Gabriel Walsh, in regards to your medical files.”

After the hospital visit, I’d made an offhand comment to Gabriel that I should really get my old medical records. The conversation hadn’t gone any further. Had he placed the call before I fired him? Or after . . .

“Ms. Jones?”

“Sorry. This is just unexpected. Mr. Walsh no longer represents me. When did he call?”

“Yesterday. His admin assistant didn’t mention that you were a client. She said you were a friend, and he was doing this as a favor.”

Damn it.

Dr. Escoda went on. “Regardless of the circumstances, Mr. Walsh discovered that my father had been your primary physician. He had arranged a meeting at my office this morning to deliver your records to you.” She paused. “We do have a file for Eden Larsen. Daughter of Pamela and Todd Larsen. Born 1987.”

“That’d be me.”

“It ends when you were nearly two. Your parents decided to take you to another physician. I believe they’d moved and our office was no longer convenient. Normally, the file would have been transferred, but there’s no record of that.”

“So you only have my early file. That’s fine.”

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t. The file we have for Eden Larsen can’t be yours. The child in it had spina bifida. If you were her, you’d be in a wheelchair by now, which you are not, as I understand.”

“Definitely not. So your father mixed up the records?”

“I . . . I cannot imagine him doing that, but someone has made an error.”

She went on to assure me that her staff was searching old records for the file that belonged to me. She promised she would contact me as soon as it was found.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

I stood there, holding the phone, feeling . . . pissed. Yes, I was pissed. Unreasonably so, really. I’d only thought in passing of getting my preadoption medical records and had promptly forgotten mentioning it to Gabriel. But now that my files seemed to be lost, I wanted them. Or, at least, I wanted to know that I’d be able to get them if necessary.

When a knock sounded at the door, I walked over and opened it on autopilot. I saw Gabriel and I completely forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be there, and all I thought was thank God. Gabriel was here, and he’d know what to do about this.

Then I noticed he was holding coffees. Definitely not his usual MO. Which is when I remembered that I’d fired him. In the same moment, I remembered what Dr. Escoda said, about Gabriel setting up an appointment for me to get my medical records. Which is why he was here. To take me to that appointment. To present his peace offering.

“Hey,” I said. “Come on in.”

He hesitated, as if surprised.

“Dr. Escoda called,” I said.

“Ah.”

He handed me a coffee. I took a sip. A mocha, made exactly the way I liked it.

Rose had said Gabriel wanted this job. Apparently, he really wanted it. There was a moment where I paused and wondered if his eagerness was a tad suspicious. I couldn’t see any nefarious motivation for wanting back on the case. Money and the chance to free notorious serial killers was quite enough.

“You’d mentioned wanting those records,” Gabriel said. “So I got them. As . . .”

“An apology?”

His lips tightened at the word. “A conciliatory gesture.”

“No apology then?”

He said nothing, but his look asked if I really wanted to go there.

“I appreciate your trying to get my records,” I said. “Even if the doctor’s office apparently has lost them.”

“What?”

I explained, then said, “Do records routinely go missing? Should I be concerned?”

“Concerned that it’s not a mere clerical error? That someone has purposely hidden your file?” He sat at the dinette. “I don’t think so, but I’ll see how common this is. If it isn’t, there may be grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Um, no. I wouldn’t sue for a clerical error.” At least, I wouldn’t as long as I was confident I’d get my trust fund on my next birthday.

“I will investigate in any event,” he said. “I also have a lead on Pamela’s case.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“A gentleman never reveals his sources.”

“Which is why I’m not asking one.”

He tapped his coffee cup. “I have a friend in the state attorney’s office,” he said finally.

“You mean a contact you’ve groomed into thinking he’s a friend.”

“It was his idea.”

I smiled. “I’m sure it was.”

“In this case, I provided information that he wanted. Information of negligible value obtained through an informant, not a client. Perfectly legitimate. In return, I gave him a very strict set of parameters on what I was looking for in the Larsen case, and he found something. A friend of Peter Evans reported that Peter had learned something shortly before his death. Something that upset him greatly.”