I thought of another reason he might be exhausted, another source of stress. One I was much more comfortable with, because it had nothing to do with me.

I turned from the window. “Has he identified the photos of his mother yet?”

“Photos of his mother?”

“At the police station.”

As a crease furrowed between her eyes, I realized he’d never told her.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I thought—You should ask him about it.”

I started for the stairs, mumbling about my morning shift. She stepped into my path.

“Olivia. What are you talking about?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Yes, you should. And you will. What is this about Gabriel’s mother?”

I hesitated, but I could tell by her expression it would be cruel to walk away without explaining. So I told her.

“It might not have even been a photo of Seanna,” I said as I finished. “Will Evans was clearly trying to separate me from Gabriel and—”

She walked to her desk and opened a drawer.

I continued. “Gabriel might have already established it wasn’t Seanna, which is why he never mentioned it to you, and—”

She handed me a small photo album, opened to photos of Gabriel. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen. He had his wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and strong features—too intense for a gangly, acne-pocked adolescent. What I recognized most, though, was his expression. Wary, as if he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. But there was challenge there, too, a hardness already. As if he was hoping for provocation. An excuse to run. To escape.

The photo Rose wanted me to see, though, was in the top corner.

“Seanna,” I whispered.

“Is that who you saw?”

I nodded. Rose lowered herself into a chair.

“Dead,” she whispered. “All this time, she was dead.” Grief crossed her face, but she blinked it back. “This would explain some of the strain.”

“Maybe a lot of it.”

She shook her head. “It’s not as if this means he’ll now realize his mother was a good woman who didn’t abandon him. How much do you know about the situation?”

I told her.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I let it happen,” she said.

“No, Evans told me Gabriel didn’t let on Seanna had disappeared, and when you found out, he ran. He kept going until he was over eighteen. Too old for anyone to put him in foster care. Presumably you wouldn’t have gotten custody. That’s what Evans said.”

“I wouldn’t. I have a criminal record.” She glanced over, as if gauging my reaction. When I gave none, she continued, “I was also living with a woman at the time. I’d have given her up in a heartbeat for Gabriel, but the fact remains that I would not have been deemed a suitable parent. As for Seanna, I knew she wasn’t making an honest living, but for a Walsh, I’d have been more shocked if she was. There’d been drugs in her youth, but she told me she gave that up when Gabriel was born, and she hid the signs from me. I only knew she was not a good mother. She neglected him. Yet even there, I couldn’t prove anything. There was no obvious physical abuse or anything like that. She was just a lousy parent, and there are plenty of those.”

She fussed with the blinds before continuing. “Gabriel certainly wouldn’t give me more ammunition. He was as stubborn as a child as he is now. If I interfered, Seanna would refuse me access to him. So I told myself that being a good aunt was enough, that taking him when I could was enough. After she disappeared, I learned the rest, from the police. The addictions—to drugs, to alcohol, to men. And the disappearances. By the time she left, she’d been taking off for weeks at a time. Even now, Gabriel won’t confirm that. He doesn’t talk about it. Refuses. Push, and I’ll stop hearing from him for a while.”

“So about this . . . confirming her death. I shouldn’t push?”

“No, he has to do it, which means he’ll need a push. You might be the only person who can get away with it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I expected my diner shift to be stressful, given that I’d found the body of a former resident the night before. The elders did speak to me about it, expressing their horror and grief in whispers, along with sympathy that I’d had to go through that. The others didn’t mention it. I supposed that wasn’t so shocking. Chief Burton had said Ciara’s body would be transferred to the city for the autopsy. That meant the news wouldn’t hit the Chicago papers until tomorrow. Apparently, the elders weren’t breaking the news until the city did.

Gabriel presumed the CPD would want more than the statement I gave Burton, but he was their contact, and he was in court all day, so I heard nothing.

When three o’clock came, I was in the back with Susie for our shift change. The idea is to update the evening server for a smooth handoff, but there’s usually nothing to say, so Susie tells me about her day. One of her kids had won the school spelling bee—they still have spelling bees?—and I was listening to her story of the victory when the diner doorbell jingled. There wasn’t any need to cut her short for that—it’s a “seat yourself” kind of place.

When the bell dinged, the diner had been buzzing with the tea-hour crowd. Now it went silent. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

“Can we help you?” I heard Ida ask.

“Is Liv around?”

I recognized the voice but stood there for a second, trying to figure out why Ricky was here.

Because I’d invited him.

Shit. I’d totally forgotten. Normally we texted a few times a day, but he’d had a full schedule. Susie was still talking, and I didn’t want to interrupt. The elders would make him feel welcome.

“How do you know Olivia?” It was Walter . . . and his tone was not welcoming.

“Don’t you read the papers?” Patrick cut in. “There was a nice photo of them in the Post yesterday. Rick Gallagher, isn’t it?”

“Yes . . .” Ricky said warily as I mentally willed Susie to hurry up with her story.

“He’s one of Gabriel’s clients,” Patrick said. “A Satan’s Saints biker. See the patch on his jacket? That says he’s a certified motorcycle gang member. Excuse the old folks, Rick. We don’t get many bikers in Cainsville.”