Gifted: A Holiday Anthology Read Online Free PDF Page A

mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name—Gabriel Walsh—a Chicago address and the words “Law Firm.”
    Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn’t care to give.
    “You work for a lawyer,” I said. When one brow arched, I continued, “Whatever your boss—”
    “I don’t have a boss, Ms. Jones.”
    He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.
    I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.
    “Oh,” I said.
    “A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one.”
    I glanced up sharply. “You were—?”
    “Not her original lawyer, of course.” He wasn’t old enough for that. “I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately.”
    “I wouldn’t say that’s unfortunate at all.”
    His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.
    “I suppose she sent you,” I said. “That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her—”
    “I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied.”
    “And now you want to get her back.”
    “No, I was fired only because she didn’t give me time to quit.”
    “I really do need to be going,” I said as I hefted my paper bag. “If you’ll excuse—”
    “I’ve come with a business proposition.” He turned toward Rowan Street. “There’s a coffee shop down the road. The food isn’t as good as the diner’s, but it’s quieter.”
    He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.
    “How did you find me?” I said.
    “I had a tip.” He waved toward the psychic’s house. “Now, about that coffee . . . ?”
    I shook my head, said, “Not interested.” I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.
    “You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . .”
    “You’ll help me gain control of those assets,” I said, still walking. “For a price.”
    “Fifty percent.” He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he’s honest.
    “Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren’t they?”
    “Their families.” He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, “The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones.”
    I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.
    “I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you—”
    “No, I’m just taking some time away.”
    “Oh?” He looked around. “So this is where you usually come on vacation?”
    I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan—the one in front of the fire hydrant.
    “May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?”
    “I know what poverty is.”
    “Do you? My mistake then.”
    I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn’t me she was looking at.
    “Gabriel.”
    “Grace. I brought you a scone.” He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty