“That’s all I asked.” He turned his gaze my way, just for a second, empty eyes meeting mine; then he returned to his office.

I slid my chair up to Lydia’s desk. “He’s lost three clients because of me?”

“Three minor clients, with minor cases. Since Edgar Chandler’s confession, I’m fielding a half-dozen calls from potential clients a day. He’s not mentioning that part because he’s fuming about something. I take it you two had a falling-out?”

“Actually, no. There’s a reason he might be annoyed with me, but this is beyond annoyance.”

“Then it’s stress. It’ll pass.”

Maybe, but if he was that upset with me, working it out might decrease his stress.

I rapped on his door. When he didn’t answer, I turned the handle.

“Yes?” he said, voice crackling with such irritation you’d think I’d pranced in ahead of a marching band.

“Can we talk?”

He waved a hand across his desk, covered in files.

I closed the door behind me. “I wanted to apologize.”

“I’m busy, Olivia.” An emphatic gesture at his desk.

“If you’re upset about last night . . .”

“Why would I be?” He lifted those empty blue eyes to mine. “First I had to stop you from going to the Carew house—”

“No, I was coming back on my own. I realized I was doing something stupid—”

“Then you went and had a vision anyway, knowing how I felt about it.”

“I was sitting on a bench. The vision came—”

“I do not have time for this, Olivia. You can see the state of my business . . . in addition to the murder charge I now face.”

“After weeks of telling me that you’re helping because you want to—and because it’ll further your career—you’ve suddenly decided I’m ruining that career?”

“I did not say—”

“Bullshit.” I strode over and put my hands on his desk. “You are in a pissy, pissy mood. Lydia says you’re stressed. Completely understandable. But do not take it out on me. Yes, maybe I didn’t handle last night as well as I should have. I apologize for that.”

“I have work to do, Olivia.” His eyes were ice-cold. “And if you intend to keep your job, I might suggest you do as well.”

The temptation to quit then and there was almost overwhelming. Instead, I straightened, said, “Yes, sir,” and walked out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I pored over Pamela’s file for a while longer before deciding to do some legwork. Traffic was good, and in thirty minutes I made it to my destination: the home of Jon Childs, the man Chandler had wanted us to kill.

I hopped out of the car and cut across the lawn, because whoever set up the underground sprinkler system apparently thought the walkway needed water instead. That’s when I kicked a sparrow.