He put his shades back on. “It’s beginning to seem prudent. May we take my car? I feel yours would be safer overnight in the parking lot.”

“Overnight?”

“Hypothetically.”

—

Back at the condo, we talked. Gabriel wasn’t convinced that I was right about my parents’ guilt. But that was his job, wasn’t it? Could he properly defend Pamela if he knew she’d committed the crimes?

“Most of the clients I defend are guilty,” he said. “They pay me to introduce reasonable doubt to the contrary. Which I do.”

“But if Pamela did it, how can I help you with her appeal?”

“I don’t believe that’s your decision to make.”

He was right, of course. Pamela was his client. I was his employee.

After a moment of silence, he said, “Your job is to investigate a case thoroughly and completely, and to bring me all evidence arguing for and against acquittal. What I do with that information is not your concern.”

“In general, I don’t have a problem with that,” I said. “Everyone is entitled to a defense, and it’s up to the prosecution to prove their case. But if you ask me to help free a sociopath or a rapist—”

“I don’t take those cases. Too many complications. But there are cases with ethical quandaries, even for me. You will always have the choice of refusing.”

“But with Pamela . . . This is different.”

“Remember that your birth parents have spent twenty-two years in prison. Whatever they did, one might argue that they’ve paid their debt. And pose no danger to society.”

Which they don’t if they killed to protect me. If, in some twisted way, that was their motive—

I got up and walked to the window.

“If you need to use the bathroom . . .” he began.

I turned a hard look on him. “I’m not going to puke on your floor, Gabriel. I just need—” I glanced at the door.

“If you want fresh air or a brisk walk, then I will gladly accompany you, but if your goal is to escape me and react in private, the answer is no.” He headed for his wall cabinet. “This is a difficult subject, and we are going to abandon it immediately in favor of . . .” He pulled out a bottle.

“I don’t need—”

“Stop.” His gaze met mine. “You don’t like me attempting to control a situation, but it works both ways. If you are upset, and you don’t allow me to stay with you or offer you a drink, then where do you leave me? Sitting and staring awkwardly as you suffer, which is exactly the reaction that will bother you the most.”

“I’m sorry.”

He poured two drinks. “I’m not asking you to be sorry, Olivia. I’m asking you to allow me to give you this”—he handed me a glass—“and not to argue about it.”