Patrick walked over and looked down at Tristan. “Nicely done, Liv. You took my instruction well. After both you and Gabriel called today, asking about spriggan, I knew something was up. Fortunately, Gabriel was more forthcoming with a name. Tristan’s associate, Alis, supplied the rest after some effort. She told me where to find you. I arrived just in the nick of time, before anyone got hurt.” He looked at Ricky. “Well, close enough.”

Patrick smiled at me, very pleased with himself. It wasn’t only the elders he wanted to win gratitude from.

I pretended not to be impressed, and said only, “Gabriel’s hurt, too. He’ll be fine to accompany you, but he can’t carry Ricky. That’ll be your job.”

His brows shot up. I hauled Tristan to his feet and led him out.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

After Patrick finished with Tristan, “Jon Childs” turned himself in and confessed, and Patrick promised that Tristan would give the police evidence they needed to be certain he murdered James.

The next day, I went to the jail to confront Pamela.

Pamela now. Not my mother. Maybe never again my mother.

I didn’t know how to process what Tristan said she’d done. I wanted to say it wasn’t true. He was fae—he couldn’t be trusted. But I knew it was true. In my gut, I knew.

Gabriel drove me to the jail, but I left him outside. This I had to do alone.

I don’t remember walking into that room. Don’t remember sitting. I do remember Pamela coming out, that moment when a two-year-old girl in my soul screamed, How could you? and I had to squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists, banish that girl, and remember I was not Eden Larsen. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones. My mother was Lena Taylor. My ex-fiancé was James Morgan, deceased. My boss—and, yes, friend—was Gabriel Walsh, framed for a murder he did not commit. Framed by the woman sitting in front of me.

“I know everything,” I said as she sat.

She sighed. That was her reaction. A sigh, and a shake of her head, as if I were a child coming to her with some vicious rumor. “I don’t know what you mean, Olivia, but whatever it is—”

“It was you. Not Todd. Pamela Larsen. Not my dad.”

And that, perhaps, was the second-worst thing I could have said to her, the way I phrased that, and she flinched, and then I added the worst, a lie I needed to tell: “Dad confessed . . . after I told him how you tried to blame him.”

Pamela reeled then, and all I could think was, Good. I’m glad I hurt you, for all the ways you hurt them: my father, James, Gabriel. And me. Yes, for all the ways you’ve hurt me.

“You think you did it for me,” I said. “But you know what wasn’t about me? James.”