Gabriel grumbled under his breath. The fact Gabriel had a legit job made him one of the few “white sheep” in the Walsh family. So, yes, I was sure relatives showed up now and then, in need of his services. Which he would happily give, providing they could pay his fees.

“Prospects?” he said to Lydia.

Lydia’s look said this one wouldn’t be paying her bills anytime soon.

“I’ll get rid of her,” I said.

Gabriel hesitated. While he hated relinquishing control, this was the efficient solution. Also, listening to some distant relative sob on his sofa was both terribly awkward and a pointless waste of billable hours.

“The sooner we get rid of her, the sooner we can get to work on our appeal strategy,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.”

He nodded. “All right. I’ll go get you a mocha. Lydia?”

“Chai latte, please,” she said.

As Lydia opened the office door, I raised my voice and said, “So, yeah, don’t expect Gabriel anytime soon. This courthouse issue could take all day. We need to—”

I stopped short, as if Lydia hadn’t mentioned a client in the reception area. When I got a look at the woman, though, I didn’t need to feign my shock.

I couldn’t guess at her age. Maybe sixty, but in a haggard, hard-living way that suggested the truth was about a decade younger. Her coloring matched Gabriel’s, what his great-aunt Rose called “black Irish”—pale skin, blue eyes, and wavy black hair. She also had the sturdy Walsh build that Gabriel shared with Rose, along with their square face, widow’s peak, and pale blue eyes.

Yet I already knew this woman claimed to be a relative, so it wasn’t the resemblance that stopped me in my tracks.

I’d seen her face before. In the photo of a dead woman.

I had to be mistaken, of course. The dead woman had also been a Walsh, so there was a strong resemblance—that’s all.

I walked over, hand extended as she rose. “I’m—”

“The infamous Eden Larsen,” she said, and my hackles rose. I am Eden Larsen, as much as I’m Olivia Taylor-Jones. But calling me by my birth name is the social equivalent of a smirk and a smackdown. I know who you really are, Miss Larsen.

I responded with the kind of smile I learned from my adoptive mother. The smile of a society matron plucking the dagger from her back and calmly wiping off the blood before it stains.

“It’s Olivia,” I said. “And you are?”

A smile played at her lips, and that smile did more than raise my hackles. My gut twisted, and I wanted to shove her out the door. Just grab her arm and muscle her out before she said another word.

“I’m Seanna Walsh,” she said. “Gabriel’s mother.”

CHAPTER TWO