Surprised, I frowned. "You knew about the Foxes' troubles with Dawson?"
Owen nodded. "Eva told me about it. I offered to intercede on Warren's behalf, but he wouldn't hear of it. Grumpy old bastard."
"Warren T. Fox is definitely all that."
We shared a smile, and for the first time, a bit of hope flickered in my chest. Because instead of the cold disgust I'd expected to see, warm respect filled Owen's violet eyes. He kept studying me, that strange, thoughtful expression on his face once more.
"You don't remember me, do you, Gin?" Owen asked.
I raised my eyebrows at the sudden change in conversation. "Should I?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I'm a sentimental fool, but when a girl saves your life, you hope she remembers you after the fact."
I'd saved Owen Grayson's life? When had that happened? And why had I done it in the first place? I wasn't in the habit of saving anyone but myself. My eyes narrowed. "Sorry. Not ringing any bells."
The corner of his lips lifted into a half smile. "I thought not. Given all the other... excitement you've confessed to just tonight, I suppose I shouldn't be disappointed."
I just stared at him, searching my memory for anything that would tell me what he was talking about, but I came up blank. As far as I could remember, the first time I'd ever set eyes on Owen Grayson was the night he'd come to the Pork Pit to pick up Eva after Jake McAllister had tried to rob the restaurant. Oh sure, I'd seen his picture in the newspaper and his face on the evening news, since he was one of the movers and shakers in Ashland. But that night in the restaurant was the first time I'd ever been up close and personal with him.
Owen sighed, walked around the desk, and sat down on the far edge. He gestured for me to do the same, so I perched on the opposite corner.
"I don't know how much you know about me, Gin, but my parents died in a fire when I was a teenager. There wasn't any money or insurance or other relatives we could stay with, so Eva and I were out on the streets. She was little more than a baby then."
I knew what it was like to live on the mean streets of Ashland. Cold, hard, depressing, constantly cowering in dark corners so the bigger and stronger wouldn't decide to take an interest in you. It had been hard enough by myself at thirteen. I couldn't imagine being responsible for someone else as well back then.
"Anyway," Owen said. "We didn't have any money for food, so I begged mostly or stole what I could. One night, I found myself in the alley behind this barbecue restaurant near Southtown. It was winter and cold, and Eva and I hadn't eaten in days."
A tiny flicker of memory sparked to life in the back of my mind. A fuzzy image that I'd all but forgotten. I remembered that snowy winter-and the scrawny teenager I'd seen behind the Pork Pit one night, digging through the cold trash for something to eat.
"The back door of the restaurant opened, and this girl stepped out, carrying a black trash bag. She was a few years younger than me," Owen said in a low voice. "She saw me digging through the trash and stopped. Then she spotted Eva huddled across the alley in this little crack in the wall that I'd set her down in. The girl stared at Eva, then at me for the longest time."
The image sharpened in my mind. A boy wearing tattered clothes, his hands raw, red, and chapped from the cold. And a little girl, bundled up tight in layers of rags, staring at me with her big, blue eyes that reminded me so much of Bria's curious gaze. The surprise of seeing her in my old hiding spot, in the little crack between buildings where I'd slept so many nights in the frosty air.
My stomach twisted now, here in Owen's office, just as it had done that night.
"The girl went back inside. I thought she was going to get the owner of the restaurant. That he'd tell us to move on-or worse call the cops and report us. Instead, she came back with this cardboard box. The top of it had been cut off, and the girl had stuffed the whole thing with food. More food than I'd seen in weeks." Owen's eyes never left mine as he spoke. "More food than Eva and I had eaten in weeks."
I remembered the warmth of the Pork Pit that night. How I'd grabbed the box from one of the rooms in the back and raced into the storefront, packing up all the sandwiches and beans and fries and cookies that hadn't been eaten that day. How I'd been filled with some terrible emotion I couldn't explain, that the only thing I could do to get rid of it was to try and help that little lost girl in the alley. Fletcher Lane had been sitting behind the cash register, reading one of his many books. He'd watched me box up the food in silence, his bright green eyes filled with thoughts I couldn't begin to comprehend.
"And how did you come to the conclusion that it was me? That I was the one who gave you some food that night? That was years ago." My low tone didn't completely disguise the emotion that thickened my voice.
"Because after I took the box from the girl, she handed me a jacket," Owen continued. "A black leather jacket nicer than anything I'd ever owned, even when my parents had been alive."
Finn's jacket. I'd grabbed it from the coat rack on my way back out to the alley. He'd just bought the coat a few days ago, and he'd been pissed when he'd realized that I'd given it away. To the point where he'd started around the counter after me. One of the many times Fletcher had to separate us, in the beginning.
"After she gave me the jacket, the girl turned to go back inside, but I reached out and grabbed her hand," Owen said, his own voice raspy now. "She let me hold her hand maybe three seconds before she jerked away from me and went back inside. But that was long enough for me to feel the metal in her hand-the silverstone embedded in her flesh."
I remembered that cold, faint, desperate touch. It had burned me in a way nothing else ever had, not even when Mab Monroe had melted the spider rune into my palms in the first place. I'd gone back inside the restaurant, not quite crying. Fletcher hadn't said a word. The old man had just sat there reading his book, waiting for me to compose myself once more. After I'd told him what I'd done, Fletcher had just nodded his head and gone back to his book. We never spoke of it again.
Owen reached over, picked up my cold hand, and turned it over, so my palm was face up, the spider rune scar visible for all to see.
"Just like the silverstone you have in your palms, Gin," he said. "I've known it was you from the moment I shook your hand that first night at the Pork Pit. And I've been watching you and trying to think of some way to repay you ever since."
"Why?" I asked. "So I felt sorry for you one night and gave you some food. So what?"