Gabriel moved so fast I stumbled as the bracing wall of him disappeared. I turned to see a young man, maybe thirty. Though he wore a suit, he wasn’t a mourner—his tie was loose, the top button undone, his cheeks unshaven.

Gabriel took his phone. As he’d warned, he did not do it gently, yet the reporter was still caught off guard and jerked back in surprise as the cell vanished from his hand.

“You can’t—”

“I did.”

Gabriel flipped through the pictures. The reporter had been snapping shots from a distance, slowly closing in. Gabriel removed the SIM card, again so quickly that the reporter could do no more than yelp in protest.

“Jesus!” The man leapt forward. “You can’t—”

“I did.” Gabriel tucked the SIM card into his pocket. Then he forced a factory reset on the phone and handed it back. “Now leave. This is a funeral, and I won’t allow you to cause a scene.”

“Me? You just—”

“I avoided a scene, one where you invaded a mourner’s privacy and I was forced to take more serious action to stop you. Now turn around and leave.”

He did, grumbling and cursing Gabriel.

“Thank you,” I said when the reporter was gone.

“I’m simply relieved it didn’t escalate to violence given . . .” He nodded toward the crowd of mourners.

“Witnesses,” I said.

A twist of a smile. “I meant because it’s a funeral.”

“That, too.”

He gave my shoulder a light squeeze before turning me back toward the service, letting me lean against him once more.

As soon as it ended, I said, “We should go before anyone else notices us.”

“Hmm.”

I followed the angle of his shades to see a cameraman and reporter heading our way, another crew following behind.

We moved at Gabriel’s long-legged march until he realized that I had to jog to keep up. He slowed before we called more attention to ourselves. But the moment we’d set out with a half-dozen reporters in tow, it was like the wake behind a powerboat, spreading behind us, alerting every reporter nearby. Some of them had no compunctions about running. As they closed in, Gabriel’s hand went to my back and his other lifted, ready to warn off anyone who came too close. No one did. That hand was enough.

I kept my face lowered, slipped on sunglasses plucked from my purse, moving quickly as cameras snapped and reporters called questions from all sides. Gabriel didn’t acknowledge them. We just kept going until . . .

Until we saw the new Jag . . . with police cruisers parked in front of and behind it.

Despite Gabriel’s shades, I swore I saw him aiming blast rays at those cars, his jaw tight enough to snap teeth.

Two officers were heading straight for us.

“Gabriel Walsh?” one said as he drew near.

“Yes,” Gabriel said.