“No, of course not. I would never do that without asking your permission. But I wouldn’t use crime scene photos anyway. And if I did want documents from your mother’s case I would have them sent to me, not you.”

That was true, that all made sense. “So who would send these to me?”

Even before the words were completely out, Sara felt fear creeping up. Someone knew where she was, her address. No one had access to those photos except the police and those involved in Rafe’s court case. She pulled the pile of photos back out of the envelope and found the one taken at a downward angle. Were these truly police shots of the scene or were they taken before the police arrived? By the killer.

“Oh, God, what if the murderer sent these to me?” Skin clammy, she looked around her apartment again. She hadn’t even checked the windows or the other rooms. Angel leaped off the couch, the movement startling her. “He knows where I am.”

“Sara, I’m coming over. What’s your address?”

“Uh . . .” She couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember her address. Maybe she’d never known it. The blood spatters in the picture she was clutching blurred, her head swimming, and she had the horrific realization that she was going to faint. She fought and clung to reality, forcing her eyes open and air into her lungs, groping for the wall. The black spots and the ringing in her ears retreated and she managed to stay standing.

Cramming the pictures back into the envelope again and closing the metal tabs, she dropped it onto the coffee table and shifted a magazine over top of it. “Sorry, I can’t remember my address. I just moved here.”

Like he didn’t know that. God, she was losing it. Yet she forced herself to pick up the envelope yet again and read off her address from the front to Gabriel. How ironic. The person who had sent her the photos knew where she was more than she did.

Gabriel could actually fly. He could manipulate air and space and the laws of physics with his immortal body and his demonic, bastardized angel powers. He was tempted to use his talents to reach Sara quicker, but he wasn’t sure how he would explain arriving without a car. He could also project his voice, his thoughts, into a mortal’s mind, and he could soothe Sara, offer words or comfort or reassurance, but the risk was that she would think the voices in her head were signs of insanity, and he certainly didn’t want that.

So he would have to be patient, and mortal, and he would have to drive his car on I-10 west like anyone else would under the circumstances.

Which didn’t make him at all happy.