That struck Gabriel as completely odd, given the quote he’d read in the online article. He was tempted to open it in the folder he’d stored it in on his computer and read it to Sara, but he resisted. “So, in your opinion, where did the investigation into your mother’s death go wrong?”

Sara hesitated. “I don’t know. I understand it wasn’t an easy case. There was no trace evidence really . . . no semen, no blood that didn’t belong to my mother, no fingerprints other than the one print of Rafe’s. There were no witnesses, no unusual cars, no noise, no strange activity around the house in the days leading up to the murder. The blinds were closed, the window closed. No one saw or heard anything.”

Gabriel had to ask, just like she had asked about John Thiroux. “Why don’t you doubt Rafe? What makes you so sure he didn’t do it?”

“Because he loved my mother. He’s a doctor. He’s a very charming, protective, healer type of personality.” Sara glanced down at her computer, shoving it off her lap. Then she met his gaze. “I can’t be wrong. He just couldn’t have done it. Because if I am wrong, that means I have no ability to judge a killer from a nice guy.”

So that was the real root of her stubbornness. No one wanted to think that someone they had cared about, spent time with, championed, could have been lying to them, conning them, their smile hiding a heart filled with evil intentions. “Sara, if he is guilty, then it’s not your fault for not recognizing it. It isn’t. Remember when we talked about psychopaths? They’re charming, attractive, and they fool everyone. That’s how they’re able to kill and get away with it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. Don’t you see how if it was Rafe, which I really, truly don’t think it was, that I would feel like I should have known? Should have done something to prevent it?”

“I know. But you can’t do that to yourself. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

“That’s very easy for you to say. You don’t have any guilt to live with.”

That was a ridiculous, sick understatement. “You think I don’t have any guilt?” Gabriel dropped his arms and scoffed. “My guilt could fill the Superdome. You asked me why I write true crime books? It’s retribution. My lame, half-ass attempt to make up for the fact that my girlfriend was killed and I didn’t, couldn’t stop it.”