“Maybe I can’t either,” she said, her voice soft, sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” She had nothing to be sorry for.

But she winced at his vehemence and he felt like a complete asshole. “Sara, I’m sorry. Damn it, how did we wind up here?”

She just looked at him and said matter-of-factly, “Murder. That’s how we wound up here.”

It was so bold, so obvious, so harsh, that all his anger deflated. “That’s certainly true, isn’t it? And it sucks.”

She didn’t answer him. Instead she moved around him to his desk. “What are these?” She touched one of his spoons.

“Absinthe spoons.” Rather a disturbing little habit he had—to buy them whenever he ran across one in an antique or vintage shop—but it actually helped him. It kept his present life in perspective to have a constant reminder in front of him of his past.

“That’s what an absinthe spoon looks like? I had no idea . . .” She touched one, running her finger along the tip, frowning. “I was reading about them in the police reports, but I didn’t really know what one looked like. Why do you think John Thiroux had two spoons in the room with him? Why would he need two?”

“I don’t think he would, unless he was double-fisting drinks.” That had always perplexed Gabriel, but he had attributed it to the fact that Anne kept his spoons at the time. Maybe she had gotten one out, then forgotten and gotten another. Or maybe he had brought one with him for no apparent reason other than that the fleur-de-lis spoon had been his favorite, because it was wide in the middle due to the pattern and he didn’t spill any precious drops over the side when he poured.

“And why did one end up on the floor and not the other?”

“I’m sure he knocked it to the floor when he stood up to look at Anne.”

Sara was touching each spoon, making them swing back and forth. She was clearly thinking, their disagreement or burst of anger or whatever it had been clearly passed, forgotten. Suddenly she grabbed the one she’d been swinging and whirled around. “Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“If the crime was a crime of passion, not planned on the part of John Thiroux, why would he be carrying a bowie knife? Who carries a bowie knife in their pocket for no reason? Did John Thiroux hunt or fish?”

Gabriel almost snorted. Hardly. The extent of his sportsmanship had been driving, riding, and boxing. He had never had an interest in wildlife. “I don’t think so. He was an artist. Records indicate that drinking was his hobby, not gutting his catch of the day.”

“Then seriously, why would he be carrying a knife?”