But John Thiroux was a mystery, and Sara’s research skills weren’t up to the task of ferreting him out. Maybe he was innocent, maybe he had just moved a lot, and historical records were spotty, but it still seemed more and more likely to her that John Thiroux had killed Anne, and that it had been planned. He had brought his bowie knife and slashed Anne to death intentionally, counting on his position in society and his remaining in the room to guarantee he wouldn’t be charged with the crime.

Nothing else made sense to her.

Unless he really had been passed out and someone else had come in and murdered Anne. But why?

No answers, only questions.

Hungry and tired, Sara left the archives room with her notebook crammed with harried notes, and went outside. The sun felt warm on her chilled arms and she sat on the steps, pulling out her cell phone. It was hard to feel afraid when there were people rushing around downtown in every direction, the sun was shining, and she had the comfort of knowing she didn’t have to go home to an empty apartment. Gabriel would be there, and God, she liked that.

It was a dangerous feeling, an emotional crutch, a kick in the teeth of her independence, a mockery of her strength, but she liked the rhythm of being around another human being. Liked the ability to say a thought out loud and have someone there to hear it. Liked the sound of movement, his feet echoing across the hardwood, his throat clearing, the crack of his knuckles when he was thinking, and the growing familiarity of his smile, the toss of his head to rid his eyes of dangling hair, his always clean smell. Liked knowing that it didn’t have to be difficult with him, that silence was okay. And she liked waking up with the solid presence of a man beside her, since he’d insisted she sleep, platonically, in his bed with him. It should have felt uncomfortable, overly intimate, but it didn’t. The fear stayed small, contained, in its locked box when she was around Gabriel, and sharing an apartment, her thoughts, her life with him seemed altogether so easy that she was afraid to think about it too much and what that might mean.

She had never lived with a man other than the occasional weekend or vacation spent with a boyfriend. She’d never experienced true cohabitation with a man, just being together, moving in and out of the day’s routine, each other’s space, living and working and coexisting. At twenty-nine, staying with Gabriel, she realized she was ready for that.

Of course, she couldn’t have that with him. It was an illusion, a fantasy. They were both barely hanging on. They’d just fall over the edge faster if they were hanging on to each other.