“I don’t want to. Not right now. Maybe later.” And what would change later to make her suddenly take the pictures to the police, she didn’t know, but she was having trouble being definitive. Changing the subject before he could reply, she said, “What do you think of that whole absinthism argument? Do you think that was a real syndrome? And could it have debilitated John Thiroux to the point where he wouldn’t have been able to use that bowie knife on Anne?”

Gabriel said, “I think absinthism was just a term given to alcohol addiction. I’m sure drinking excessively would result in blackouts with absinthe, like any other form of alcohol. As for hallucinations and delirium? I doubt they were true hallucinations. I think alone, absinthe acts mostly like a heightened alcohol drunk.”

Sara was sitting next to Gabriel on his couch, the food on the coffee table in front of them. Angel was perched on the window ledge, looking out at the courtyard. It was weird to her how comfortable she felt with him, in his apartment, in his life. Now that she knew about his girlfriend, saw clearly how he punished himself for her death, she knew it was a major concession for him to allow her in his space. And she wanted to help him move forward as much as she wanted that for herself. “I wish I knew exactly what that kind of drunk felt like. Can you still buy absinthe?”

“Yes. Mostly online.” Gabriel was no longer eating, but just shoving rice back and forth on his plate. “I have a bottle of it.”

“Why?” she asked him in surprise.

“Because I thought the same thing you did. That if I could know exactly what it felt like, I could determine for myself who was right. Thiroux maintained he was out cold and didn’t hear a thing. The prosecutor said that in a violent rage he sliced Anne Donovan to pieces. The coroner said a man under the influence couldn’t have exhibited the force necessary. I want to know. So I bought a bottle of absinthe.”

Sara stared at his profile. He was speaking with nonchalance, but she knew exactly what he was saying. “You can’t drink it and you know you can’t. It wouldn’t be worth it.”

“I know.” He dropped his chopsticks and pushed the plate away from him. “That’s why it’s sitting in my kitchen cabinet unopened.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Sara touched his knee, stroking the denim with her thumb, her heart aching for his pain, for hers. “But I can. I’ll drink it.” If he wanted to know badly enough that he had risked that kind of temptation, she could answer the question for him. Alcohol was not her demon.