Found by the proprietress of the House of Rest for Weary Men, Madame Conti, in the victim’s own bed, the vision first conjured up images of the scene last October when poor Anne Donovan was found in a similar state just two rooms down the hall. But whereas Anne had been sliced repeatedly, with such brutality and force as to render her unrecognizable, Molly Faye suffered merely one wound, from the left side of her throat to the right, approximately six inches in length and of a shallow depth. Dr. Raphael, the coroner, has concluded her death a suicide, as the weapon was in her hand and the slice tentative, as is often the case when a person hesitates on the threshold of death. The deceased’s personal effects were tidy and in order, and though no note was left, that can be explained by the simple fact that Miss Faye was not literate. Next to her bed, on the nightstand, was a torn-out clipping of the newspaper article written by this reporter detailing the courtroom scuffle involving Miss Faye and Miss Swanson. There was no money in the room, no evidence of next of kin, and possessions only enough to fill a small satchel.

A sad ending indeed to a sad life.

One questions how many women like Miss Faye wander our city, at the mercy of fate and fortune, weary from the fight to subsist.

It would seem the murder of Anne Donovan provides no answers, only questions.

Gabriel was reaching in the hall closet for a towel when he heard a knock on the door. For a flash of a second, he thought it was another demon. A female. Then he dismissed the idea, not sure why he had even thought it was. He couldn’t feel any energy, only the warmth of a human being outside his door. Definitely a woman though.

Rapping on the bathroom door, Gabriel waited for Sara’s “come in” impatiently. He wanted to dispense with whoever was standing outside the door so he could go back to Sara. Finish what they had started. What Sara had started. What he wanted to finish, regardless of the consequences.

He quickly opened the door and tossed the towel on the floor, unable to prevent himself from glancing inside. She was still behind the shower curtain and he couldn’t see her at all, which was probably a good thing. “There’s someone at the front door. I’m going to answer it. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

She laughed. “Where would I go? I’m naked and wet.” Just what he didn’t need to hear. And he decided not to mention that he had brought her a towel. “Be right back.”