Of course, he knew how to create the illusion of making it go away. That was what absinthe and opium could achieve. The modern version of heroin would work just as well if not better. But that would only accomplish oblivion for him, not her. It wouldn’t fix anything. And he would hate himself even more than he did standing there watching her sob, pathetic and irrational.

“Look at me like that. With pity. I don’t want your pity. I want your love.”

He didn’t know how to erase the pity from his eyes, from his face, from his soul, when he did feel it. Pity for her that she had fallen victim, that she was suffering. “I don’t have any love to give.”

Maybe that was true. Maybe that was why he stayed this way, year after year. Maybe that was why he could never return. He hadn’t loved, enough or well. Hadn’t loved God, himself, Anne. Maybe he didn’t even know what love was.

But he did know he wanted to reach out to this girl, wrap her in his arms and tell her he was sorry for her pain, sorry he had stumbled across her path, ripped her out of normalcy and into agony.

“Gabriel, is everything okay?”

Damn. He turned and saw Sara standing in the living room in her tank top and skirt, no bra, toweling her wet hair dry.

Before he could respond, she glanced around him and saw the girl in the door.

“Rochelle? What are you doing here?”

Rochelle. That was her name. How ironic that Sara remembered when he didn’t. “Sara, just give Rochelle and me a minute.” He didn’t think it was a good idea for Sara to be involved, for Rochelle to be further humiliated.

But when he turned back to face the girl, he caught a glimpse of shock and horror on her face before she sobbed and ran, her pace so fast Gabriel was afraid she was going to trip and fall down the narrow stairs.

“Damn.” He said to Sara over his shoulder, “Stay here. I need to talk to her. I can’t let her leave like that.”

“Gabriel, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But he was already heading down the stairs. This was his fault. He needed to fix it. He didn’t know how, but he had to try.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw that Rochelle had stopped in the passage to the street, bent over her purse.

“Rochelle, I’m really sorry if I’ve hurt you, but I had no idea you felt this way about—”