January 22, 1850—After instructions from the judge, the jury will go into seclusion to deliberate the verdict in the shocking and sometimes unbelievable trial of Mr. Jonathon Thiroux, accused of stabbing Anne Donovan seventeen times to her death. While it would seem the prosecution has a strong case, one can only speculate what a jury will decide. Mr. Thiroux is an attractive, quality member of our city’s society, a true peer to those sitting in the box, who has never displayed any violence in a public setting. It is hard for the mind to wrap itself around the concept that such a gentle artist could lift a bowie knife and strike with such ferocity and ill intent, especially when one looks into the frequently confused and sad eyes of the defendant.

If Mr. Thiroux is found guilty, anticipate the temperance and vigilance movements to gather steam and push their opposition to spirits, for if a man such as Jonathon Thiroux can kill under the influence, they would ask you to imagine it in the hands of the less gently bred. The prosecutor maintains that the question of the connection of alcohol to crime will be debated another day, and not through this case, but the majority will recognize that this is naïve. It was public outcry that forced the initial arrest, not justice for Miss Donovan, and from the beginning the question of the influence of alcohol on behavior has been indelibly wrapped around this case just as the oppressive heat of summer tendrils about our city.

Sara hung up the phone after purchasing her airline ticket and went to pack her suitcase, the unmistakable and irritating feeling of tears in her eyes yet again. She didn’t know why she felt like crying. She was angry, maybe irrationally so, given the length and depth of her relationship with Gabriel. She had no right to assume anything or to expect anything from him.

But she had. She did.

It made her angry at herself. She had wanted something from Gabriel, right from the beginning, without even being aware of it. She had thought he could provide it, only to discover that she really didn’t know him as well as she’d thought she did.

Tossing her suitcase on his bed, she started shoving random clothes into it, pulling her things out of his drawers. That upset her even more. She had actually unpacked her clothes into his drawers. Yet they’d never even had sex. How weird was that? She had allowed herself to get carried away by that friendship, that sense of comfort she felt with him. She’d made assumptions.

Now she felt like a fool.