Immediately she regretted speaking. Now would come the questions, the pity, the curiosity, the suspicion of her motives in working on this book with him. Talking about her mother’s death always left her feeling vulnerable, exposed, and she didn’t want that with Gabriel. She didn’t want him thinking she was crazy.

“What kind of similarities?”

The question was so matter-of-fact, Sara realized immediately that Gabriel was different. Of course he was going to be different. He wrote true crime books. In every conversation they’d had about her mother there was no shock, no flush of pity, none of the stumbling to say something comforting that she usually got from people. He was tactful, but very matter-of-fact. That made her feel an odd sense of relief. He was used to dealing with the details of violent crimes and wouldn’t pester her with uncomfortable questions. Nor had it stopped him from asking her to participate in his research, so he must not question her motives, or mental stability.

“Well, I’m not sure what I expected from nineteenth-century journalists, but just like today, every journalist seems to have an angle, a point to get across. Whether it’s the lack of police attention to crimes in impoverished areas in Anne Donovan’s case, or the accusation that the prosecutor was going for the big fish to win PR points in my mother’s case, it’s not about the victim. Which it should be.”

Gabriel had one arm over the back of his standard black office chair, and he tilted his head slightly to study her. “And it is, to the people the victim mattered to. But a crime, a murder, punches a hole in the illusion that society is functioning as it should. It’s a time when people look around, question what’s wrong in their world, and make both accusations and suggestions for corrections. So that victim indirectly matters to everyone who touches the case in any way, who lives in the neighborhood, or reads the newspaper. They have an impact in death, and maybe in a larger way to more people than they actually had in life.”

Sara stared at him, wondering why she’d never thought of it in quite that way. Noticing that her heart rate had settled down to normal, anxiety abated, she was trying to shuffle her thoughts into order and formulate a response when he suddenly stood up.

“Walk with me.” He headed toward the door, his strides purposeful.

“Walk with you? Where?” Yet she found herself rising off the couch, setting the packet of papers down on the cushion, following him.

“I need to take pictures of the house where the murder took place for the book. Let’s go do that now while the building won’t be in a shadow.” Gabriel was pulling a camera out of an end table drawer by the front door to the apartment.