Sara thought he had intriguing and eclectic furnishings. Everything looked as if it had been accumulated over a long period of time, each piece random and slightly shabby, yet overall the room harmonized, exuded a warmth. It said to her that he cared about what he surrounded himself with, appreciated objects, but not too much. Nothing was perfect or overthought. It looked like he just did what pleased him.

It was a lesson she would like to learn.

He didn’t take a camera case with him, just wrapped the strap twice around his wrist and gripped the lens cap, which struck her as an accident waiting to happen. It looked like an expensive camera, and if he dropped it, she didn’t think the result would be positive, but he didn’t look at all concerned. Gabriel opened the door and gestured for her to walk through first.

She realized that after he followed her out he didn’t lock the door behind them. She counted to three as she walked down the stairs, told herself it didn’t matter, that he must have a button that he had pushed on the inside of the doorknob to lock it. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you lock your door?”

“No.”

She was looking forward and down at her feet, worried about the steps, taking the curve on the narrower than normal staircase with cautious movements, afraid she’d slip and break her neck. So she couldn’t see Gabriel’s expression, but he didn’t sound particularly worried about burglars, any more than he seemed concerned about his camera.

“It’s safer to lock your door.” Sara knew she sounded anal, and she was, knew she had a fear that was huge and growing irrational, but the police had told her there was no forced entry at her mother’s house. That the killer had either known her mom, or the doors hadn’t been locked. It seemed risky to leave a door unlocked for anyone to walk in. At any time.

“The courtyard gate locks.”

“Oh, okay, good.” Sara glanced back at him, and he just gave her a small, brief smile. It was hugely reassuring. She had expected he would either argue with her, or point out that she was paranoid. Suggest that she needed to let it go, get over it. She had heard all of those things, a hundred times over, from coworkers, friends, and neighbors who genuinely wanted what was best for her, but didn’t understand a damn thing.

That Gabriel just told her what she needed to hear and left it at that filled her with relief. He was different. And it was kind of nice.

“So what was life like for a prostitute in 1849?” she asked, as they went through the gate, the sun hitting her in the face and sending her digging through her purse for her sunglasses.

“It sucked.”