It shouldn’t even matter. But it did. Sara felt that if she could figure out what had happened to Anne Donovan, she could figure out the pieces of her own life. She could triumph over death, let the past go, face the future with hope. Go back to work. Be normal.

The grieving process was different for everyone. Sara found that hers included striving desperately to find ways in which she could exert control, rebel against a universe that dictated her fate.

“We’re going to pick this apart until we have an answer,” she said. “For Anne. For my mother.”

Gabriel made a sound. “It’s for you and me, too, Sara, as much as it is for them. We need to know, don’t we? But the thing is, there may be no answer.”

She believed him, even though she hated it, even though she wondered why it mattered to him. What did he care, really? This was her family, her past, her present, her future. Not his.

The dizziness wasn’t abating, and the cemetery suddenly felt stifling, claustrophobic. “Can we leave? I need a drink of water.”

And without waiting for him, she turned and headed toward the gate, sliding in the gravel in her terry-cloth flip-flops. When she burst out onto the front sidewalk, she felt like she could breathe again. But the anxiety didn’t go away.

She wondered if it ever would.

After stopping for water from a street vendor, Sara had decided to go back to her apartment and try to sleep, and Gabriel figured that was probably the best thing for her. She had looked pasty and clammy in the cemetery, actually swaying on her feet slightly as she turned to leave.

The water seemed to help, restoring color to her face, and she had bought a granola bar and eaten it before getting in her car to head back. Gabriel had accepted her plea to postpone their trip to Bourbon Street until the following night, and he walked back to his apartment, feet comfortable on the uneven sidewalks. He had lived in the French Quarter for a hundred and fifty years, had never lived anywhere else on earth, and he appreciated its familiarity. He knew every crack, every building, every nuance, every odd local, and every change that occurred, however slight. Intentionally, he chose to cut down Bourbon, to pass the bars that were already gearing up for Friday night. To force himself to walk past signs that advertised beer as three for the price of one. Hand grenades. Mojitos. Jager bombs. To smell the unique odor of beer, bleach, and fried food.