“Can we really answer any of those?” The task seemed daunting. The records were sparse. The evidence, for the most part, was unavailable to them. Sara considered herself a lab technician, not an investigator. She conducted serological and DNA analysis of unknown substances and evidentiary material from crime scenes and then wrote a report about it. Even though she was determining questions like whether a dried rust-colored liquid was blood or not, and if blood, whether or not it was human, she wasn’t involved in actually connecting that information to the criminal investigation. Wasn’t sure she knew where to start.

But Gabriel raised his water glass to her in a cocky toast. “We’re going to try.” Then he glanced over at her salad as she stabbed a cranberry, and his mouth curved up. “The Degas Salad, huh?”

“It’s very good,” she said, not sure how to read the expression on his face. He looked like something had amused him, a private joke. “Have you ever had it?”

Gabriel didn’t answer, his fork sitting unused next to his own chopped salad. “I haven’t been here in a long time.” He glanced around the restaurant. “It hasn’t changed much.”

“It’s very nice.” It was. A quiet, elegant restaurant with well-trained staff. She had been surprised that it had been his choice for a spontaneous dinner, having for some reason expected him to suggest sandwiches or burgers. “I guess the salad is named for the artist Degas. Didn’t he live here for awhile?”

“For about a year. So he gets a salad named after him.”

“Maybe it’s not named after him. Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Sara swallowed her mouthful of lettuce and pecans and stared across the table, past the candlelight dancing off the votive, at Gabriel. He was an attractive man, his skin flawless, his cheekbones graceful, chin proud, hair unexplainably long, yet perfect for him. Overall it was a pleasant package of a man. Worth glancing twice at it, but nothing so extraordinary you should remember five minutes after walking past. Just another reasonably good-looking male. It seemed that should be the case. Until she met his gaze, and was reminded every time of how she couldn’t dismiss him, couldn’t push him from her thoughts. When she met those brown eyes, whether by intention or accident, they arrested her. Just absolutely stopped her, drew her in, held her. And she could see depth there, sorrow, a silent, desperate plea.

It had to be her. She was seeing what she wanted to see. Reflecting her own emotions onto him. Wanting to not be alone in her confusion, her grief, her search for a future that she could understand, embrace.

“What do you believe in?” she asked.

That sent his gaze skittering over her left shoulder. Then he picked up his fork. “I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.”