Not to be placated, Genevieve chided, “You’ve been gone for weeks, Gabe. Perhaps you could take some time between pitches to check in. Say, ‘Hello, I’m alive’?”

“Are you going to lecture me on my manners?” He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek affectionately. Sometimes she looked so much like their parents, it broke his heart. To ward off the tendrils of grief, he teased, “If so, I think I have the one from last week on tape, to save you time.”

“Very funny.” Genevieve wrinkled her nose at him, knowing he’d never change.

At thirty-four, he was six years her senior. It was an age difference he never let her forget. In his eyes, it made him responsible for her. She’d conceded years ago, like many a disappointed suitor, that it was a fool’s errand to argue. Just like it had been pointless to argue that he had no obligation to take Dad’s place at the Chronicle. Or that it wasn’t his fault when Mirren Enterprises stole their family legacy while he was at the helm.

They were about to take something else.

She leaned back and scooped a letter from a disciplined pile on her desk. Genevieve extended it to him, then pulled back before he could take it from her. “First of all, I need you to not overreact. Second, I only opened it because it was addressed to G. Moss and it came to the house.” Smoky eyes darkened to pewter.

“Give me the letter.”

“Please remember that threatening physical violence is a criminal offense and you don’t have bail money. Neither do I,” she hurried on, clutching the letter in her fist.

“Genevieve.”

The dark, implacable voice that her big brother used to great effect, coupled with the solid, work-roughened hand that swallowed her own, convinced Genevieve to slowly uncurl her fingers.

“They’re not worth it, Gabe,” she warned as he ripped open the legal-sized envelope.

“ALBERT FISH EVENTUALLY confessed to the murders of sixteen children, including the cannibalism of ten-year-old Gracie Budd.” Erin tore her eyes away from the empty doorjamb and tried to focus on her final lecture in psychopathology, what her students called Murder 101. But rather than focusing on the sadism of Henry Lee Lucas and Edmund Kemper, her mind wandered back to her unexpected visitor.

Impressions flashed in rapid succession. Three words stuck in her suddenly fuzzy mind.

Tall. Gorgeous. Trouble. Emphasis on trouble.

Broad shoulders, muscled arms, and narrow hips sketched the body of a rogue. Angles and planes dueled in mahogany, carving a tough, compelling face, ceding curves only to heavily lidded eyes and a wide, seductive mouth. The easy invasion of her classroom said he went where he chose. And the silent, intent observation said he remembered what he saw.

Definitely trouble, Erin concluded firmly. Which she could absolutely do without.