Erin had her palm read, her leaves read, and even her epitaph predicted. Oddly, all of them seemed to involve a gray-eyed man in her future.

“You’re bribing the fortune-tellers,” Erin accused as they sat down to dinner. Gabriel had dragged her to the dingy little hole-in-the-wall with a crooked sign that promised the best jambalaya in the bayou.

“I can’t be responsible for the whims of fate. If they say we’re meant to be, who can argue?” He plucked a menu from between the napkin stand and the ketchup bottle. Flipping it open and spinning it toward her, he said, “Prepare yourself for culinary delight. Especially if you have the house special.”

“I’ll have the house special.” As though he’d been waiting to hear those words, a little man bounded over to take her order.

Two glasses of iced tea materialized in front of them. The man spoke to Gabriel in a stream of Creole that sounded like singing. When he grinned at Erin and bent low over her hand, she arched a brow at Gabriel. Shrugging, Gabriel gave the man their orders. As suddenly as he’d come, he disappeared.

Gabriel shifted his legs beneath the table, where they bumped into Erin’s. She angled away, but like magnets, his followed.

“Should we ask for a bigger booth?”

“I’m comfortable,” he said. “I like seeing you smile.”

“I haven’t had a lot of practice since we met.” Not since she realized a killer hunted her.

“No.” He covered her hand on the red-checked tablecloth, then turned their hands to rest palm to palm.

“Stop thinking about it, Erin. You’re not to blame for Kenneth Bernard. He’s sick.”

“I know. At least, I know in my head.” Nine deaths. Eight linked to her. She lifted her tea but didn’t drink. Determined to keep tomorrow at bay, she asked, “Did you always want to be a journalist?”

Gabriel heard a hesitation, and wanted to push. But he saw the fatigue in her eyes and relented. Tomorrow, he thought, he would have all of it. “I’m very nosey. It fit.”

“And if you couldn’t write? What would you do?”

“Middle linebacker for the Saints,” he responded quickly. “Their defense sucked this year.” He reached for his tea, drained it. “What about you? All the kids have all the knowledge they need. What do you do next?”

Before she could answer, their dinner arrived. They ate in silence, knees nestled beneath the table. Later, when bread pudding sat in a dish between them, he asked again.

“I’d travel the world and study languages,” she answered softly. “In East Africa, there are dialects that fewer than five hundred people still speak and remember. I’d love to learn them all.”

He finished off his tea. “All the languages. To save them.”