He’d dragged in a chair from the bullpen, and Erin had discreetly shifted closer to the filing cabinets. They hadn’t spoken directly to each other. Sylvie thought they’d gotten downright prickly over questions about what they were doing back at the station after Gabriel had been released. Her deceptively dull cop’s eyes detected twin flags of embarrassment when they blandly described the moments before discovering the body.

She’d drawn out the preliminaries, issuing unnecessary warnings about privacy and secrecy and penalties for lying. The lady had stiffened at the naked threats, and Gabriel’s usual even temper seemed to have abandoned him completely.

Which fascinated Sylvie even more. Like the finest exotic dancer, she’d drawn out the final reveal, waiting until Gabriel was perilously close to lunging at the folder lying in plain view on her desk. When she finally relented, he snatched at the thin file, quickly flipping through its pages. Erin reviewed it now, and Sylvie felt sorry for the girl. Her trash can sat nearby for nausea duty.

“It says she died between nine and eleven A.M.” Erin traced the grisly lines of the report. “I didn’t realize she was a diabetic.”

“She wasn’t.”

Gabriel shifted toward her and tapped a sentence near the bottom of the page. Erin flinched slightly at his nearness. The instinctive movement away lashed through him like a whip.

Putting distance between them before he did something he’d regret, he explained in a taut voice, “That’s why she died so quickly. In nondiabetics, an overdose of insulin is a poison.”

The connection was too simple, Erin thought sadly. “Initiate.”

“Come again?” Sylvie asked.

“She was an initiate into her sorority,” Erin explained. “That’s the connection. Insulin. Initiate. They were going to Greece to celebrate.”

Gabriel heard the anguish, but he knew better than to offer comfort. “It fits. She’s the ninth victim.”

“Hold on. The captain isn’t going to buy that so easily.” Sylvie straightened and grabbed the report. “Was she a drug addict? This could have been a college prank. She thinks the injection is dope and ends up in a coffin.”

Shaking her head, Erin refused to accept Sylvie’s explanation. “Harmony was too self-conscious and too much of an exhibitionist to be an intravenous drug user. The marks would show.”

“Plus,” Gabriel added, “the report says there was nothing else in her system.”

Sylvie nodded. “Okay. Say I bite. The killer had to have access to insulin. It’s not a street drug. You have to get it through a pharmacy or a hospital.”

“Or be a diabetic yourself,” Erin suggested quietly. She told herself she welcomed the space Gabriel had put between them. Any absence of warmth was a trick of her imagination and the result of a fitful air conditioner.