She thundered out of the office, yelling for Officer Rochon. Through the din of the squad room, Sylvie’s righteous indignation and fury cut through the noise like a scalpel. Feeling sympathetic, Gabriel winced at the invective Sylvie used to describe the chagrined young man’s mental acumen.

No good deed goes unpunished, he thought, blithely ignoring his role in Rochon’s mistake.

Gabriel crossed the room and pushed the office door shut. Satisfied they had some time alone, he rubbed his hand along a spear of tension in his neck. He stood near the door and watched Erin pretend not to watch him.

Erin stifled an apology for her behavior. The strain between them had everything to do with her. She’d awoken that morning knowing today would be the end of it.

No more running. No more hiding. Nine lives had been taken, and she was the reason. Intellectually, she understood that the sickness in the killer hadn’t begun with her. Julian Harris hadn’t been his first victim. But the killer performed for her now, counting on her to remain silent. Knowing she couldn’t stop him without revealing herself.

So she’d do the unexpected.

“Nathan was a diabetic.” Twisting in her seat to squarely face Gabriel, she explained, “Nathan Rhodes. The man I killed.” She sifted through the greasy layers of panic and guilt and degradation. This was familiar territory. Being the catalyst for a man’s transgressions. She’d escaped, and with Sebastian’s help, she’d made a new life. “He’s repaying me for killing Nathan. Over and over again.”

“How do you know?”

“There have been signs. Little things linking the victims to Nathan.”

Bleak lines fanned out from Gabriel’s thinned mouth. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“No.” She said the word without apology. “At first, I wasn’t sure.”

“You were sure enough to think you had to hide it.” The accusation was quietly damning.

Erin accepted the judgment. “I can’t do this here, Gabriel. I promised you the truth, but not here. Can we go somewhere private to talk?”

“Sure.” Gabriel led her out of the police station and to his Jeep, knowing she wouldn’t run now. They rode in wired silence to his apartment. The unit had a separate entrance from the newspaper offices.

She paid scant attention as he keyed in his access code to the elevator. The doors slid open with hushed efficiency. He drew her out of the car and into his home. Erin halted on the threshold and stared.

Lofts, particularly those owned by men, paid stark homage to metal and chrome. At best, they reflected the latest trend in mass-marketed furniture and accessories. Rarely did they look like home. Gabriel’s did.