A skirmish played out in her eyes, and Gabriel waited for her to say more. But he wasn’t shocked when she remained quiet. At least, he thought morosely, she didn’t lie this time. Drained, Gabriel pushed away from the table.

It was amazing, he mused, how mercurial relationships could be. He’d stick with the news, which rarely changed. Just the seven deadly sins repeated in creative patterns, and never as treacherous as love. “Why don’t you find the rest of them? Tell Peter I’ll have the final copy for him soon.” Confused, Erin left Gabriel to complete the article.

Over the next two hours, she learned about the machinations that came with putting a paper to bed and having it ready for readers in the morning. Her admiration for Peter grew exponentially as he hustled stories into layout and caught last-minute errors.

In Kelly, she found a drill sergeant cloaked in sheep’s clothing. Burly press operators, muscle-bound loading crews, and tough-talking drivers obeyed her slightest command. Gabriel guided the process with a firm, patient hand, appeasing fretful reporters and harried workers with banter and calm reassurances.

By 2:00 A.M., the inaugural daily Ledger rolled out of the loading dock and onto deserted streets and boulevards, thousands of copies in a city that had gotten used to disappearing journalism. In a few hours, the city would meet a murderer and the woman he performed for and no one would sleep easier at night. “ABC Murders: Serial Killer Seeks Twisted Vengeance Against Local Professor.”

The tension palpable, Kelly flopped onto a low divan near the break room. She peered at Gabriel with one eye at half-mast. “You want to do this every day?”

“If your predictions net us enough revenue, plus our online editions, absolutely.” Gabriel playfully tousled her hair. “I hope you really can count.”

“I don’t plan to hold a column open for you tomorrow. Have your copy on my desk by seven, or I’m running another lead,” Peter said, scrubbing at the streaks of green ink that striped his hands.

“My story. My copy.”

“Territorial, aren’t you?” Sebastian lounged on the opposite end of the divan, next to Erin, who’d squeezed into the center. Holding Gabriel’s glare, he plucked Erin’s limp hand from her lap, expertly stilling her small jerk of protest. He had a point to make, and he’d make it. “Mine, mine, mine. Sometimes, Moss, you have to learn to share.”

“Sebastian,” hissed Erin, snatching her hand free, “cut it out or you’ll be sleeping on your motorcycle.”