A WEEK LATER, Erin curled on the sofa to read the morning edition of the Ledger. The lead story, written by Gabriel Moss, reported on the DA’s agreement to accept a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity from Jessica Dawson, aka Terry Watson. Captain Lynn Sanchez railed against the prosecutor’s decision, but it didn’t help that the next victim and his investigating officer had lobbied on Jessica’s behalf. Erin reached for the phone, wanting to call and congratulate him. The Chronicle had been hounding her for an interview, but all exclusives went to the wildly popular Bayou Ledger. But her hand faltered above the phone. It had been a week since they’d talked about anything other than Jessica’s case. A week since he’d made love to her.

Told her he loved her.

The urge to go to him thrummed through her every day. How could she, though, when she had no idea what she felt? Love was more than the flutters in her belly and the tightness in her throat or the tingling of her skin when they touched. It was more than sacrificing herself for his safety or wishing for his happiness.

Love was a daily endeavor of compromise and forgiveness and trust. Trust most of all. She wasn’t sure she could do it. With a sigh, she got up from the couch to head to the library, prepared to spend another day buried in her latest project. Over Sebastian’s rather crude objections, she planned to write a book to explain why Jessica Dawson deserved to be hospitalized rather than executed. Luckily, Sebastian had returned to New York, so his threats were in word only.

Erin rode her bike through the streets, unaware that she traveled downtown. When she stopped, it was outside the Bayou Ledger. She parked her bicycle and buzzed for entry.

Gabriel stood in the lobby. He didn’t smile when he saw her. “Erin.”

“I read the Ledger this morning,” she offered as she moved toward him. His expression remained impassive. She tucked her hands into her pockets. “I’ve canceled my subscription to the Chronicle.”

“That’s good.” She looked beautiful, as though she’d finally been able to put Nathan’s specter to rest. He was happy for her. At least, he would be when he could bear to feel again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I came to talk to you.”

“Let’s go to my office.” Gabriel decided he’d prefer to beg in the sanctity of his own space. Once inside, he engaged the lock and levered the electric blinds to block out the rest of the newsroom. He gestured to a chair, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. “How can I help you?”

“You haven’t returned my calls, Gabriel.”

“Returned your calls?” He said the phrase slowly. “The ones where you thank me?”