“I think we just had this argument. You don’t want me here. Too bad. I’m here.” He circled in front to block her. “I’m not leaving without the whole story. Like why you think Julian Harris was murdered. And why you’re lying to his neighbors to get inside his town house. And how you got inside his townhome.”

Erin jutted her chin out defiantly. “Why are you here?”

“For the headline,” Gabriel answered without hesitation. “I need a big story to boost the Ledger’s sales, and I think your serial killer theory might be the ticket.” He smiled, that slash of white that made it hard for her to breathe.

Disarmed by his candor, Erin faltered. She hadn’t expected the truth. More to the point, she had no idea what to do with it. She understood subterfuge and lies. Honesty stumped her. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I take good notes. Plus, I followed you.”

Erin folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You followed me?”

“From campus after you’d finished giving that social psych exam. The cabdriver dropped you off and you spent a good fifteen minutes building up the courage to cross the street. Good move, to canvass the neighbors first.” He chucked her chin to close the mouth that had fallen agape. “You work like a pro, Dr. Abbott.”

Despite the sincere compliment, Erin considered the implications. Gabriel—no, a reporter—had lurked around the school, unbeknownst to her. He’d spied on her for nearly an hour and she had been none the wiser. The thud in her stomach echoed the pounding at her temple.

When she’d decided to investigate and gather clues, it hadn’t occurred to her that the quest could be her undoing. Gabriel may have only come for the murder story, but if he stayed too long, he could uncover more.

Glaring, she muttered, “I don’t like being followed.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Next time, invite me along.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

He had already come up with a better way to spend his time, Gabriel decided. “Tell me why you came to Julian Harris’s house.”

“To find the truth.” She stalked ahead of him into the main bedroom. An ascetic’s bed with a plain black comforter took up little space. Ruthlessly organized books lined the walls. An armoire in the same Shaker style as the bed stood partly open. Curious about its contents, Erin peered inside. It was, she determined, like looking into a satellite of Banana Republic. Cashmere sweaters, oxford shirts, and multiple slacks in muted, fashionable shades hung from cedar hangers. Accessories were in drawers that smelled of cedar chips. A perfect replica of a perfect life.

Erin took note.

“What are you writing?” Gabriel asked.

“A profile.”

Gabriel looked around. He, too, had been considering the simplicity and starkness in Julian’s bedroom. “What do you see?”