“Julian Harris was a man who cared about appearance, hence the trendy address and the expensive townhome. He also desired uniformity, as signaled by the ready-to-wear wardrobe. Comfort meant less to him than style.”

Impressed, Gabriel asked, “How do you figure?”

“The bed. All the furniture, actually. The Shakers were known for craftsmanship, not comfort, and the full bed couldn’t have been long enough for a man with a thirty-four-inch inseam.”

Gabriel pointed to the rows of books. “What do those tell you?”

Erin crossed over to the bookcase. With reverent hands, she thumbed through first editions, caressed embossed spines.

Julian had organized his collection by topic, in a modified Dewey system. Botany sidled up to biography. Geometry nestled alongside hermeneutics. Her eyes skimmed over topics and stumbled over a dust jacket that stopped her heart.

There it was again, Gabriel thought, watching her remove a book from the shelf. An emotion that wasn’t quite panic, wasn’t quite guilt, clouded her beautiful eyes. It trembled her hands until, as he looked on, she willed them into steadiness. Control and what he could only describe as grit displaced the shocked look.

“What’s the book?” he asked.

“The Language of Discovery by Nathan Rhodes.” The name emerged without a hint of the turmoil raging inside her. She was proud of the deception. “A linguist from California.”

“I thought our Mr. Harris was an architect?”

“He appeared to have a wide range of interests.” The explanation did nothing to quiet her anxiety.

Gabriel lifted the book from her nerveless fingers. He flipped through the pages, hoping for a clue as to why the tome had frightened her. On the inside flap, a distinguished older gentleman with black hair winged with silver gifted the camera with a haughty half smile. “Looks like a pompous ass.”

For that alone Erin could have kissed him. Instead, she managed a smile. “Academics often are.”

Gabriel shoved the book into its space on the shelf. “Are you?”

Erin shook her head. “I don’t think so. However, you’d have to ask my colleagues. What was it Robert Burns said about perception? ‘Wad some power the giftie gie us—’”

“‘To see ourselves as others see us,’” Gabriel finished.

At her look of admiration, he comically bowed. “I’m a layered man, darling. Surprise after surprise.”

“Amen.” The impassioned whisper carried no farther than her lips, but he heard it.

“Give me time.” Promise glittered in his pewter gaze, darkened the midnight voice.

When she tamed her skipping pulse, Erin returned to her task. “Time is in rather short supply.”

“How much do we have?”

“From the dates of the obituaries, I’m sure he’ll strike again soon. Ten days, maybe. Two weeks at most.” She slid another book into place. “If I’m right.”

“I think you are,” he replied evenly. “I think you see something in those obituaries that most people can’t. Though I wonder why the killer knew you would.”