A flush crept to her cheeks. It was difficult to lie when silver eyes held hers captive. They seemed to reach out to her, to offer a haven where she’d be safe and secure. An illusion, she chided herself. Just an illusion. Nothing more. She shrugged, dismissing his question. “I explained it to Detective Iberville. I’m a criminal psychologist.”

Gabriel felt the sudden burn of anger at her obvious lie. He didn’t like it. So he pushed. “Try again. Most criminal psychologists don’t know the Middle French spelling of surcingle and the proper description of a bludgeon.”

“I like crossword puzzles,” she snapped impatiently.

“More than the truth, apparently.” Gabriel had sparred with her enough for one day. Turning away, he moved to the doorway. “Let’s check the next room.”

Aware she’d made a narrow escape, Erin quietly followed.

Chapter 8

By nightfall, they had checked every room and Erin had read every scrap of paper in the townhome. She was no closer to a motive or a connection, or to the identity of the killer.

The sum of her discovery was Julian’s passion for reading, his unremarkable taste in clothing, and his fondness for solitude. She’d found no letters, no correspondence of any kind. Gabriel had taken the lower level, but she doubted he’d be any more successful.

She dropped onto the lower steps of the staircase, chin in hand. What had she expected? A signed note from the killer? If her theory was right, she was dealing with a brilliant, twisted mind, one that wouldn’t reveal itself until it was ready. Until the audience was ready.

“Coffee?” Gabriel handed her a steaming mug. When she hesitated, he said in a dry tone, “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

She took the cup and sipped. Warmth spread through her, banishing a cold she hadn’t been aware of. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Gabriel replied as he dropped onto the step just below her.

The narrow stairway pressed her leg into his shoulder. Erin tried to scoot away, only to be stopped by the banister. Gabriel seemed oblivious to the contact, and Erin let herself enjoy the innocent touch. Extending an olive branch, she asked, “Find anything?”

“Nope. Nothing in the cellar.” He looked at his notepad. The pages were still blank. “You?”

Erin shook her head and set her cup on the step beside her. “I’m not sure I know what I’m looking for.”

“Serial killers have patterns, don’t they? A reason for the victims they choose.” Gabriel placed his mug beside hers. “Like Ted Bundy or Albert Fish. Psychopaths target their prey because of what the person represents.”

She thought of the book upstairs, of Nathan’s photo on the dust jacket. “Sometimes, the victim isn’t the target. He’s just a means to an end.”