“Then buy your own car.” To drown out her smart response, he flicked on the radio, allowing Thelonious Monk to fill the cramped space.

At her building, Gabriel followed her inside when she didn’t yank the door closed. He’d check out her apartment, guarantee she was settled for the night.

Erin Abbott had a protector, whether she liked it or not.

“Can I come in? Just to make sure no machete-wielding freak is lurking inside.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Erin replied, keying open the lock and waving him past her.

“Nice place,” he murmured as he surveyed her home, quickly cataloging its contents.

A wide, navy, cotton-upholstered chair had been placed perpendicular to the pristine matching sofa, whose brushed linen appeared untouched. Bay windows opened onto a tiny balcony she’d crowded with plants of every variety.

The kitchen was ruthlessly clean, not a bowl or cup out of place. Behind the sofa, a badly lit hallway led to what he assumed was the bedroom. He strode down the hallway, flipped on the lights. Erin chased him, protesting.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking for machetes. They don’t usually wait in the living room.” Gabriel hid a smile at her inventive description of his body parts that followed him on his tour.

Returning to the living room, he moved to the far wall. The mantel gleamed in polished mahogany flanked by bookcases filled to overflowing, but scrupulously organized.

“Rent or buy?”

“Buy,” she answered automatically. Erin snapped her teeth shut with an audible click. She was not going to engage in conversation with him. First he horns in on her investigation with her; then he uses sound logic to come into her home. She refused to acknowledge the sensation in her gut as relief. Someone believed her.

“I like your style, Dr. Abbott,” he said. The apartment spoke of quiet wealth and impeccable breeding. It explained the aristocratic tones and the arrogant manner. He understood, as a product of both himself. He recognized the Limoges on the mantel, the Persian on the floor. The lithograph by Jacob Lawrence drew a twinge of envy.

Suddenly he noticed something peculiar. In spite of the remarkable lack of clutter, tawdry knickknacks jumbled on the mantel’s surface. On first glance, the collection of mismatched trinkets screamed of comfort and home. Upon closer inspection, Gabriel discovered the mélange was a dogged grouping of commercial tchotchkes and bric-a-brac designed to trick the untrained eye.