“It means I give up. It means we’re partners until I can get enough evidence to make the police pay attention. Then we’re through.”

Gabriel watched her, watched the grim determination thin her mouth. Her eyes were flat, though an emotion flickered in their depths. Carefully, giving her time to move away, he cupped her chin. He tilted her scowling face into the sunlight. The banked temper flashed, and inwardly, he relaxed. It wasn’t over, he thought. Didn’t she know whatever was between them had barely begun? “Let’s finish going over Mr. Johnson’s apartment; then we’ll go somewhere for dinner.”

Too drained to argue, Erin mutely followed him inside. A thorough search of the house turned up little of interest. She rechecked Johnson’s bedroom, where Gabriel had looked earlier. Photos of family members lined the dresser. “I know you’ve left a clue for me,” she murmured. She opened drawers, peered under the bed. She didn’t see it until she walked into the bathroom.

The frame hanging on the wall was unremarkable. But the print inside frayed her already taut nerves.

It was a picture of the cabin in San Cabes. Nathan’s cabin.

Shaken, she returned to the living room. Gabriel sat hunched over on the couch with the familiar notebook balanced on one corded thigh while he scrawled illegible notes across the page.

“I’m ready to go.”

“Gimme a second. I’m nearly done.”

Impatient, uneasy, Erin tried to get a look at the tablet. “What are you writing?”

“Copy for our lead,” he replied absently. “I need to run a first draft past my editor tonight. With any luck, it’ll be in our online edition tomorrow.” He glanced up at her. “Where did you learn about language?”

Erin stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”

“Keep up.” He pointed to the album. “I told you, I’ve got to get a rough copy done.” Mind whirring, he said, “I’ll need to bump Riggall’s piece on photojournalism, but that’s an evergreen. I’ll have to ask Kelly about how many SAUs we’re holding.”

“Evergreen?” Distracted, Erin puzzled over the foreign jargon. “SA who?”

Tapping his jaw absently, he explained, “An evergreen. A piece that isn’t time sensitive. SAUs are spaces we hold for advertisers’ copy that hasn’t come in yet.” He focused abruptly on their conversation. “But none of this applies to our story. We’re running this on the front page, above the fold. I’ll need some quotes. We’ll have Michael Riggall take photos of you here, and—”

“No pictures.”

The firm rejection stopped him midsentence. He shrugged, willing to make concessions on the eve of victory. “All right. No photos. But out of your suit of armor, you’re incredibly photogenic. With the sexy bone structure and that gorgeous hair, Michael could do wonders.”