A grave sigh preceded her answer. “The Greek word daktylos literally means ‘finger.’ In Latin, the word is dactylus.”

“And in English, the word becomes the description for fingerprinting.”

Impressed by his swift comprehension, Erin closed the file. “Dactylographer. Fingerprinter.”

“He’s good.” Gabriel took the file and laid it on the table. Her chin jerked when he tipped her eyes to meet his. He caught the flicker of horror and wanted to cradle her to him. “You’re brilliant. I’d guess you’re a bona fide genius.”

“I’m responsible.” She automatically tugged at his wrist, but he did not release her, as had become his habit. Erin didn’t fight too hard, grateful for the warmth, however fleeting. For weeks, for months, she’d been so cold. But when he touched her, heat curled in her belly. At this moment, she needed it. Needed him.

“You didn’t do this to her or the others. But you’ll find him. Only you.”

“I know some words,” she said softly.

“I’m a writer, darling. I know some words.” Gabriel stroked the dark curls resting along her temple. “You know all of them, don’t you?”

“And he’s using that to pick who he kills next,” she said.

“Their deaths aren’t about you.”

“He’s choosing them because of me.”

“His choice. We all make them. Hell, you just chose to give thousands in jewels to a complete stranger. Like it or not, you’re here with me because you chose to come. We’re not puppets, darling. Human beings act with free will.”

“Not all of us,” she whispered. “Not all the time. If you’ve never known you had a choice, how could you make one?”

Gabriel wondered how long it had taken for her to break free. He stepped toward her, and she shifted away. He tried not to be hurt by the reaction, remembering what she’d said to Lindy. “Don’t help him by becoming a victim, too. Use what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Better than he is.” With that, Gabriel handed her another file.

In silence, they read through reports of murder. Finally, Gabriel spoke. “Take a look at this one,” he said.

Erin flipped open the cover and stared at the photo of a middle-aged woman lying in a pool of blood. Beside her, the same blood drenched a tapered bit of wood. The face tugged at her memory. Recognition dawned, and her shoulders slumped, overwhelmed. Another face in the crowd she had made herself oblivious to. Another kindness she hadn’t noticed, had not acknowledged. “She used to wait for the bus with me. Every Thursday. Told me about the children she worked with at a school. She’d chatter on, but I never spoke to her. I was too busy keeping myself isolated. For all the good it did her.”