Erin hesitated, not willing to be alone yet. As long as they remained inside the dank basement of archived files, she had company, as macabre as it was. Here a killer couldn’t creep into her apartment and leave threats in her mailbox. Here she couldn’t be helped by a stranger and lie awake fearing the stranger would be the next to die.

She wanted to explain this to Gabriel but didn’t dare.

“I’m not ready to go.”

Gabriel crouched beside her. “What’s going on, Erin?”

“Everything is wrong.” Abruptly tired, she closed her eyes. Her head fell back, as though her neck could no longer support the weight. “I’m tired, Gabriel. I came to New Orleans for a fresh start. To find peace. Not quiet, really. Just peace. And now I’m sitting in the basement of a police station with an investigative journalist trying to find a serial killer who wants me dead.” She chuckled, the sound defeated, her eyes still closed. “I don’t like fighting, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Chapter 16

“Look at me, Erin. Please.” Gabriel made the request quietly, his soothing baritone a balm. Unable to refuse, she blinked heavily and met his expectant gaze.

“Will you trust me? Just for tonight?”

With a tremulous sigh, she nodded.

He helped her stand and draped his arm across her shoulders. They walked to the door, where Gabriel flicked off the light, and then he led them out to the stairwell. Only Gabriel spoke as he told the new shift of cops goodbye.

Erin remained silent, her mind blissfully empty. When he led her out of the building, she barely noticed the strident rock that had replaced the earlier velvety notes of jazz. Strings of colored lights kept the deep of night at bay. Raucous laughter punctuated the swirl of light and sound, but the hazy feeling of relaxation didn’t lift. They walked away from the parking lot and along Royal, not quite inside the Quarter. She didn’t ask where he was taking her, content for the moment simply to walk.

Giving in to need, she tucked her head into the nook at his shoulder.

Staggered by the trust, Gabriel held her closer. “How do you feel about Italian?”

“Impartial.”

The arm draped around her squeezed in punishment. “You can’t be impartial about Italian food. That’s like not having a favorite football team.”

Shrugging, Erin confessed, “I don’t.”

“I think you’ve just broken my heart.” Lifting his hand, he clutched vainly at his chest. “She doesn’t like Italian food or football.”

“Before you expire, let me explain,” she said, smiling. “I said I was impartial about Italian food. I lived in Rome as a child, and I’ve never found anything Americans can make nearly as good.”

“But football?”

“Could never choose between the Raiders and the Steelers. Franco Harris. Marcus Allen. Who can decide?”