Fallen (Seven Deadly Sins #2)(11)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“What kind of similarities?”

The question was so matter-of-fact, Sara realized immediately that Gabriel was different. Of course he was going to be different. He wrote true crime books. In every conversation they’d had about her mother there was no shock, no flush of pity, none of the stumbling to say something comforting that she usually got from people. He was tactful, but very matter-of-fact. That made her feel an odd sense of relief. He was used to dealing with the details of violent crimes and wouldn’t pester her with uncomfortable questions. Nor had it stopped him from asking her to participate in his research, so he must not question her motives, or mental stability.

“Well, I’m not sure what I expected from nineteenth-century journalists, but just like today, every journalist seems to have an angle, a point to get across. Whether it’s the lack of police attention to crimes in impoverished areas in Anne Donovan’s case, or the accusation that the prosecutor was going for the big fish to win PR points in my mother’s case, it’s not about the victim. Which it should be.”

Gabriel had one arm over the back of his standard black office chair, and he tilted his head slightly to study her. “And it is, to the people the victim mattered to. But a crime, a murder, punches a hole in the illusion that society is functioning as it should. It’s a time when people look around, question what’s wrong in their world, and make both accusations and suggestions for corrections. So that victim indirectly matters to everyone who touches the case in any way, who lives in the neighborhood, or reads the newspaper. They have an impact in death, and maybe in a larger way to more people than they actually had in life.”

Sara stared at him, wondering why she’d never thought of it in quite that way. Noticing that her heart rate had settled down to normal, anxiety abated, she was trying to shuffle her thoughts into order and formulate a response when he suddenly stood up.

“Walk with me.” He headed toward the door, his strides purposeful.

“Walk with you? Where?” Yet she found herself rising off the couch, setting the packet of papers down on the cushion, following him.

“I need to take pictures of the house where the murder took place for the book. Let’s go do that now while the building won’t be in a shadow.” Gabriel was pulling a camera out of an end table drawer by the front door to the apartment.

Sara thought he had intriguing and eclectic furnishings. Everything looked as if it had been accumulated over a long period of time, each piece random and slightly shabby, yet overall the room harmonized, exuded a warmth. It said to her that he cared about what he surrounded himself with, appreciated objects, but not too much. Nothing was perfect or overthought. It looked like he just did what pleased him.

It was a lesson she would like to learn.

He didn’t take a camera case with him, just wrapped the strap twice around his wrist and gripped the lens cap, which struck her as an accident waiting to happen. It looked like an expensive camera, and if he dropped it, she didn’t think the result would be positive, but he didn’t look at all concerned. Gabriel opened the door and gestured for her to walk through first.

She realized that after he followed her out he didn’t lock the door behind them. She counted to three as she walked down the stairs, told herself it didn’t matter, that he must have a button that he had pushed on the inside of the doorknob to lock it. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you lock your door?”

“No.”

She was looking forward and down at her feet, worried about the steps, taking the curve on the narrower than normal staircase with cautious movements, afraid she’d slip and break her neck. So she couldn’t see Gabriel’s expression, but he didn’t sound particularly worried about burglars, any more than he seemed concerned about his camera.

“It’s safer to lock your door.” Sara knew she sounded anal, and she was, knew she had a fear that was huge and growing irrational, but the police had told her there was no forced entry at her mother’s house. That the killer had either known her mom, or the doors hadn’t been locked. It seemed risky to leave a door unlocked for anyone to walk in. At any time.

“The courtyard gate locks.”

“Oh, okay, good.” Sara glanced back at him, and he just gave her a small, brief smile. It was hugely reassuring. She had expected he would either argue with her, or point out that she was paranoid. Suggest that she needed to let it go, get over it. She had heard all of those things, a hundred times over, from coworkers, friends, and neighbors who genuinely wanted what was best for her, but didn’t understand a damn thing.

That Gabriel just told her what she needed to hear and left it at that filled her with relief. He was different. And it was kind of nice.

“So what was life like for a prostitute in 1849?” she asked, as they went through the gate, the sun hitting her in the face and sending her digging through her purse for her sunglasses.

“It sucked.”

Something about the tone of his voice made her glance up. Was that meant to be a double entendre? It was hard to tell because he wasn’t even looking at her. He had his eyes down on his camera and he was prying the lens cap off. But there had been an edge of amusement, or an awareness of the horrific irony, maybe the need to lighten the subject matter . . . she wasn’t sure what exactly, because Gabriel was hard to interpret, but something told her he had just made a joke.

Which she liked.

He lifted his camera, shot a quick succession of photos from right to left, the last one of her. She wasn’t prepared for it, so she was sure she was staring dumbly at him in it. “No pictures of me, please.”

“But the light’s good,” he said, giving her another of those tiny smiles where the corner of his mouth lifted crookedly.

God, Sara really didn’t want to like him.

That would be just one more way for her to trip and fall.

But she was definitely in danger of becoming a bubble girl of her own making, afraid of everything, even her own proverbial shadow.

Coming to New Orleans was an emotional risk, and maybe it hadn’t been running away so much as stepping outside her comfort zone. Forcing herself to face the future without fear.

She was definitely still terrified, but suddenly reassured that this trip had been exactly what she needed to retake control of her life.

VIGILANCE COMMITTEE PRESSURES POLICE TO TAKE ACTION

October 9, 1849—While the police commissioner may not be inclined to listen to the pleas of prostitutes, it would seem he is willing to bend when the collective voices of the VIGILANCE COMMITTEE cry for action. In a city besieged by crime, it is more common than not for a murder of a fallen woman to go unnoticed, but it is just that cavalier attitude that has finally sent certain citizens beyond the edge of their tolerance. Comprised of various wealthy and influential peoples, the Vigilance Committee was formed to bring attention to the spiraling immorality and violence of certain districts. The murder of young Anne Donovan, in its fury and grotesqueness, and the lack of arrest of the gentleman who should by all accounts be a primary suspect, is a sign of the pervasive corruption and complicity in our government.Given the dependence of Mr. John Thiroux on the well-known hallucinogenic drink absinthe, as well as his excessive consumption of whiskey and frequent opium smoking, it is not a stretch to imagine he could have carried out such an act of violence. Despite who he is, and who he may or may not have contributed funds to, if a man commits a crime, he should be held accountable for it.