Fallen (Seven Deadly Sins #2)(42)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Sara hesitated. “I don’t know. I understand it wasn’t an easy case. There was no trace evidence really . . . no se**n, no blood that didn’t belong to my mother, no fingerprints other than the one print of Rafe’s. There were no witnesses, no unusual cars, no noise, no strange activity around the house in the days leading up to the murder. The blinds were closed, the window closed. No one saw or heard anything.”

Gabriel had to ask, just like she had asked about John Thiroux. “Why don’t you doubt Rafe? What makes you so sure he didn’t do it?”

“Because he loved my mother. He’s a doctor. He’s a very charming, protective, healer type of personality.” Sara glanced down at her computer, shoving it off her lap. Then she met his gaze. “I can’t be wrong. He just couldn’t have done it. Because if I am wrong, that means I have no ability to judge a killer from a nice guy.”

So that was the real root of her stubbornness. No one wanted to think that someone they had cared about, spent time with, championed, could have been lying to them, conning them, their smile hiding a heart filled with evil intentions. “Sara, if he is guilty, then it’s not your fault for not recognizing it. It isn’t. Remember when we talked about psychopaths? They’re charming, attractive, and they fool everyone. That’s how they’re able to kill and get away with it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. Don’t you see how if it was Rafe, which I really, truly don’t think it was, that I would feel like I should have known? Should have done something to prevent it?”

“I know. But you can’t do that to yourself. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

“That’s very easy for you to say. You don’t have any guilt to live with.”

That was a ridiculous, sick understatement. “You think I don’t have any guilt?” Gabriel dropped his arms and scoffed. “My guilt could fill the Superdome. You asked me why I write true crime books? It’s retribution. My lame, half-ass attempt to make up for the fact that my girlfriend was killed and I didn’t, couldn’t stop it.”

It was reckless, dangerous, to tell her that, but he was too angry to care. She thought she was the only one who had suffered, the only one who staggered under the burden of guilt that she was alive while a loved one was dead. He had felt the weight of that so oppressively for a hundred and fifty years it was amazing that he was still mobile.

“What?” She looked slapped. Her cheeks drained of color. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Oh, God. That’s why you started drinking, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t paint, why you don’t hear music . . . Oh, Gabriel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t right to accept her pity. He didn’t want it, hadn’t earned it, wasn’t entitled to it. So he said, aware of how harsh his voice sounded, “Don’t. It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”

“I know it’s not my problem. But Gabriel, you have the same problem I do. And I’ve been sitting here acting like the victim, like I’m the only one who has suffered, when you obviously have too. I’m sorry for that.”

She looked so plaintive, so concerned, that he was exasperated. He wanted to be angry, and she prevented him from having that release. She sucked all the anger right out of him with her soft features and luminous eyes. Which irritated the hell out of him. “Don’t be sorry for anything. You have your shit to deal with and I have my shit to deal with. It’s all even.”

“I wasn’t suggesting a tally sheet. What I’m saying is that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grief, I couldn’t see yours.”

“I don’t have any grief.” It was guilt. Disgust. Self-recrimination and a desire to find some kind of meaning in a long, endless existence.

“No. You have a determination to ignore your grief.”

Gabriel didn’t know when the conversation had turned into her trying to enlighten him, and he moved away from her, determined to end the ridiculous dissection of his psyche.

“You deny yourself pleasure—physical and emotional pleasure—as a punishment for yourself. God, I should have guessed about your girlfriend. It’s so obvious to me now.”

That sparked his anger again. He wasn’t obvious. He was a demon, for hell’s sake. She didn’t know any f**king thing about him. “Well, congratulations.” He knew she was coming up behind him, with the purpose of touching him, so he shifted, avoiding her touch, but turned back and locked gazes with her. “You think you’ve figured me all out. And while I know you’re wrong on a lot of levels, you got one thing right. I do deny myself physical pleasure. I can’t handle it. Alcohol, sex. I can’t handle it. I don’t want to handle it.”

“Maybe I can’t either,” she said, her voice soft, sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” She had nothing to be sorry for.

But she winced at his vehemence and he felt like a complete ass**le. “Sara, I’m sorry. Damn it, how did we wind up here?”

She just looked at him and said matter-of-factly, “Murder. That’s how we wound up here.”

It was so bold, so obvious, so harsh, that all his anger deflated. “That’s certainly true, isn’t it? And it sucks.”

She didn’t answer him. Instead she moved around him to his desk. “What are these?” She touched one of his spoons.

“Absinthe spoons.” Rather a disturbing little habit he had—to buy them whenever he ran across one in an antique or vintage shop—but it actually helped him. It kept his present life in perspective to have a constant reminder in front of him of his past.

“That’s what an absinthe spoon looks like? I had no idea . . .” She touched one, running her finger along the tip, frowning. “I was reading about them in the police reports, but I didn’t really know what one looked like. Why do you think John Thiroux had two spoons in the room with him? Why would he need two?”

“I don’t think he would, unless he was double-fisting drinks.” That had always perplexed Gabriel, but he had attributed it to the fact that Anne kept his spoons at the time. Maybe she had gotten one out, then forgotten and gotten another. Or maybe he had brought one with him for no apparent reason other than that the fleur-de-lis spoon had been his favorite, because it was wide in the middle due to the pattern and he didn’t spill any precious drops over the side when he poured.