“Thank God,” she whispered, holding her chest with her right hand. He was fine. Everything was fine. She needed to get a grip, stop seeing danger and death around every corner. And most of all, she needed to get out of his bedroom before he realized she was standing there staring at him.
Stepping back, Sara bumped the radiator. It didn’t make much of a sound, but a glance back at the bed showed Gabriel’s eyes open, blinking at her.
“Sara? What’s the matter?”
“I . . .” She stood there, not sure what to say, how to explain.
“Are you cold? I got out a dry shirt for you. I left it next to your purse. I’ll go get it for you.” He was starting to pull himself to a sitting position, exposing his boxer shorts.
“No, I’m not cold, don’t get up.” Sara was embarrassed by her behavior, by his solicitude. “I was just going to the bathroom and I saw you, and I thought . . . you looked . . .” She felt herself blushing. “I thought you were dead. I was just checking to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh.” His brow furrowed.
Sara stood there, feeling like an idiot.
“Well, I’m okay. Not dead, I promise.” He smiled at her, propped up on his elbow.
“I can see that.” And she was mortified. Yet still afraid. It had been so easy to picture the blood, picture the cuts and lacerations, his still gaze. What did that say about her? “I’m sorry I fell asleep on your couch. I’m not sure what happened. I should go home.”
“Right now?” Gabriel frowned. “Absolutely not. You’re not walking to your car and driving all the way to Kenner. Just sleep here.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come on. Just lay down and we’ll go back to sleep.”
In his bed? That seemed like such a bad idea. Yet so damn tempting. She stood there, indecisive. “I left the kitten on the couch.”
“She’ll be fine there. Come on.” He pulled the sheet back so she could get in. “I can see your fear, Sara. It’s okay to be afraid of the dark after what you’ve been through.”
That kicked her in the gut, made her want to burst into tears. How could he see so clearly what she tried so hard to hide? She was afraid of the dark. Afraid of the unknown, the shadow around every corner, the future. So she kicked off her sandals and climbed onto the bed with Gabriel. She didn’t want to be alone all the time. Her head sank back onto the pillow as he pulled the sheet up over her. The bed was warm from his body heat, and soft. The pillow felt like down. And Gabriel was very masculine next to her, his body close, but not touching.
She stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look at him. Normally she slept on her side, but she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of facing him on the bed. That would be too intimate. But alternatively, turning her back on him seemed rude. So she lay there, eyes wide open, trying to slow her breathing, trying to reach for sleep, knowing it wouldn’t come.
“Relax, Sara,” Gabriel murmured to her. His hand slid into hers and squeezed before letting go. “It’s okay.”
It was. She knew that. Everything was okay. She was okay. Kicked, torn apart, nearly destroyed, but still alive. Still her. And she slept on her side, normally, and she wanted to be normal, so Sara turned up on her left side, facing the window. When Gabriel moved in closer, his fingers stroking the back of her hair, she closed her eyes, sighing softly. It felt so good to be touched, even if it wasn’t sexual. Maybe because it wasn’t sexual. His body, warm and relaxed, brushed against hers, and he yawned right next to her ear, the rush of his breath tickling her skin.
He had taken over half of her pillow, and his hand rested on her hip, heavy and comforting on her denim skirt.
Opening her eyes, she stared out into the courtyard, watching a tree sway back and forth in the moonlight. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to yank down the blinds and shut out the night. It was a beautiful view, leaves dancing, shadows shifting and changing, and she was safe inside.
Eyes drifting back shut, Sara fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
Summary of autopsy of Anne Donovan conducted by Dr. Maxwell Raphael on October 7, 1849, at 2 p.m. in the presence of Dr. William Gregory.
Female victim, dead approximately twelve hours, Caucasian, twenty-three years old, with a post-birth cervix, indicating she had given birth to at least one child. Victim had only a small amount of liquid and no food in her stomach at the time of death, indicating she was not intoxicated. Slightly malnourished, but no sign of disease.
Cause of death a seven-inch cut across the neck running from right to left, which severed the larynx, cartilage, surrounding tissue, and carotid artery, resulting in victim hemorrhaging until death. No bruises or signs of restraint anywhere on body, expect for a thumbprint-size bruise to the right of the mouth, above the lip, and two inches from the nose. In addition to neck injury, victim was cut seventeen times in the chest, abdomen, and genital area, most wounds 1⁄2 inch in width, with a significant amount of depth. All organs intact and accounted for, though the uterus, bladder, stomach, and left lung all had puncture wounds from injuries. Given the uniformity of the wounds, the single weapon appears to be a straight knife. Death was immediate from the initial neck wound, and other stabs were postmortem.
There are no signs of sexual intercourse.
Death Certificate of Anne Donovan
Be it Remembered, THAT ON THIS DAY, to-wit: the eighth of October in the year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Forty-nine and the seventy-sixth year of the Independence of the United States of America. Before me, John Richard Thomas, duly commissioned and Sworn, RECORDER OF BIRTHS AND DEATHS, in and for the PARISH OF ORLEANS, STATE OF LOUISIANA, Personally Appeared, Jonathon Thiroux, a competent witness, residing in this Parish, and doth declared that Anne Donovan, departed this life on the yesterday at approximately one-thirty a.m., aged about twenty-three years.
“What makes sense about this?”
Gabriel turned away from his computer, where he’d been studying the effects of wormwood in absinthe on users, and turned to Sara, sitting on the couch in his office, her legs crossed and tucked under her long skirt. He could see the palpable frustration on her face.
“Why the hell would John Thiroux be the person submitting the info on Anne’s death? If I’m reading this right, he essentially filed her death with the recorder’s office, and the police had nothing to do with it.”
“He was the person to discover her death.” And would never forget it. Gabriel only wished he could remember what the hell had happened before her death. But it was a blank, just a hazy memory of Anne, and pleasure, then floating off into the abyss. Then blood. Death. “That was normal for the time period.”