It was a dangerous feeling, an emotional crutch, a kick in the teeth of her independence, a mockery of her strength, but she liked the rhythm of being around another human being. Liked the ability to say a thought out loud and have someone there to hear it. Liked the sound of movement, his feet echoing across the hardwood, his throat clearing, the crack of his knuckles when he was thinking, and the growing familiarity of his smile, the toss of his head to rid his eyes of dangling hair, his always clean smell. Liked knowing that it didn’t have to be difficult with him, that silence was okay. And she liked waking up with the solid presence of a man beside her, since he’d insisted she sleep, platonically, in his bed with him. It should have felt uncomfortable, overly intimate, but it didn’t. The fear stayed small, contained, in its locked box when she was around Gabriel, and sharing an apartment, her thoughts, her life with him seemed altogether so easy that she was afraid to think about it too much and what that might mean.
She had never lived with a man other than the occasional weekend or vacation spent with a boyfriend. She’d never experienced true cohabitation with a man, just being together, moving in and out of the day’s routine, each other’s space, living and working and coexisting. At twenty-nine, staying with Gabriel, she realized she was ready for that.
Of course, she couldn’t have that with him. It was an illusion, a fantasy. They were both barely hanging on. They’d just fall over the edge faster if they were hanging on to each other.
But that didn’t stop her from desiring him. From wanting to pretend, for now, that they were friends, together.
Digging out her sunglasses, she popped them on her head, stretched out her legs, and called Gabriel on her cell phone. “Hey.”
“Hey, are you done?”
“Yeah. Can you pick me up or should I take a cab?”
“Did you find anything?”
“No, not really. John Thiroux disappeared after his trial.”
“That’s what I figured you’d find, but it was worth checking out.” There was rustling as Gabriel obviously shifted his phone. “I have one more thing to do. Do you want to wait for me or take a cab back?”
“I can take a cab. Are you at the apartment?”
“No. I’m downtown. I’ll pick us up some dinner and I’ll meet you at home.”
That use of the word home sent a little shiver through Sara, which annoyed her. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t go there. There wasn’t a future with Gabriel, and home was what and where she made it herself. She was on her own. Just like she’d always been.
She must have paused long enough to concern Gabriel, because he said, “Are you okay going in the apartment by yourself?”
And he actually sounded worried about her, as opposed to impatient or irritated at her overreactions. For some reason, his concern made tears pop into her eyes. Blinking hard, she said, “I’m fine. Thanks. If I freak out, trust me, I’ll be calling you.” She forced out a laugh, though it probably sounded completely fake.
“Absolutely. Call me. I’ll be home in like an hour, tops, okay?”
“Okay.” Sara said good-bye and hung up. Let the tears roll down her face and her chest heave with her silent sobs.
Maybe she didn’t cry enough. Maybe she needed to let it out. Let it go. Allow herself to feel.
Gabriel had ensconced himself in the corner of a busy coffee shop to talk on the phone to the reporter, Dan Fieldhouse, from the Florida paper who had covered the bulk of the Michaels investigation and trial. He had arranged the interview on the pretext of clarification for his book, which was true. But Gabriel now had a personal investment in discovering the truth about the case. He wanted closure for Sara. He wanted to protect her from incidents like getting those horrific pictures sent to her.
After they went through the basics of the case, Gabriel asked him, off the record, “Going on your experience, Dan, and your gut, did you think Dr. Marino was guilty?”
“Off the record? Hell, yeah, I think he did it. Though unlike our esteemed prosecutor, I think he did it all on his own. I saw the victim’s daughter several times, in court and at the funeral. No way was that chick involved in having her mother killed. She was grieving for real. But Marino’s grief, it’s that glossy, paint-by-numbers grief. It’s calculated. I’ve seen a lot of murder cases, seen a lot of petty criminals and violent criminals. They all lie. Some are just better at it than others. Marino’s a good liar, but he’s still a liar, in my opinion.”
That was the same vibe Gabriel had been getting. The charm, the poise, the perfect grieving boyfriend, the care and concern he showed Sara—it had all set off alarms for him. He had thought maybe it was just jealousy on his part, or the fact that he didn’t know Rafe so it was easy enough to judge him, but Dan Fieldhouse was confirming his own gut reaction.
“So you think it was premeditated?”
“No, I think something set him off on that particular day. But I suspect she’s not the first woman he killed. But I have no facts to back that up. Just a feeling.”
“Did he ever say anything incriminating in your interviews with him?”
“Well, his lawyer was always there, so he was pretty much giving me the party line every time I talked to him, you know what I mean? But one day I dropped by the prison without advance warning figuring he’d say no without his lawyer around, but he actually agreed to talk to me. And he was chatty that day. Full of himself. Talked about his plans to go west and start over as soon as he was acquitted, which he was sure he would be. Then he dropped a quote on me, which was weird as hell.”
Gabriel sat up straighter in his booth, phone propped on his shoulder, laptop open, and fingers ready to type. “Was it a Bible quote?”
“No. Hang on, let me look it up.” There was a pause, then Dan came back on. “He said to me, ‘My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless it be through Earth’s loveliness.’ It’s a quote by—”
“Michelangelo,” Gabriel said before Dan could finish. He knew the quote. Knew it well because the artist had seen angels in his work. He had found heaven through his painting, sculpting. Through earth’s loveliness . . .
“Yeah. Michelangelo. The artist. There was no lead up, no reason for it, he just rips that off in the middle of a conversation where I’m digging at him, trying to get a motive for the crime, trying to ask if they had problems, if he hated women, you know, and he just drops this line on me. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”