His cell phone rang in his pocket and he pulled it out. It was Sara’s number. He wanted to answer it, but if she was calling, then clearly she was okay and he needed to finish this conversation before he spoke to her.
“You can answer it,” Raphael said. “I don’t care.”
“It’s too late. She hung up.” Phone in his left hand, knife in his right, Gabriel stared at the shutters. What the hell was he supposed to do? He knew he had to do something, knew there was a key, something he was supposed to accomplish before he would be free, but he had no idea what it was. He wanted to solve these murders but didn’t know where to look next.
Raphael’s cell phone started ringing, his ring tone an irritating hip-hop song.
Pulling it out of his pocket, Raphael glanced at the screen. “It’s Sara. I’m going to answer it.”
Feeling offended that Sara had called Raphael immediately after calling him, he glanced down at his own phone. She hadn’t even left him a voice mail. She was clearly still angry with him. But it still made his blood pressure increase to know that the woman he loved was perfectly happy chatting with Raphael.
Raphael had sat up, and he said, “Hi, Sara, how are you?”
There was nothing as annoying as standing there only able to hear one half of a conversation. He should be talking to Sara, not feeling like a complete outsider, in that room of all places. He was ready to leave, wanted away from the bed, the dingy walls, the lingering smell of cigarettes and rot. He was standing right where Anne’s little table and his chair used to rest, and it made him frustrated in ways he couldn’t even describe or explain.
Raphael was frowning. “I told you I was moving out.”
It sounded like Sara was angry with Raphael too, which gave him a petty satisfaction.
“What? Who? Sara, calm down . . . no, I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Hold on a second. Here’s Gabriel.” Raphael shoved his cell phone at him. “I think you should talk to her. She’s really upset and I’m not sure why.”
Great. Just great. They weren’t even supposed to know each other and Raphael had just blurted out that he was standing right next to him. He hadn’t given him any way to ease Sara into an explanation, but had just handed him a hand grenade.
“Sara? I’m sorry I just missed your call. Is everything okay? How are you?” Gabriel put his own phone in his front pants pocket and twirled the knife with his free hand. He had a bad feeling this wasn’t going to be a good conversation.
“Why the hell are you with Rafe?” she said. “You said you weren’t going to come to Florida! What the hell is going on?”
No. That wasn’t a good start. “I’m not in Florida. I’m still in New Orleans.”
“How can you be in New Orleans? Why is Rafe there? And how do you know each other?”
There was no easy way to explain their relationship or what was happening. So he stuck his hand in his hair and closed his eyes and said, “Um. It turns out we do know each other. I didn’t realize that because he’s using a different name now, but I just saw a picture of him and put two and two together. And I was pretty sure he was here in New Orleans, because I figured out he owns the house on Dauphine Street. Which is why I was okay with you going back to Florida, because I was almost positive he wouldn’t be there, but here. Therefore, you wouldn’t be in any danger from him.”
Oh, God. That sounded absolutely all wrong. The more he spoke, the deeper the hole he was digging. From her perspective it wasn’t going to make any sense.
“Okay, I cannot even figure out what is going on here . . . there was this woman at Rafe’s condo and his stuff is all gone, and she said she’s his girlfriend and that they’ve moved in together. She invited me to dinner with the two of them, but now you’re telling me that Rafe is in New Orleans? And my friend Jocelyn ran the samples I gave her, and she did a fingerprint search on the print from the Anne Donovan sketch, because I forgot to tell her I didn’t need a search, but here’s the really bizarre thing—she found a match. That fingerprint on the sketch matches a woman named Marguerite Charles who was arrested for running a prostitution ring in Louisiana in 2003. Louisiana. Marguerite Charles. A match. And the woman who said she’s Rafe’s girlfriend also said her name was Marguerite. What kind of a freak-out coincidence is all of that?”
Marguerite. Gabriel’s eyes shot open. He started pacing again, kicking Raphael’s foot to get his attention. “Marguerite’s prints match prints from the Donovan crime scene?”
“Yes.”
Holy shit. Alex’s daughter was a killer. Gabriel would have never suspected in a million years, had no reason to suspect. Raphael’s eyes had gone wide in shock, but there was no skepticism. He looked like he believed Marguerite perfectly capable of murder.
“It’s obviously some bizarre mistake,” Sara said, “since it’s not possible that a woman today could match the prints of someone from a hundred-and-fifty-some years ago, but the whole thing is just off . . . I don’t understand any of it.”
It was entirely too possible, and Gabriel felt the firm grip of fear when he realized what exactly Sara had said earlier. “Marguerite was at Rafe’s condo? She’s in Naples?”
Raphael jumped off the bed. “Gabriel. Sara’s in danger.”
That was exactly what he had just determined. And they were both a thousand miles away from her.
“Yes. Do you know Marguerite? Right as she was leaving she told me to say hi to you. I’m so completely confused, and I’m angry because I feel like you know what’s going on and you’re not telling me.”
He wanted to, but there wasn’t time. And you didn’t tell someone about your immortality over the phone anyway. “Sara, listen to me, sweetheart. I’ll explain everything as soon as I get to Naples. I’m going to catch the next flight. Stay with your friend until I get there, okay? And don’t go anywhere near Rafe’s condo or Marguerite.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I think Marguerite killed your mother. So does Rafe.”
There was silence for a long second, and Gabriel stopped pacing. He wished he knew how to reassure her, comfort her, keep her safe until he could get to her.
“Gabriel, I’m scared.”
He could hear it in her voice. She was frightened of what she knew was real—death—and what she didn’t understand— how he, Raphael, and Marguerite were all connected. “It’s going to be okay. I’m on my way.”