Free Fallen by Erin McCarthy Page B

Gabriel. That Anne Donovan was the great-grandmother of Jessie Michaels. That before her mother had died, she had received a copy of the original newspaper article announcing Anne Donovan’s murder.
    Sara hadn’t told the police, or Rafe, or Gabriel what her mother had gotten anonymously in the mail thirty-six hours before her death, because Sara had the horrible feeling that only one man could have known about the connection, and confirmation of that would shatter her. Some answers were far worse than never knowing at all. She shouldn’t even be talking to Gabriel about her feelings, emotions over her mother’s case, but he was easy to talk to. He stood and listened, and there was never any judgment written on his face. It was like he understood he had no right to cast stones, but at the same time he was capable of compassion, rational discourse.
    “I would guess there have been a lot of boyfriends accused of killing their lovers. And I’m sure a large percentage actually did it.”
    “Do you think he did it? John Thiroux?” Sara stared hard at the tomb, at the crumbling square where a name and date should have been, but was gone, obliterated, like the woman behind the stone. The surface blurred and crossed in front of her eyes, the heat enveloping Sara and closing up her throat.
    “I haven’t read all the documents yet. We don’t have the DNA results from the knife back yet. I don’t know if he did it or not.”
    It shouldn’t even matter. But it did. Sara felt that if she could figure out what had happened to Anne Donovan, she could figure out the pieces of her own life. She could triumph over death, let the past go, face the future with hope. Go back to work. Be normal.
    The grieving process was different for everyone. Sara found that hers included striving desperately to find ways in which she could exert control, rebel against a universe that dictated her fate.
    “We’re going to pick this apart until we have an answer,” she said. “For Anne. For my mother.”
    Gabriel made a sound. “It’s for you and me, too, Sara, as much as it is for them. We need to know, don’t we? But the thing is, there may be no answer.”
    She believed him, even though she hated it, even though she wondered why it mattered to him. What did he care, really? This was her family, her past, her present, her future. Not his.
    The dizziness wasn’t abating, and the cemetery suddenly felt stifling, claustrophobic. “Can we leave? I need a drink of water.”
    And without waiting for him, she turned and headed toward the gate, sliding in the gravel in her terry-cloth flip-flops. When she burst out onto the front sidewalk, she felt like she could breathe again. But the anxiety didn’t go away.
    She wondered if it ever would.
    After stopping for water from a street vendor, Sara had decided to go back to her apartment and try to sleep, and Gabriel figured that was probably the best thing for her. She had looked pasty and clammy in the cemetery, actually swaying on her feet slightly as she turned to leave.
    The water seemed to help, restoring color to her face, and she had bought a granola bar and eaten it before getting in her car to head back. Gabriel had accepted her plea to postpone their trip to Bourbon Street until the following night, and he walked back to his apartment, feet comfortable on the uneven sidewalks. He had lived in the French Quarter for a hundred and fifty years, had never lived anywhere else on earth, and he appreciated its familiarity. He knew every crack, every building, every nuance, every odd local, and every change that occurred, however slight. Intentionally, he chose to cut down Bourbon, to pass the bars that were already gearing up for Friday night. To force himself to walk past signs that advertised beer as three for the price of one. Hand grenades. Mojitos. Jager bombs. To smell the unique odor of beer, bleach, and fried food.
    It gave him a feeling of power, of control, an encouragement that he was