Silence. That's what I got. Sixty seconds of stone-cold silence.
"Go," I said, turning away. "I appreciate you coming out here and--"
"I'm not leaving. You were attacked tonight, in case you've forgotten, and those locks on your door didn't keep out a killer. Or me."
I wasn't sure which was worse. At least the killer had left.
"I'll sleep on your sofa bed."
"Hell, no," I said.
"Don't be dramatic, Olivia. I've done it before."
He stood there, strumming with impatience. I glanced at the sofa, and I remembered looking out from my bedroom a week ago, seeing him there after Will Evans accused him of murdering his mother. I'd watched him sleeping, and I'd thought how young he looked, how vulnerable, and how, God help me, I trusted him. I'd trusted him.
"I don't care if you've done it before," I said. "You are never doing it again."
Something flickered across his face, too fast to leave any impression before his eyes iced over. "All right. Then you'll spend the remainder of the night at Rose's."
"I'm not--"
"Anderson is dead."
"What?"
"Michael Anderson, Chandler's bodyguard."
"I know who you mean," I said. "What happened?"
"He was in the hospital, under guard, and when they delivered his dinner, he was dead. He apparently overdosed on morphine, but somehow I don't think he's bright enough to have jiggered the dispensing system."
"Definitely not. Murder, then."
"Except, according to the guard, no one went in his room. I spent the evening at the hospital looking into it. I got home too late to notify you."
"I thought you said you were out when I called. That's why you came over."
He waved off the distinction. "The point is that, between his death and the attack on you, it's clear you shouldn't be alone tonight. Moreover, you need someone to wake you every hour in case you have a concussion. Either you go to Rose's or I stay here."
"I'll go to Rose's."
I went back into my room and grabbed my phone. When I came out, he was gathering the spilled contents of my purse and stuffing them back in.
"Ready?" Gabriel asked, straightening.
I nodded.
"It still works," he said when I checked the lock on leaving. "I picked it. It's a cheap dead bolt that only keeps out casual thieves. We'll find you something better tomorrow and arrange for that security system."
I nodded again. We headed out. In the stairwell, he said, "I could use your help investigating Ms. Conway and any links to Pamela's case."
"You think there are links? Because of the . . . postmortem mutilation?"
He glanced over sharply, and I knew he hadn't considered that. As I said it, though, he did, those busy wheels churning.
"The mutilations have nothing in common," he said. "But yes, I'll give it more thought. In the meantime, there is a con
nection of some sort. There must be. Someone is warning you, and that someone has tracked you to Cainsville. I cannot imagine that is unrelated to your parents' case. I cannot imagine you've made murderous enemies otherwise."