"I avoided a scene, one where you invaded a mourner's privacy and I was forced to take more serious action to stop you. Now turn around and leave."
He did, grumbling and cursing Gabriel.
"Thank you," I said when the reporter was gone.
"I'm simply relieved it didn't escalate to violence given . . ." He nodded toward the crowd of mourners.
"Witnesses," I said.
A twist of a smile. "I meant because it's a funeral."
"That, too."
He gave my shoulder a light squeeze before turning me back toward the service, letting me lean against him once more.
As soon as it ended, I said, "We should go before anyone else notices us."
"Hmm."
I followed the angle of his shades to see a cameraman and reporter heading our way, another crew following behind.
We moved at Gabriel's long-legged march until he realized that I had to jog to keep up. He slowed before we called more attention to ourselves. But the moment we'd set out with a half-dozen reporters in tow, it was like the wake behind a powerboat, spreading behind us, alerting every reporter nearby. Some of them had no compunctions about running. As they closed in, Gabriel's hand went to my back and his other lifted, ready to warn off anyone who came too close. No one did. That hand was enough.
I kept my face lowered, slipped on sunglasses plucked from my purse, moving quickly as cameras snapped and reporters called questions from all sides. Gabriel didn't acknowledge them. We just kept going until . . .
Until we saw the new Jag . . . with police cruisers parked in front of and behind it.
Despite Gabriel's shades, I swore I saw him aiming blast rays at those cars, his jaw tight enough to snap teeth.
Two officers were heading straight for us.
"Gabriel Walsh?" one said as he drew near.
"Yes," Gabriel said.
The other stepped into his path. "Gabriel Walsh, you're under arrest for the murder of James Morgan."
; CHAPTER THIRTY
In that moment, I failed Gabriel. The officer announced he was under arrest and all I could think was, Oh my God, Pamela . . . She'd accused him of murder and now he was being arrested, and that had to be her fault. I froze in horror and dismay, and when Gabriel looked at me, that's what he saw. As if I thought he might actually have done it.
He turned away, his shoulders straightening. His hand dropped from my back. He walked toward the police cruiser, his chin high as one officer read his Miranda rights and the second told him to put his hands behind his back. They were going to cuff him--with news cameras on every side.
I jumped forward then, saying that wasn't necessary, that he wasn't resisting. But Gabriel said, "Enough, Olivia," and put his hands behind his back as the cameras snapped.
I didn't say, I know you're innocent, because there was no question, and I would not act as if there was. Instead, I said, "Tell me what to do."
"I'm fine," he said.
"Please. Tell me what to do."
He kept walking. I caught his coat sleeve, ignoring the warning grunt of the officer.
"Gabriel, please. Tell me what I can do."
He glanced at me then, and my panic must have shown, because a little of that stiffness went out of his shoulders. He started rattling off instructions. Notify Lydia. Have her lock down the office pending a search. Do not go into the office until it had been searched. Same with his apartment.