“I’m not trying to—”

Gabriel moved so fast I stumbled as the bracing wall of him disappeared. I turned to see a young man, maybe thirty. Though he wore a suit, he wasn’t a mourner—his tie was loose, the top button undone, his cheeks unshaven.

Gabriel took his phone. As he’d warned, he did not do it gently, yet the reporter was still caught off guard and jerked back in surprise as the cell vanished from his hand.

“You can’t—”

“I did.”

Gabriel flipped through the pictures. The reporter had been snapping shots from a distance, slowly closing in. Gabriel removed the SIM card, again so quickly that the reporter could do no more than yelp in protest.

“Jesus!” The man leapt forward. “You can’t—”

“I did.” Gabriel tucked the SIM card into his pocket. Then he forced a factory reset on the phone and handed it back. “Now leave. This is a funeral, and I won’t allow you to cause a scene.”

“Me? You just—”

“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.

“Do you need a lawyer?” I said.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You can still call me, right?” I said. “One phone call? To let me know if there’s anything more I can do?”

He lowered his voice, turning to look at me as we reached the police car. “I’ll be all right, Olivia.”

The officer opened the door and guided him in. As I hovered there, the officer gave me a surprisingly sympathetic look and said, “You’ll have to step back, Miss Jones.”

I did.

Gabriel ducked his head to look at me out the cruiser window. “May I have a brief word with Ms. Jones? Please?”

The officer hesitated. I suspect he wasn’t as willing to be nice to Gabriel, but the request was worded so politely, the tone downright deferential, that he told his partner to hold up. Gabriel motioned me closer, and the officer stepped away. As I bent to listen, I could see the tightness in his face, the anxiety. He might be acting calm, but he’d just been arrested for murder.