He counted himself fortunate to have made it through the night. His savior had been the pounding on the downstairs’ door. Despite its furiousness and brevity, he’d drawn great comfort in hearing it, because he was almost certain who it was. Gabrielle. That was the most sensible possibility. She would have been the first to think that something was wrong, given his failure to show up at Mark Joseph’s, and her general concern that some calamitous event was approaching. Desperate to reach him, she likely would have driven here and began banging on the door, hoping he would answer. He could not answer, of course, and it bothered him that she had left believing he was not inside, but he was glad she’d come anyway. Just knowing she was near, that she cared, was the only thing that got him through the night. Another thirty minutes passed. The bedroom had brightened considerably. It felt good to see the light, but it could not completely quell his fear. He couldn’t help thinking about the day ahead, that there was more to come, that a stiff body wasn’t the end Rose had in mind.
