“Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, Shakespeare's Sonnets. I would not have taken you for the poetry type.” He smiled. “And what type would you have taken me for?” It was a good question, and it reminded her that she was standing in the house of a man she barely knew. She fought the sudden urge to run for the door. Strangers weren't safe. Still, he wasn't a complete stranger. He was her rescuer, the one who had come running when she screamed. What if it's because he's the killer, a voice whispered in her head. No, that couldn't be. Jeremiah would have had no way to access the church sanctuary. Since the dead man had no connection with the church, it had to have been his killer that unlocked the sanctuary. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. No, it couldn't have been Jeremiah. He just wasn't the killer type. Still, that didn't mean she was even remotely sure what type of person he was.
