"I don't know," she said lamely, speaking over the rising whisper in her head. "I mean, I'm not sure what to think."
If the detective didn't suspect she was nuts yet, he would if she blurted out the word that was now swimming through her mind, chilling her to the bone. It was the only explanation she had for the gruesome slaying she witnessed that night.
Vampires?
Christ Jesus. She really was crazy.
"I'll need to take this device, Miss Maxwell."
"Gabrielle," she offered. Her smile felt awkward. "Do you think forensics, or whoever does that sort of thing, will be able to clean up the images?"
He gave her a slight incline of his head, not quite a nod, then pocketed her cell phone. "I will return it to you tomorrow evening. You will be home?"
"Sure." How was it he could make a simple question sound more like an order? "I appreciate you coming by, Detective Thorne. It's been a rough few days."
"Lucan," he said, studying her for a moment. "Call me Lucan."
Heat seemed to reach out to her from his eyes, along with a stoic understanding, as if this man had seen more horrors than she could ever comprehend. She could not name the emotion that passed through her in that moment, but it sped her pulse and made the room feel sapped of all its air. He was still looking at her, waiting, as if expecting her to comply at once with his request to speak his name.
"All right... Lucan."
"Gabrielle," he replied, and the sound of her name on his lips sent a quiver of awareness shooting through her veins.
Something on the wall behind her caught his attention. He glanced to where one of Gabrielle's most acclaimed photographs hung. His mouth pursed slightly, a sensual quirk of his lips that hinted at amusement, perhaps surprise. Gabrielle pivoted to look at the image of an inner city park that was frozen and desolate beneath a blanket of thick December snow.
"You don't like my work," she guessed.
He mildly shook his dark head. "I find it... intriguing."
She was curious now. "How so?"
"You find beauty in the most unlikely of places," he said after a long moment, his attention focused now on her. "Your pictures are full of passion..."
"But?"
To her bewilderment, he reached out, stroked a finger along the line of her jaw. "There are no people in them, Gabrielle."
"Of course there..."
She started to blurt out a denial, but before the words reached her tongue, she realized that he was right. Her gaze lit on each framed photograph she kept in her apartment, her memory touching on all the others that hung in galleries and museums and private collections around the city.
He was right. The images, no matter their subjects were all empty places, lonely places.
Not one of them contained a single face or even a shadow of human life.
"Oh, my God," she whispered, stunned at the revelation.
In just a few moments, this man had defined her work as no one ever had before. Not even she had seen the obvious truth in her art, but Lucan Thorne had inexplicably opened her eyes. It was as if he had peered into her very soul.
"I must go now," he said, already making his way to the door.
Gabrielle followed him, wishing he would stay longer. Maybe he would come back later. She nearly asked him to, but forced herself into maintaining at least a modicum of cool control. Thorne was halfway out the door when he abruptly paused on the threshold. He turned toward her, too close in the cramped space of the foyer. His large body crowded her, but Gabrielle didn't mind. She didn't so much as breathe.
"Is something wrong?"
His fine nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. "What kind of perfume are you wearing?"
The question flustered her. It was so unexpected, so personal. She felt heat rise to her cheeks, though why she should be embarrassed she had no idea. "I don't wear perfume. I can't. I'm allergic."