blame for other reasons.
Seraph, an angel. A name that oddly fit her despite the roughness of her upbringing, her lack of proper education, her propensity for overindulgence. Yes, despite all that, she’d had a sweetness. A gentleness. A lost, broken quality.
She, above all the others he’d tried to help, had touched him. Even though he’d known romantic involvement with her wouldn’t help fix her, he’d allowed it. She’d drawn him in.
So he’d begun to see her, and their romance was probably as close to love as he’d ever felt, in all his centuries. Maybe it wasn’t exactly love, but it was deep affection and a need to protect her. All too quickly, however, it became clear she had problems he couldn’t begin to protect her from—not even with his preternatural abilities. Depression, manias, even bouts of psychosis. Drugs were her mask for much deeper-rooted problems.
When she’d been discovered dead the day after Christmas, he hadn’t been surprised. And he’d been riddled with guilt and despair.
They’d had an argument, because she’d wanted them to marry. He’d told her that wouldn’t, couldn’t, happen. She hadn’t even known the truth about what he was. He never planned to tell her. And he certainly wouldn’t offer immortality to a woman who suffered like she did. An eternity of mental illness, drugs, self-hatred—that would have been beyond cruel.
He’d known for a while he should end things. But he always wondered if he’d handled the situation better than he had, would she be alive today? Breaking things off on Christmas Eve. It had been terrible timing, and he should have guessed she couldn’t handle it.
When he’d discovered she died, the overdose made sense. She’d always turned to drugs when life became too much. But now, he wondered. He read the coroner’s report. He studied the autopsy diagrams.
She did have fresh needle marks, but there was also mention of some bruising on her wrists, and two broken fingernails.
Vittorio stared at the notations scrawled in barely legible black ink next to a drawing of a body. Had she fought someone? Had someone killed her, then covered their tracks by making it look like an overdose?
A strange, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him, yes. Seraph hadn’t died by her own hand. But that knowledge didn’t lessen the regret and the never-quite-gone guilt he felt about failing Seraph. His feeble attempt to make it up to her by saving another long-dead woman. By saving them all from their addictions, their awful lives.
But he hadn’t saved any of them, had he?
He left the box in the aisle, and moved to find the last file he needed to see. Julianne’s file.
What was her last name? Simmons? Sinclair? Yes, it was Sinclair. He went to the S’s, and found the correct box. Her file was toward the front. Again, the first things he saw were photos. These were more gruesome than Seraph’s, Julianne’s death more visibly violent. But both were disturbing in their own way. More disturbing because of his suspicions.
The final outcome of the police investigation and the coroner’s report was that she’d committed suicide, jumping from the third story window of her apartment building.
He studied the autopsy report, searching for anything that didn’t coincide with the determined cause of death: severe head trauma and internal damage.
On the diagram of the body, marked heavily with the locations of her injuries, he found two interesting notations in handwriting much neater than on Seraph’s report. One noted bruising around the neck that appeared to have happened before the other damage. And the other was written at the bottom of the report. Material fibers under her fingernails.
Vittorio frowned. Material fibers? He flipped through the other reports. They had done an investigation. And forensics had determined the material fibers matched those of curtains hanging in Julianne’s apartment.
An image flashed in his mind, of Julianne
Seraph, an angel. A name that oddly fit her despite the roughness of her upbringing, her lack of proper education, her propensity for overindulgence. Yes, despite all that, she’d had a sweetness. A gentleness. A lost, broken quality.
She, above all the others he’d tried to help, had touched him. Even though he’d known romantic involvement with her wouldn’t help fix her, he’d allowed it. She’d drawn him in.
So he’d begun to see her, and their romance was probably as close to love as he’d ever felt, in all his centuries. Maybe it wasn’t exactly love, but it was deep affection and a need to protect her. All too quickly, however, it became clear she had problems he couldn’t begin to protect her from—not even with his preternatural abilities. Depression, manias, even bouts of psychosis. Drugs were her mask for much deeper-rooted problems.
When she’d been discovered dead the day after Christmas, he hadn’t been surprised. And he’d been riddled with guilt and despair.
They’d had an argument, because she’d wanted them to marry. He’d told her that wouldn’t, couldn’t, happen. She hadn’t even known the truth about what he was. He never planned to tell her. And he certainly wouldn’t offer immortality to a woman who suffered like she did. An eternity of mental illness, drugs, self-hatred—that would have been beyond cruel.
He’d known for a while he should end things. But he always wondered if he’d handled the situation better than he had, would she be alive today? Breaking things off on Christmas Eve. It had been terrible timing, and he should have guessed she couldn’t handle it.
When he’d discovered she died, the overdose made sense. She’d always turned to drugs when life became too much. But now, he wondered. He read the coroner’s report. He studied the autopsy diagrams.
She did have fresh needle marks, but there was also mention of some bruising on her wrists, and two broken fingernails.
Vittorio stared at the notations scrawled in barely legible black ink next to a drawing of a body. Had she fought someone? Had someone killed her, then covered their tracks by making it look like an overdose?
A strange, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him, yes. Seraph hadn’t died by her own hand. But that knowledge didn’t lessen the regret and the never-quite-gone guilt he felt about failing Seraph. His feeble attempt to make it up to her by saving another long-dead woman. By saving them all from their addictions, their awful lives.
But he hadn’t saved any of them, had he?
He left the box in the aisle, and moved to find the last file he needed to see. Julianne’s file.
What was her last name? Simmons? Sinclair? Yes, it was Sinclair. He went to the S’s, and found the correct box. Her file was toward the front. Again, the first things he saw were photos. These were more gruesome than Seraph’s, Julianne’s death more visibly violent. But both were disturbing in their own way. More disturbing because of his suspicions.
The final outcome of the police investigation and the coroner’s report was that she’d committed suicide, jumping from the third story window of her apartment building.
He studied the autopsy report, searching for anything that didn’t coincide with the determined cause of death: severe head trauma and internal damage.
On the diagram of the body, marked heavily with the locations of her injuries, he found two interesting notations in handwriting much neater than on Seraph’s report. One noted bruising around the neck that appeared to have happened before the other damage. And the other was written at the bottom of the report. Material fibers under her fingernails.
Vittorio frowned. Material fibers? He flipped through the other reports. They had done an investigation. And forensics had determined the material fibers matched those of curtains hanging in Julianne’s apartment.
An image flashed in his mind, of Julianne
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