The Paradise Prophecy by Robert Browne Page B

looked like an original.
    Framed copies of Gabriela’s CD covers lined another wall, along with plaques commemorating their gold and platinum status. And just below this were two long glass cases holding more religious artifacts than Callahan had seen outside of the Alexandria National Museum.
    Most of the statuary, artwork and jewelry inside these cases looked very old and quite valuable, and the sight of it all gave the young pop star a weight and depth that Callahan hadn’t considered before. No one spent this kind of money, or surrounded herself with this kind of history, without a deep appreciation of both the artistry and message it conveyed. Maybe Gabriela had felt a kind of kinship with its creators—other artists sharing their love of God with the world.
    There was something about this notion that saddened Callahan, and her suspicion that Gabriela had been murdered took even deeper root in her mind.
    The timeline, she thought. There must be something wrong with the timeline.
    Either that, or someone was lying.
    Alejandro Ruiz?
    The woman who had greeted them in the foyer—a middle-aged housekeeper named Rosa—stepped through a doorway behind them and said, “Mr. Ruiz will be with you in a moment. He’s looking for his phone.”
    Martinez turned. “Thank you.”
    Rosa was about to leave when she hesitated and looked at Callahan. There was a trace of tears in her eyes. “Please go easy on him. He’s taking this very hard. We all are.”
    Callahan wasn’t quite sure why she had been singled out, but she nodded. “Were you at the concert hall when Gabriela died?”
    Rosa shook her head. “I was at home. With my children.”
    “Do you know if Gabriela had any enemies? People who might want to do her harm?”
    Rosa’s eyes widened. “Why do you ask? Do you think someone—”
    “I’m just trying to be thorough,” Callahan said. “You were around her a lot, so I assume you know a lot about her private life. Does anyone come to mind?”
    “No. No one. We all loved Gabriela. She was a good girl. Treated everyone like family.”
    “What about Alejandro? Did she treat him like family, too?”
    The implication was clear and the question seemed to catch Rosa by surprise, but she managed not to stutter. “Yes. Of course. They were very fond of each other. Like brother and sister.”
    Uh-huh, Callahan thought. “While we’re waiting, could you point me to her bedroom?”
    Rosa looked conflicted, as if she were about to violate a trust. “Is that really necessary?”
    “I’m afraid it is, yes.”
    Rosa glanced at Martinez, then said, reluctantly, “Just down that hall, first room on your right.”
     
     
    A bedroom tells you more about a person than any other room in the house.
    This is where we feel most at ease. Where we keep the things that are most important to us, much of it within arm’s reach. Where we have our most intimate moments.
    Alone. With a lover. With our God.
    The bedroom is where our secrets are held and revealed. Where we can be ourselves without fear of anyone watching or listening or judging. What’s hidden within its walls is never meant to be seen by uninvited eyes, and Callahan felt a tiny twinge of guilt when she stepped into this one.
    First impression: Gabriela was a reader. Voracious, from the looks of it. There was no television in the room and one wall supported several shelves of books. Fiction, nonfiction, hardback, paperback, some neatly vertical, while others were stacked horizontally on the edge of a shelf, as if waiting to be read: The Heart of Catholicism, The Power of Miracles, Chastity and Spiritual Discipline .
    This last one suggested that Gabriela may not only have been trying to deepen her understanding of her faith, but was struggling to remain true to it.
    There was an acoustic guitar tucked into a corner. A no-name brand, battered and scarred. A relic of her past, no doubt, and probably more valuable to her than any of the guitars in her living room.
    On