Peccatum in Carne: Sins of the Flesh (The Three Sins of Mallory Moore Book 1)

by Coco Mingolelli

  And there, Dr. Sheehan stopped. Looking expectantly at Dawn, she sat back and sipped her tea.

  "And...?" Dawn motioned towards the file. "Two isn't a pattern."

  Margaret tilted her head in consideration. "Yes, but three is. We can't use the third picture for evidence, as it was retrieved from Steven Rose without a warrant," she chuckled. "The duty prosecutor is up in arms about it. From your hands to Miss Moore's to... ours, it would never be admissible. What makes it particularly surprising is that your father's associates still seek to get it back, even now."

  Reaching forward, Dawn tapped her fingers lightly on the tabletop. "Can I see it?" She knew that the psychologist didn't really blame her for mucking up the file bit, though she had no idea that Mallory had given it back to the police while they were in London. A black leatherette case poked out of Dr. Sheehan's bag, and she knew what was inside.

  The forensic psychologist gazed at Dawn in wonder. "You never looked before?"

  Dawn shook her head softly. "I was scared to look at first, and then I had to run. All I saw was her name, some snippets mentioning her birthday, and her parents. After that, it was gone.”

  The elderly woman's hand slid into the file and perused its contents, seeking one particular piece as Dawn explained. Finally, Margaret Sheehan pulled out a picture, and slid it to Dawn.

  Her face regarded Dawn expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

  Dawn's shaking hands picked up the photograph, eyes drinking in the scene. Her father was dancing with a much younger Mallory - her eyes wide, innocent, and surprised. They were in mid-spin when the photo was taken, the blue confection of a dress twirling around Mallory's legs in a blur. She was even wearing white opera gloves, her long fingers resting in her father's grasp.

  A sob bubbled up into Dawn's throat as her fingertip grazed over the girl's face. "She was so..."

  "Frightened," Margaret mused. "He's not giving her the kindest face, is he? Rather like a nasty livestock auctioneer."

  "Y-Yes," Dawn responded. "But he's not looking at her.” Her finger followed the gaze of her father in the photo to Mallory's neck.

  The necklace she knew all too well rested on the edge of the girl's decolletage, but the large diamond pendant was blocked from view by her shoulder and raised arm while in hold. "Oh... Oh, my God," she stuttered.

  The pieces of a puzzle fitting together in her mind, she remembered a fight between her father and some jewel merchant associate during a dinner party, long ago.

  The brash man laughed at her father as they shared a private joke. "Well, if you hadn't let the little flower slip through your hands like a figment of our imaginations, you might not have ever needed to trade again. Ah, such the mystery," he snickered.

  A Newsweek magazine passed between them on the table, much to her mother's chagrin. A beautiful necklace graced the cover – boasting one of the largest diamonds Dawn had ever seen. It seemed to twinkle even from the pages, fiery and earthy all at once. 'The Mystery of the Chrysanthemum Diamond: a Dynamic Enigma,' the headline had boasted.

  Nobody knew where the necklace was, and hadn't for some years apparently.

  Steven shoved the magazine back at the man. "I was outbid. There was no slipping through my damned fingertips," he snapped.

  The dinner guest guffawed at her father. "Sure, you were outbid by Evelyn Moore. But when their estate was liquidated, the diamond wasn't there. It wasn't part of the itemized list of the LaFey estate that the Crown is holding for Lilith, either. Last thing we know is the auction appraisal... Two flowers, gone right through your fingers. Poof!"

  Dawn's mother tapped her dinner plate with a fork. "Please, this isn't appropriate dinner conversation, especially with the little one present," she requested, eyeing Dawn lovingly.

  "The diamond. He wanted the diamond," Dawn sputtered, stabbing her finger against the photo. "Mallory said... she said that her parents and my father argued about conflict diamonds. But, Evelyn Moore bought this one for Mallory anyway, a gift for her birthday. He was second bidder, my father. I don't know why it didn't occur to me..."

  "That she might have worn it on the night of her party?" Margaret interrupted, grasping the photo from Dawn's hand and looking at her in awe. "Dawn... Dawn Rose. You're positively genius, dear. It's standard psychological transference. The necklace, the chain to choke..."

  The psychologist tapped numbers into her mobile, gabbing excitedly when it was answered. "Ross! Ross, have John get everything he can on the 1998 auction of the Chrysanthemum Diamond. Oh! Oh, and get every photograph you can of Lilith LaFey's birthday party. Every angle, every shot, all the photographers that were hired. We need a clear shot of the girl's neck."

  Just as the call was ending, the front door to the cottage slammed shut. Dawn's thoughts about telling Dr. Sheehan the whereabouts of the necklace scattered as Mallory stalked in, carrying bags of groceries directly into the kitchen. Detective Constable Stewart followed her.

  Margaret viewed their arrival with a guarded smile. "Stella? Stella, if you could send Miss Moore back to us?" she called out.

  A teacup and teaspoon rattled from the kitchen, along with the rustling of the grocery bags. Mallory and Constable Stewart were muttering to each other, much too low for Dawn to make anything out.

  Finally, Mallory entered the dining area with her tea, annoyance written all over her face at the Doctor's presence. She sat down next to Dawn, and stiffened once she saw the pictures and her dream catcher laid out.

  "What is the meaning of this, Dr. Sheehan?" she groused. "Stella is going to put the groceries away incorrectly."

  "Don't deflect, dear. I've spent all morning with Miss Rose waiting for you," Margaret chirruped. "Good thing I did, any how. Your... girlfriend is quite the astute woman."

  "I know that Dawn is smart," Mallory muttered at the doctor before giving Dawn a small grin. Her expression turned cold once more as she turned her gaze back to Dr. Sheehan. "I see you've come to torture me?"

  "Torture? No! Oh my, no..." Margret's hand flew up to her chest in honest surprise. "I was simply puzzling out some things with Miss Rose," she explained while sliding the photos back into her briefcase.

  Once she'd put it back onto the floor, Margaret looked knowingly at Mallory. "Besides, I don't need to remind you of that evening to bring forth your memories. You've already begun to remember, haven't you?"

  Mallory's posture straightened beside Dawn, and she regarded that change with scrutiny.

  "You are?" Dawn whispered, her voice aching with sorrow at the revelation. "The nightmares...?"

  Shrugging quickly, Mallory took a sip of her tea but did not answer. She must have wanted Dawn not to know.

  Mallory always said that she didn't want anything to poison the voice that should sound joyful, always. Hers. Dawn, apparently, deserved only happiness.

  "There's no use denying it, Miss Moore," Margaret sighed. "We were worried when the two of you went off to London. The townsfolk we interviewed here described your behavior as erratic before your departure. When we conversed with the London police and issued an All Points Warning for you and Dawn, they zeroed in first on Shoreditch.”

  She tapped the table in a line as she described each of the situations, all the while chuckling at Mallory. “The residents there described you being chased by a gentleman, who was later hospitalized – Lenny Brewster – man in Steven Rose's employ. He disappeared from the Barts Heath Royal London Hospital shortly thereafter. You beat him right good, my dear."

  "Then, you two were seen entering your grandparents' trading firm, you exiting only to give the dossier that Mr. Rose's barrister had compiled to Miss Elisabeth Sørensen at the Tea Room, and then to drive back here. Dawn has told me that you refuse to sleep, and I can very clearly see that she's not exaggerating," the psychologist continued, clearly trying to get a rise out of Mallory.

  At the mention of Elisabeth, Dawn bit her lip to stay quiet. She had so many questions, but the room was getting tense, like a powder keg read
y to blow.

  "I don't like being followed," Mallory snapped at the doctor, and crossed her arms.

  "How does being followed make you feel?" Dr. Sheehan volleyed back, meeting Mallory's glare head on.

  Bursting upwards from the table, Mallory's hand knocked over her tea cup. She paid it no mind, choosing instead to pace the small space. "Oh no, Dr. Sheehan. This is not some therapy session where you get to pick at my brain.”

  Ever brave, Margaret stood to follow the pacing. "Miss Moore... I don't think you fully understand the seriousness of the situation. For lack of a better term, you're waking up from dissociative amnesia. It will only hurt you more if you deny your memories!"

  "And what if I don't want to remember!?" Mallory shouted, her arms pushing out from her sides in defense. A little ceramic egg teetered on a wall shelf next to her, and fell to the floor with a smash.

  For a few moments, the only sound in the room was her heavy breathing, bordering on hyperventilation.

  Stella practically ran into the room, only to be stopped by Margaret's palm, held up in a motion to stay.

  Dawn blinked back tears from her seat. She wanted to give Mallory in a hug – to push away Dr. Sheehan and tell her to stop hurting her. However grand the gesture would have been, she stayed put; guessing that Mallory might not appreciate her touch at the moment, or that it might anger the doctor.

  Margaret had the same idea, holding her palms up in a surrendering motion to Mallory, who was bordering on hysteria. Relaxing her face, she began to speak in a low, hushed way. "All right now, all right. I just want to help you, Miss Moore. I don't want you to hurt yourself, or Dawn..."

  "I would never hurt Dawn!" Mallory blurted out, looking every bit as hurt as Dawn was at the statement.

  "I know that," Dr. Sheehan murmured back, stepping forward a bit. "You just want to protect her, don't you? That's why you became a teacher, isn't that right? To protect children... How admirable.”

  Her green eyes darting around the room, Mallory straightened herself and cleared her throat. "I'm... I'm sorry," she said, her apology sounding more like a question, than a statement.

  Embarrassed, Dawn mused. She had never seen Mallory embarrassed.

  Margaret sighed, relieved that the tension in the room was fading. "You can have justice for that little girl inside you, Mallory. You can protect her, and Dawn... and Dawn's little sister. Isla's only eight now, and with Steven in Scotland. The duty prosecutor needs your testimony to arrest him. Help me keep them safe. Please?"

  The trembling of her lips was in stark contrast to the wrath in Mallory's eyes at the mention of Steven's name. She tugged her clothes back into semblance, even though they weren't wrinkled, and looked at the floor. "What do I need to do?"

  "It might be easier for you to remember if...” Dr. Sheehan considered thoughtfully. “We would need to go to Sevenoaks."

  "All right," Mallory replied, quiet as the breeze. She walked past the doctor stiffly, and avoided Dawn's gaze.

  _____________________________________

  A four-and-a-half hour drive in Dr. Sheehan's unmarked police cruiser sounded about as good as a trip to the dentist, but Dawn wouldn't be convinced to stay at the cottage with another officer.

  Eventually, the relative quiet in the car was punctuated by Mallory's snores. She would jolt awake, seeking Dawn's hand in the back seat to squeeze it tightly, only to be lulled back to sleep by the non-sequitur ramblings of Dr. Sheehan and DC Stewart as they drove. Dawn was sleepy too, but found her mind hyper aware due to the constant wake-jolt-squeeze-sleep cycle.

  After an hour of that, she groaned, and reached for Mallory's purse. "Please, take a pill. I'll be right here, I promise."

  The sorry truth was that Dawn felt horribly guilty. She hid it well, but couldn't help thinking that life for Mallory Moore would have been so much easier if she had never disobeyed Steven, or if he had never dropped her on the steps of St. Augusta's. If she never walked into that Latin classroom, if she never danced in the woods that night, or dreamed of Mallory.

  If. If only. Dawn was full of them.

  If her father hadn't ever hurt the sweet woman that virtually vibrated with a need to protect Dawn, until her dying breath.

  Mallory could have ignored Dawn completely after the party in the woods. If only she hadn't burst into the bedroom that evening.

  It all sounded ridiculous – like it would never have happened that way, anyhow. None of the opposite actions sounded like the people that could have done them. And yet, Dawn thought herself culpable.

  Mallory took her from the floor, and dug through it to find the correct bottle. Swallowing a clonazepam dry, she set the purse back down. Her eyes studied Dawn's, lids becoming heavier by the second.

  Dawn viewed it all with a guilty smile. She reached out and tugged at her girlfriend, laying Mallory's head in her lap. Brushing her fingertips lightly through the tangled, multicolored mess that was so unlike Mallory's usual, tidy hairstyles, she breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of snoring filled the cabin again.

  "Oh, thank God," Stella murmured from the front. "I was about to offer you a horse tranquilizer," she chuckled before becoming instantly contrite. "Poor woman. God, I'm so sorry, Miss Rose..."

  Dawn shook her head, and gave the Detective Constable a tight lipped smile.

  Underneath her hands, the snoring stopped. Mallory wiggled a bit, and began to mumble. "I can still hear you. You can shove that horse tranquilizer right up your..."

  Dr. Sheehan switched on the radio to a classical station, drowning out the remainder of Mallory's threat.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful, except for a few shudders from Mallory. They were easily soothed by Dawn's wandering hands.

  Just as the summer sun began to set, the cruiser pulled up to the biggest house Dawn had ever seen. The sign out front declared No Trespassing, and the iron gate swung on rusty hinges. It loomed darkly in the distance, and she resisted the urge to shrink into the seat like a frightened little girl.

  As the car parked near the front door, Stella looked even more terrified than Dawn. "Please tell me they kept the electricity on so that the pipes didn't burst?”

  Mallory must have felt the car stop, because she sat up to look at the house. "They should have. It's managed by the Board of Directors, or some such thing," she answered with a yawn.

  Out of the car they exited, one at a time, until they stood in a line. Everyone looked up, varying degrees of fear on their faces, except for Dr. Sheehan. She looked to be searching for answers already.

  Dawn kept a firm grip on Mallory's hand as they walked up the untidy stairs, avoiding the weeds and brush growing through cracks in the cement and stone. Stella wrestled with a police issue recorder, while Margaret stayed behind them to study every reaction.

  Mallory pushed open the front doors, standing still after taking only two steps into the foyer. The detective constable pointed the recorder at her, taping a reaction of anxiety, and intense sadness.

  Turning towards Dawn, Mallory squeezed their joined hands and nodded up the curving stairway. "Stay down here. Please, Dawn... I only want Stella to come upstairs with me," she beseeched, expecting an argument.

  "But why?" Dawn was shocked, and didn't follow the logic. "I told you, I'll be right here. That means with you."

  A harshness fell over Mallory's face as her brows furrowed. "Just... do as I say," she cut her off, motioning towards Stella as she walked to the stairs, ascending them quickly.

  Mallory's refusal of Dawn's company hurt. She walked around the dusty foyer, looking at the paintings and the hall tables with disinterest. A dead houseplant laid atop one, and she poked at the brittle leaves.

  Behind her, there was a rustling of a nylon bag. Dawn turned to view Dr. Sheehan reaching into her fabric briefcase for an ominous syringe, and winced as the woman tapped the bubbles out of it. "What's that for?” she wheezed.

  Margaret stared sadly at Dawn, and then towards the ceiling, where footsteps c
ould be heard stomping around.

  "The horse tranquilizer," she said, without an ounce of humour. "I won't use it unless I have to. I came prepared this morning, hoping that I could convince her to come here. The duty prosecutor has been warned by the Crown Court judge assigned to the case that it might be thrown out if we can't come up with something substantial, and soon."

  "But, that's not fair!" Dawn sputtered, walking back towards the doctor. "They're pushing her too fast!"

  Nodding her agreement, Margaret capped the syringe, and placed it back in her bag. "Yes, that's a fair assessment. But you're both in danger, Dawn – very real danger. In order to keep you safe, my job is to support her. That, and present both her your father's psychoanalysis to the court. The healing process is never black and white," she reasoned. "It's better for her to remember with us around. Please trust me on that."