The Sinner

by Amanda Stevens

  Kendrick scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been around the house twice now and I’ve searched all over the yard. Other than the damaged screen, I haven’t found any evidence of an attempted break-in. I’ll have the latch dusted for prints, but I have to say, if someone really wanted in, that flimsy lock wouldn’t keep him out. He could have easily cut through the screen on the door.”

  “I agree.”

  “So what do you think he really wanted?”

  I had my suspicions, but I bit my lip and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Kendrick studied me for a moment. “You said you heard him at the shed first.”

  “I heard someone in the shed.”

  He arced the light over the orchard. “Let’s go down there and take a look.”

  I started to call to Angus, but then I decided it would be best to leave him guarding the premises. If anyone came skulking about, he would alert us.

  The moon was still up, casting that same fragile glow over the landscape as we made for the trees. I was secretly relieved that Kendrick had been the one to answer my call rather than Malloy. As wary as I still was of the detective, I’d come to distrust the officer even less. His earlier interaction with Annalee had unnerved me and I couldn’t shake the notion that the two of them, along with Martin Stark, might somehow be involved in all this.

  Despite the hot night, I shivered as we emerged on the other side of the orchard and I caught sight of the outbuilding. Angus’s nightly wanderings had taken him all over the property, but I’d only been down this way by daylight. Even with the moon shining so brightly and a police detective walking beside me, I felt the tug of yet another premonition. If a place could be haunted, it would be that shed.

  I hung back as Kendrick began a slow walk around the structure, angling his flashlight beam all along the ground, up the walls and back toward the fence.

  “Nothing here, either,” he concluded as he came back around the corner. “The door is still padlocked and the windows are all closed.”

  “What about footprints?”

  Kendrick trained the beam on the ground in front of the door and then knelt to have a closer look. “Maybe when it’s daylight, we’ll find something.” He didn’t sound hopeful.

  “I was so certain someone had broken into this place. I even heard a voice. At least, I thought I did. I’m sorry if I called you out here at this time of night for nothing.”

  He glanced up at me. “I wouldn’t call that slashed screen nothing.”

  I suppressed a shudder. “No, but as you said, if he’d really wanted in, the latch on the screen door wouldn’t have discouraged him. Maybe someone really is trying to scare me.” Or test me. I had no doubt that Pope’s perception was at least as keen as mine. If he had been sensing supernatural vibes, he may have been trying to find the source or even to confirm his suspicions by luring me out into the open. Or perhaps he was trying to ascertain how much of a threat I posed.

  There was an even more chilling explanation based on something Dr. Shaw had told me about the victims of medicine murder. Their terror and agony made the muti more powerful. Was it possible Pope was toying with me, picking at my doubts and fears so that my weakened resolve would strengthen his magic?

  Unmindful of my churning thoughts, Kendrick clinked his flashlight against the padlock. “You don’t have a key?”

  “Only to the house.”

  “Do you know of anyone besides Annalee who would have access to this place?”

  “No. I’ve never seen anyone down here.”

  “Did you call her about a possible intruder? Or to see if she knew who might have been out here?”

  “I didn’t want to alarm her with a phone call in the middle of the night. But she was here earlier.”

  “At the shed? When was this?”

  “Not at the shed, at the house. She and Officer Malloy were sitting on the front porch when I got home from work. He said she was having one of her spells—that’s how he described it—but she snapped out of it pretty quickly once I arrived.”

  Kendrick straightened from the lock. “What was Malloy doing here with her?”

  “Apparently, he saw her on his way to and from the cemetery and stopped to make sure she was okay.”

  “Did he say what he was doing at the cemetery?”

  The question surprised me. “Yes. He said you sent him to have a look around.”

  “He said I sent him?”

  “Didn’t you? He also said you’d beefed up patrols since the disturbance I reported in the cemetery.”

  “He said an awful lot, sounds like.” I could see Kendrick’s face in the moonlight, but his expression remained inscrutable.

  I watched him for a moment. “Are you saying none of what he told me is true?”

  “It seems as if some wires got crossed. It happens. I did put the word out to keep an eye on the cemetery and the house. Maybe Malloy was just being unusually proactive.”

  Was that a hint of sarcasm I detected in his voice? I was quickly coming to the conclusion that very little love was lost between Kendrick and the younger officer.

  “I’ll get in touch with Annalee first thing in the morning and see if she has any idea who may have been out here,” he said. “Could have been the same kids that scared you at the cemetery.”

  I frowned. “Assuming that it was a kid I saw. That hasn’t been proven, has it?”

  “Not conclusively, but it’s still the best theory we have. People react differently when they hear about a murder, especially one that hits a little too close to home. Some are curious, some hide behind locked doors and others use it as an excuse to act out.”

  “I hope that’s not what you think I’m doing,” I said uneasily.

  “I meant whoever is trying to scare you. But it would only be natural if you were reactive. We haven’t caught the killer yet and you live alone, you work alone. I’d be worried if you weren’t on edge.”

  “I have my moments,” I admitted. “Can you tell me anything about the investigation? How it’s going? You must have leads.”

  “None that I can talk about.”

  “Can you at least tell me if the victim has been identified? She’s been on my mind lately.”

  He hesitated as if pondering his need for discretion. “We don’t have a positive ID yet.”

  I pictured the victim as she’d looked in the morgue, tiny and forsaken and yet still with an indomitable air. If she really was Congé, I supposed that explained a lot. She was probably from a well-to-do family, likely well educated and, for all I knew, well trained, though apparently no match for Atticus Pope. “Don’t you find it odd that no one has come forward to claim the body? Someone must be out there looking for her.”

  “People die alone all the time,” he said.

  “Not people like her. I doubt she was a runaway or homeless.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Her jewelry, for one thing. All those ruby studs. Her silver ring looked custom or even heirloom. It could be traceable.”

  I saw a brow lift in the moonlight. “Go on.”

  “She wore a band shirt. I’ve never heard of the group, but if they’re local, you could canvas the clubs where they last played, maybe find someone who remembers her. It’s a thought,” I finished with a shrug.

  “Interesting observations,” he said. “It seems my earlier assessment was right on the money. Nothing much gets by you, does it?”

  “Details are also important in my line of work, Detective.”

  He gave a slight nod. “Then you’ll be relieved to know that everything you mentioned has already been checked out, plus a few leads you may not have considered. Believe it or not, the investigation is in capable hands.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”


  “We’ll find out who she is and we’ll catch her killer. Sooner or later, he’ll give himself away. They almost always do. In the meantime, you haven’t remembered anything that could help us out, have you?”

  I glanced away. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  He followed my gaze with the light, running it all along the perimeter of the orchard and up into the trees. “Tell me again about that noise you heard. You said you thought at first it was a loose shutter banging in the wind. Was it loud enough to wake you up?”

  “It didn’t wake me up. My dog had to go out. I heard the noise while I waited for him on the back porch.”

  Kendrick focused the light over my shoulder. “Isn’t that your dog over there?”

  I whirled, surprised to find Angus hovering in the shadows at the tree line. He didn’t growl or bare his teeth, but I could tell he was wary of Kendrick, which was undoubtedly why he’d followed us.

  Kendrick crouched and put out a hand.

  “He doesn’t always warm up to strangers,” I warned.

  “Au pied, Angus.”

  The dog lifted his head at the sound of Kendrick’s voice. He eyed him suspiciously for another long moment before trotting over to inspect Kendrick’s outstretched hand, going so far as to nuzzle his palm.

  “I guess you’re one of the exceptions,” I murmured.

  “I’ve always been good with dogs. They’re a lot easier to relate to than most people.”

  “I don’t disagree. Do you have one of your own?”

  “Not now,” he said with regret. “Not for a long time, but always as a child. My grandmother used to say that you could tell a lot about a person’s character by how well they got on with animals. I’ve always found that to be a pretty reliable gauge.”

  “Would you have said as much if Angus hadn’t accepted you so readily?”

  “Probably not.” I saw a grin flash as he cupped Angus’s scarred snout. “What happened to him?”

  “He was used as a bait dog before I found him. Or rather, he found me in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

  “Bon chien, Angus.” He bent forward, speaking softly into the dog’s ear nub. “Tu es un doux guerrier. Non? Un gardien féroce. Nous sommes semblables toi et moi. Nous portons les cicatrices de nos défaites aussi fièrement que nous célébrons nos victoires.”

  I’d had a couple of years of high school French, enough to get by on when I’d gone to Paris after graduation, but Kendrick spoke so rapidly I could pick out only a word here and there. Warrior. Protector. Angus gave a sharp bark and wagged his tail fiercely as if he had understood every word. But, of course, it wasn’t the language that he responded to. It was the inflections and nuances in Kendrick’s voice. It was the man himself, I imagined.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “That’s between Angus and me,” Kendrick said, scratching behind the ear nubs and then smoothing the fur along the dog’s backbone. “He’s a good animal. Gentle and proud. Ferocious when he has to be and loyal to a fault.”

  “Yes, that’s Angus.”

  Kendrick stood, his gaze finding me in the dark. “His attachment to you is strong. You’ve been together for a long time?”

  “No, not really. Not quite two years.”

  “Sometimes it only takes a moment.”

  “Yes.” A moment like the one we’d shared in the cemetery?

  I didn’t want to think about that right now. Kendrick was standing a little too close and I was still feeling a little too vulnerable. But I couldn’t keep my gaze from straying back to him and I found myself searching his face, tracing along his strong jawline and then lingering on his lips. He looked dark and mysterious in the moonlight, very Byron-esque, and I remembered Temple’s comment about my having a type.

  He didn’t seem aware of my scrutiny. He’d turned toward the orange grove, tilting his head as he listened to the wind in the leaves. “There’s a strong breeze tonight. Maybe you heard a loose shutter at a neighbor’s house. Sound carries at night. Could have been farther away than you thought.”

  “Yes, that’s possible, I suppose.”

  “The voice you heard. Male or female?”

  I thought back, frowning. “It was very low, but I had the impression it was a man’s voice.”

  “Could you make out anything he said?”

  “‘Save your breath. No one knows you’re here. No one is even looking for you. You’ve already been forgotten so you may as well accept your fate.’”

  He stared at me for the longest moment. “You picked that up all the way back at the house?”

  “I have good hearing.” Admitting to my uncanny senses made me nervous so I quickly added, “And as you said, sound carries at night.”

  “I did say that, but your recall is very specific.”

  I folded my arms. “What he said made an impression. And it made me wonder if someone could be locked up inside this building. Or, if not in here, somewhere nearby.”

  Kendrick’s gaze seemed relentless in the moonlight. “That’s unlikely.”

  “Maybe. I’m just telling you what I heard and what I thought.”

  “It couldn’t have been a neighbor’s TV or radio?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  He returned his attention to the lock. I noticed that he took care not to touch the metal even though he’d found no evidence of tampering.

  “Do you know anything about padlocks?” he asked.

  “Not really. Not beyond the obvious. Why?”

  “Come take a look at this one.”

  I walked over to the door, bending to get a better look but taking care not to brush up against him.

  He adjusted the light for me. “Does anything about that lock seem strange to you?”

  “Strange in what way? It looks like a normal padlock to me.”

  “Keep looking.”

  I leaned in closer, searching for aberrations in the steel or in the design. Then the importance of the engraved emblem struck me and I glanced up at Kendrick in surprise. “It’s an owl’s head. The same symbol that was on the mortsafe padlock. I heard Martin Stark talking about it when he came to the clearing that day.” I took another look. “This can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

  “Depends on the popularity of the lock and local availability. I’m not about to jump to any conclusions, but I’ll admit it’s piqued my curiosity. I’d be interested in finding out when this lock was purchased and by whom.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Stark about that,” I said, remembering my own enlightening conversation with the locksmith. “You said the emblem has piqued your curiosity, but I think it’s done more than that. It confirms something you already suspected, doesn’t it? You always try to downplay or even deny it, but there’s a connection between what happened twenty years ago and what’s happening now. No matter what you say, I still think that’s why you felt compelled to warn me about the Willoughby house.”

  His gaze deepened. “I told you about the house because I thought you had a right to know.”

  “Why? The Willoughbys died a long time ago. Why was it necessary for me to know their history if it has nothing to do with the present-day murder?”

  “You know why.”

  “I have no idea.”

  We were still standing close, a mere breath apart. The light was angled at the lock, but the way it bounced off the building cast shadows across Kendrick’s face, making my pulse race.

  He lifted a hand as if to touch my hair, then seemed to think better of it. But his gaze was still on me, peering into my eyes and whispering over my lips until my knees grew weak.

  “I understand your reluctance.” His voice was low and unbearably intimate in the dark. “The world is full of disbelievers, but I’m not one of them. You don’t have to hide from me
.”

  “I don’t...” Whatever I’d meant to say vanished as I became mesmerized by his golden stare. His eyes were at once dark and softly glowing and I felt inexorably drawn to him in a way I never would have thought possible after Devlin.

  The scruff on his lower face was more pronounced in the reflected light and I had the strongest urge to run the back of my hand along the prickly texture, to trace a finger down that mysterious raised scar tissue at the back of his neck. My heart beat very hard against my chest and I felt breathless and anxious because I knew something was about to happen. A step was about to be taken that could change everything or perhaps nothing at all.

  I didn’t see Kendrick move toward me, but suddenly I felt a hand on my arm, warm and slightly roughened from calluses. It was a light touch, neither threatening nor seductive. The gesture was meant to reassure, but the contact made me tremble just the same.

  His expression flickered, and for a moment, his guard dropped and an air of loneliness descended. I saw pain and longing in his eyes and the shadow of an old fear that made me want to offer him comfort. I thought again about that moment in the cemetery when a look had passed between us, a fleeting solidarity that had forged a bond whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not.

  Without warning, my mind cleared and I found myself drifting into his past, settling into one of his memories. Before me was a young Lucien Kendrick with unkempt hair and an already jaded demeanor. He stoodstanding outside an old train station in Paris, a duffel bag in one hand and a backpack thrown over his shoulder. I recognized the writing on the building from my short stay in the city of lights. Gare de l’Est.

  It was just getting on dusk and he was dressed for the cold. His frosted breath floated out among the ghosts that hovered in the recessed doorways and alleys.

  “Ils sont déjà là. Partout.” A woman stood just beyond the fringes of the streetlamp. She wore a heavy wool coat and a silk headscarf that covered her hair and part of her face, but I somehow knew she was Kendrick’s grandmother.

  “Do you see them?” she asked in English as she pulled her coat tightly about her frail body.