Sentenced to Death by Lorna Barrett

Author:Lorna Barrett [Barrett, Lorna]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: PENGUIN group

David Black’s car sat in the driveway of the neat, white-painted home he and Deborah had shared on Oak Street. At least, she assumed it was his car. She hadn’t seen Deborah’s minivan since the day she’d died. It had been parked in the municipal parking lot. Had David already sold it, too?

Tricia parked behind the late-model Acura. She supposed he couldn’t have afforded a Hummer. That would better fit the macho image he seemed to have of himself. Of course, now that they no longer made them, maybe his next vehicle would be a Mercedes.

Tricia marched up to the door. What was she going to say to him? They hadn’t parted on good terms the day before. Would he even open the door?

She ascended the stairs and pressed the door bell. From inside, she could hear an electronic version of the Westminster chimes. It hardly seemed to go with the humble abode, but then maybe it had been Deborah’s idea of a joke.

The door opened and David stood before her, dressed in a holey gray sweatshirt and grubby jeans. Could the holes have come from sparks from welding? If so, shouldn’t he have worn some kind of protection over his clothes?

“What do you want?” David asked, sounding weary. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Was it guilt that kept him from peaceful slumber?

“We need to talk. About Deborah,” Tricia said.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“David, please.”

He sighed. “What the hell,” he said, and walked away from the door.

Tricia entered the home. She’d never actually been inside the house before, although she’d often dropped Deborah off after one of their Wednesday night girls-only dinners. The descriptor that came to mind was . . . cutseypoo. The living room sported all-white slip-covered furniture, with not a sign that a small child lived in the home. The accent colors were pastel, and the walls were filled with shabby-chic accessories. Not the real thing but the kinds of pictures and knickknacks Deborah sold at the Happy Domestic. And while Deborah was herself a bookseller, there were no signs of any books or magazines cluttering up the room.

Was the rest of the house so precious? Or had Deborah given David—and little Davey—rooms for themselves?

“Sit if you want,” David said.

“Are you going to stand?”

“Deborah doesn’t like me sitting on the furniture in my work clothes.”

“Deborah isn’t here,” Tricia pointed out.

David looked at her in what looked like disbelief and then laughed. “That’s right. I can do what I damn well please now.”

“It seems that’s all you’ve done since she died,” Tricia pointed out.

His expression hardened. “Don’t start on me.”

“Someone needs to. You’ve sold your wife’s store, her car—” She paused, waiting for David to deny it, but he didn’t. “You didn’t hold a ceremony to mark her death. And you’ve totally neglected your own son.”

“That you’ve got wrong,” he said with a sneer. “Davey isn’t my child.”

Tricia blinked, taken aback.

“You mean you hadn’t noticed he doesn’t look a thing like me?” David accused.

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