The Sinner by O'Keefe Molly

Author:O'Keefe, Molly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

The sun had set a long time ago and shadows chased me through the kitchen that smelled like the gumbo we’d had for dinner.

There was a plastic container of leftovers in the fridge and I could grab it and take it out to him as easily as not. But I chose not.

He didn’t deserve gumbo.

I found him in the dark twilight, working on the last of the greenhouse, carefully sliding glass panes into place. His back rippled, the small muscles of his arms flexed and shifted. He had lost weight—the side of his face that I could see was thin. His cheekbones looked like they could cut steaks.

Not that I cared, but seriously, we didn’t need him passing out or worse.

“You should eat,” I said and he jumped, nearly dropping a pane on his foot.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, and tried very hard to convince myself that I didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to stroke back the sweaty hunk of hair that fell over his forehead, practically into his eyes.

He needed a haircut.

Not. That. I. Care.

“I have a question,” I said.

He grunted, picking up another glass square, unwrapping it from its protective shell. His hands were raw, and a scrape along his palm was bleeding, probably going to get infected.

Not. That. I. Care.

“Are you here because you want the jewels for yourself?”

That got his attention and he straightened to his full height.

“No,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving smears of dirt and blood. “I don’t care about the gems.”

“Where are your gloves?” I snapped, angry that he was dumb enough to do this work without protection and angry that I cared.

“They have a hole.”

“Get a new pair.”

His lips twisted slightly. “Yes, boss.”

He slid the glass home.

“So if you’re not here for the diamond and ruby, why come seven years after the fact?”

He bent and picked up a broken pane and cursed under his breath before carefully setting the pieces into what I assumed was the junk pile. Concrete, glass, bits of brick and stacks of ruin, like terrible, shattered buildings.

His silence stretched and pulled until I snapped. “You lied your way into our home. We have a right to know.”

He breathed something I didn’t hear as he bent to pick up another pane.

“What?”

“Justice!” he yelled, glass shattering at our feet. I jumped at the sudden fury in his voice.

“Dad didn’t do the crime alone, his hands weren’t the only ones dirty.”

“But it’s seven years too late—”

“Guilt should be punished.”

The courtyard rang with his voice and I stepped back, stunned. Something else was at work here, it was all over his face. It changed the way the air around him smelled like sulfur and blood.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice suspiciously calm. But I could see, in the moonlight, his heartbeat throbbing in his neck, as if he’d been running for miles.

“Are you okay?” I hated myself for asking.

“Sure.” An idiot could see he was lying.

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