Amanda Stevens - The Sinner

Kendrick watched me warily. I offered him a bottle of water from the cooler, but he declined. I fished one out for myself and then sat down on top of the chest, lifting the icy bottle to the back of my neck.

“You wanted to talk to me.” Twisting off the plastic cap, I drank deeply.

“Yes, but it can wait. Just sit there for a moment until you feel better.”

I nodded absently, my gaze moving over the vehicles I could see through the fence. I counted three squad cars and an unmarked SUV that I suspected belonged to Detective Kendrick. A vehicle like that would suit him, I decided. Stealthy, mysterious and more than a little menacing.

As I sat there staring out at the road, a white sedan pulled up alongside the entrance and the elderly driver craned his neck for a look inside the gate. No doubt one of the gawkers Kendrick had warned me about the day before. I was still surprised that more hadn’t come. Murder and mayhem were common attractions. People who led otherwise mundane lives often found crime scenes irresistible.

The driver’s window lowered as the car inched along. A snowy-haired woman in the passenger seat leaned across the console toward her husband in order to get a better look. When the man spotted us beneath the trees, he stopped the car and got out. Putting up a hand to shade his eyes, he walked through the gate and called out to us. “Hello! We saw the police cars and wondered what happened.”

“There’s nothing to see here.” Kendrick gave a dismissive wave. “Just go on about your business.”

“Young man, we have people buried in this cemetery,” the woman scolded from the open car window. “If something happened here, it is our business.”

“Nothing happened in the cemetery,” Kendrick said. “Now get back in your car and move along. You’re blocking the road.”

His harsh admonishment drew twin scowls of disapproval and embarrassment from the couple. The man hustled back to the car and climbed in, grumbling furiously to his wife before shooting Kendrick a contemptuous glare. Then he put the car in gear and drove off.

“Don’t you think you were a bit hard on them?” I asked. “You said yourself the curious would come.”

“They always do. Predictable as clockwork.”

“I would think predictability an asset in your line of work.”

“Depends on your perspective,” he said with a shrug. “When you’ve done what I do long enough, it all starts to seem depressingly the same. Even the victims. Predictability becomes less of an asset and more of an albatross. It’s wearing.”

“Do you really have that much crime in Ascension?” I asked. “It seems like such a sleepy town.”

“I haven’t always lived in Ascension. But human nature is basically the same wherever you go.”

“I understand your point, but I find it difficult to imagine a world in which a woman buried alive inside a caged grave could be considered predictable.”

“As I said, it’s all about perspective.”

I couldn’t tell if his viewpoint was that of a cynic, a sociopath or a little of both.

I set the water bottle aside and leaned back on my hands as I gazed out over the cemetery. I saw nothing among the graves to indicate Darius Goodwine or anyone else had been there only moments earlier. The scent of ozone had faded and the storm clouds that darkened the landscape earlier had now moved back out to sea.

Kendrick kept his distance, standing several feet away in profile, arms at his sides, feet slightly apart. As I studied his silhouette, I became overly aware of the curl of his long lashes, the slight arch of his dark brows. He’d discarded his jacket in the heat so that I couldn’t help but take in the definition of his forearms and biceps and the broad expanse of his chest beneath the dark gray of his shirt.

I wasn’t attracted to Lucien Kendrick, although I could certainly appreciate his attractions. It took nothing away from my feelings for Devlin to admit this. Not that it mattered now that Devlin had removed himself from my life. I felt a pang at that thought and drew in a breath to dispel it.

Kendrick looked up sharply and I felt my face warm as our gazes connected. His expression was hard to define, but the glint in his eyes made me remember yet again Darius Goodwine’s warning to trust no one.

I stirred restlessly on the cooler. “Can I ask you a question?”

He turned once again to watch the road. “What is it?”

I picked up the water bottle, rolling it between my hands. “Your accent. It’s hardly discernible except for the way you pronounce certain words. I’m usually pretty good with dialects, but I haven’t been able to pinpoint it. You’ve a bit of the Sea Islands in certain inflections, but sometimes I would almost swear I hear the trace of a French accent in your vowels.”

“That’s not a question,” he said.

“Where are you from?”

I wasn’t sure he would answer. There was something very dark and furtive about Lucien Kendrick, but to my surprise, he seemed to relax a bit as he moved in a few steps. “You’ve a good ear. Not many people pick up on the accent. I thought I’d lost it years ago.”

“So you are French?”

“A quarter on my father’s side.”

“Is that where you grew up? In France?”

“I was born here in Beaufort County. We lived on Port Royal Island until I was nine, and then after my parents split, my father moved us to New Orleans. When I was thirteen he sent me to Paris to live with his mother. Once I turned eighteen...” The slightest hesitation. “I moved around a lot. Prague, Istanbul...” Another hesitation. “Ghazni.”

I wondered if he’d been in the service. That would explain the way he carried himself, but the eyebrow piercing and body art was at odds with what seemed to be a military bearing.

“What brought you back here? Do you still have family in the area?”

“I’m told my mother lives around here somewhere.” He was silent for a moment. “What about you? Native Charlestonian?”

“I grew up in Trinity. I’ve only lived in Charleston for a couple of years, but I feel as if I have roots in the city. My mother and aunt were born there.”

“Roots are not always good,” Kendrick said. “Sometimes all they do is drag you down.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.’’ I gave him another quick study. “How long have you been back here?”

“Apparently, not long enough to lose my accent.”

He seemed amused, which emboldened me. “Can I ask you another question?”

“You can always ask.”

“You said yesterday that the house I’m renting has a history. What did you mean?”

He lifted a hand to scratch the stubble on his neck. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes, of course. And it must be something you think I should know or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I only brought it up because I found your choice of living arrangements...odd.”

“Why?”

His gaze darted to the church ruins and to the woods beyond. “People say that place is evil.”

Six

Kendrick’s words faded away, leaving a sinister silence. I thought instantly of that shadow moving through the trees, quick and furtive. Then I thought of the inked skull on Kendrick’s hand. The triskele that Darius had drawn in the dirt. The curlicue of a tattoo on the inside of the dead woman’s wrist.

A pattern was starting to form. I felt the tiniest prick of a dark premonition.

“It’s not haunted,” I said, and then realizing he might find my definitive tone curious, I hurriedly added, “At least, I haven’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary in the nearly three months I’ve been living there. My stay has been quite peaceful, in fact.”

“Maybe that has more to do with you than the house,” Kendrick suggested.