Amanda Stevens - The Sinner

“The police found her huddled on the porch. They figured she must have heard the shotgun blast, got up from bed and went out to the shed to investigate. She may even have tried to resuscitate her father because the police said she was covered in blood. So much so that she looked as if she’d been rolling around in a puddle of gore.”

“That poor child. How old was she when it happened?”

“Around ten, I think. As I said, a lot of this is assumption and guesswork. The girl was the only witness and she’d fallen into some sort of catatonic trance or fugue state. She couldn’t tell the authorities her name let alone what had transpired between her parents.”

“What became of her?”

“She was in a psychiatric hospital for a long time. Then one day she came out of her trance and decided to carry on with her life as though nothing had happened. She claimed to have no memory of that night.”

“I suppose that’s possible. Trauma-induced amnesia isn’t all that rare.”

“Anything’s possible,” he said in a strange tone. “She married and moved away when she was still very young, but after her husband died a few years ago, she came back here. As a matter of fact, you know her. Annalee Nash.”

I stared up at him in shock. “Annalee? But she seems so...”

“Normal?” he supplied with a sardonic lift of one brow. “That’s a relative term.”

Didn’t I know it?

“It’s just that, on the few occasions we’ve spoken, I would never have guessed she’d gone through something so harrowing,” I tried to explain.

“It’s been my experience that people only let you see what they want you to see.” He shot me another knowing look and I returned his shrewd appraisal.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true,” I said slowly, meaningfully.

He glanced away. “It’s also been my experience that the people you would least expect of guile and subterfuge are the most adept at hiding their true nature—at least for a while. But it almost always surfaces sooner or later, sometimes violently.”

“I’ve never sensed anything remotely violent in Annalee Nash. She seems quite gentle.”

“I wasn’t talking about her specifically. We’re all capable of violence under the right circumstances.” Kendrick’s voice hardened ever so slightly. “Even you, I would imagine.”

“Perhaps so.” But I didn’t like to think about my capabilities in that regard. “They never found Mary’s body?”

“Not a trace.”

“Where was her husband buried?”

“Here in this cemetery. They put him over by the back gate, facing north.”

Kendrick’s specificity in the location seemed to suggest that he knew the significance of such an arrangement. Most bodies were laid to rest from east to west, facing sunrise and the Second Coming. But not those who were compromised.

“At least they allowed him to be buried in the churchyard. There was a time when suicides were treated as outcasts,” I told him.

“As you can see, the church has been in ruins for decades and the cemetery has been closed to the public for at least twenty years. So I guess, in a way, George Willoughby was cast out. People tend to hold a lot of superstitions when it comes to old graveyards, but you would know that better than me.”

He seemed to know plenty, and at that, he was only letting me see what he wanted me to see. “Thank you for telling me about the house,” I said. “It’s a fascinating if gruesome story.”

“You aren’t afraid to stay there now that you know?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Some people would turn tail and run after what I just told you.”

“If ghost stories frightened me, would I have chosen my current profession?”

“A good point,” he allowed.

“Besides, it all happened a long time ago and the house seems perfectly at peace.” Which made me wonder if the key I wore around my neck had chased away the spirits, evil and otherwise. It seemed strange that for all my supposed powers and heightened senses, I hadn’t picked up a single discordant vibe from that house. “Anyway, I appreciate your taking the time to tell me about it. But now,” I said briskly, eager to leave behind the disturbing plight of George and Mary Willoughby, “we should probably get back to the business at hand. Wasn’t there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“A couple of things,” Kendrick said, seamlessly switching back to his detective persona as if he were as willing as I for a change of subject. “First, I thought you’d be interested to know that I was able to get in touch with your friend at the state archaeologist’s office. She’s agreed to come down and take a look at the graves. She seemed particularly interested in the cages.”

“I knew she would be. When is she coming?”

“Not until next week, unfortunately. In the meantime, I’ve called in a forensic anthropologist from Charleston that can help with the identification of any skeletal remains we uncover. And I’d like you to come into the morgue this afternoon and take a look at the victim. If you’ve no objection.”

“I’ve no objection. I’m more than willing to help in any way I can, but as I told you yesterday, I know very few people in the area. The odds that I’ll be able to make a positive identification are slim.”

“I understand that. But the victim was alive for a period of time after she was buried. Which means there’s a chance she got to that clearing under her own steam. Maybe she was coerced or lured there or maybe she came of her own free will. In any case, unless she was taken there by way of the swamp, she would have likely come through or at least near the cemetery, perhaps in the company of her killer.”

I felt a chill go through me. I hadn’t considered that possibility.

“Even with so little traffic, it’s still possible you saw something and don’t remember it,” he said. “A face in a car window or someone in the woods. All I ask is that you view the remains with an open mind.”

I nodded. “When do you want me to come in?”

“Let’s say one o’clock. I’ll meet you there and walk you through it.”

“Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. I would never expect you to do this alone. Although...” His gaze swept over me, deep and fathomless. “You strike me as someone who is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

For some reason, I didn’t think he meant it as a compliment.

* * *

I left the cemetery in time to stop by the house for a quick shower and change of clothes before I drove into town. The silence of the place bothered me now that I knew the grisly history, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the story Kendrick had told me. There would be time enough later to explore the rooms with a new eye and perhaps even take a stroll through the orchard to the shed.

For now, I busied myself with the mundane tasks of drying my hair and refilling Angus’s water bowl on the back porch and then propping open the screen door so that he could come and go as he pleased. But I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder now and then. I couldn’t help thinking that the vibe of the house had been subtly altered by my newfound knowledge.

I chalked it all up to imagination as I drove into town and followed Kendrick’s directions to the hospital morgue. I didn’t relish the task that lay before me. The last time I’d been near a morgue, the voices of the dead had filled my head, making me aware of another terrifying aspect of my gift. I’d later come to believe that the recently deceased had somehow opened a door, allowing the trapped and restless souls of Kroll Cemetery to make contact with me. Once the ghosts had been released, the voices had faded, though I didn’t expect the silence to last for much longer. Not after my discovery of those mortsafes.