Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

“That’s okay,” I said. “I get it, no need to explain any further.”

He shook his head.

“Not to you maybe, but we still have to tell the boss, and he ain’t gonna be happy.”

“What about the other guy?” I said. “Where was he?”

“He was supposed to keep a look out, but he got distracted by a deer. I know, sounds stupid, huh? But we don’t see stuff like that where we’re from.”

“To be honest, I didn’t know anyone was still assigned to me,” I said. “Not with that guy in custody and everything.”

The wrong guy.

“Boss had some doubt. Said you didn’t think it was him and to stay with you until he said otherwise.”

“So what else do you guys do when you’re not coming to my rescue?” I said.

A smile formed on Lucio’s lips and he winked at me.

“Nice try, lady.” He wagged his finger at me. “For a smart girl, I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet. You expect me to believe you don’t know?”

A figure appeared from the side of a huge boulder. We raised our guns in synchronized motion.

Lucio shouted, “Sal, that you?”

“It’s me,” the guy said.

Lucio turned to me. “It’s okay, he’s one of us.” He gave Sal a stern look and said,

“Well?”

Sal shrugged but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Can’t find him. I looked everywhere. No blood, nothin’. It’s like the guy was never here.”

“Boss won’t be happy ‘bout this,” he said.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said.

Sal and Lucio looked at each other and laughed and Lucio said, “Lady, you got a lot to learn.”

I looked back but didn’t say a word. So did they.

CHAPTER 36

Sam Reids hunched over the stove in his kitchen and nursed his wound. The bullet from Sloane’s gun nicked him in the shoulder and it stung like he’d doused it in alcohol and held it there. Going to the hospital was out of the question, and he knew what had to be done—he’d have to extract the bullet himself.

He took a long hard swig of whiskey and another, and then poured some of it on the afflicted area. It was now or never. With his sterilized knife in hand, Sam stabbed at the gaping hole. The impact of the knife on his exposed flesh was more than he could stand, and he squealed like a pig headed for the slaughter. He jerked from one side to the other and wished he could knock himself unconscious rather than endure the pain a second more.

Sam tried to set aside the constant throb that pounded like the beat of a heart and inched the knife deeper until he reached the place where the bullet had lodged. He dug around until he had a firm grip and then harvested it from its position inside his body. Once it dislodged, he grabbed it with his free hand and heaved it across the room. It smacked hard against the wall and fell in silence to the carpet below. Sam dipped the blade of his knife into the open flame on his gas stove and then, when it was hot enough, he pressed it against his flesh. The smell permeated the room and it looked like his flesh had melted, but after a moment, the wound seared shut and he tossed the knife into the sink.

Sam didn’t want to admit his plan turned out to be such a grandiose failure or that Sloane was more prepared than he anticipated. She was alone, vulnerable, and in the perfect position for him to strike, and yet he failed. He thought it would be easier to catch her—he was sure she would struggle, but to fight back like she did without hesitation and through pure instinct was a shock to him. Sloane was strong and resilient, and to catch her would require serious thought.

He hadn’t planned on the two goons who showed up either. The bait he set with the fake Sinnerman in custody had all been for naught. Why hadn’t her protection been called off like he thought they’d be—didn’t they think they had their killer? It didn’t make sense. She should have been in his possession now, locked up in a room in his basement that he’d prepared just for her, his most prized possession. But his plan had failed, and he wondered how long it would take for it all to unravel. Now there were loose ends to take care of, and he cringed at the thought of it. One of those loose ends was Sloane, and Sam wanted to make her pay. He’d make them all pay.

CHAPTER 37

I sat on a sofa in a room the size of my entire house that was embellished in warm shades of burgundy, brown, and gold. Every wall was adorned with at least one piece of art, many were works by famous artists, but unlike so many replicas I’d seen in other homes, I had no doubt these were originals.

In another room a group of men were enthralled in a parley of some kind. From what I could hear, it was Giovanni, Sal, and Lucio. Giovanni tried to muffle his voice and keep a sense of composure, but his tone was tense, and his words—sharp. He reprimanded them for letting me out of their sight and for the fact that Sinnerman was still out there somewhere and what that reality meant for me, and what that would mean for them if anything happened to me because of it. His voice conveyed genuine concern, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. A minute later the only sound I heard was the persistent twitch of the clock that hung on the wall in front of me. The front door closed, and Giovanni joined me in the living room.

“I know it doesn’t change things,” I said, “but they tried to protect me.”

He sat down next to me and remitted a cup of tea.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“For whatever reason, lately I’ve felt like the girl in school who gets all the boys in trouble. I didn’t know I was still being shadowed by your men, or I never would have gone up there in the first place and put them through all that. I’m sure they drained themselves just to keep up. There’s no way they could have been expected to—”

He placed his hand on my leg which stopped me mid-sentence. Why did I lose all concentration every single time he got anywhere near any part of my body? It bugged me.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Sloane,” he said.

That type of sentiment was too much, too soon, and I wished for an eject button on the side of the chair that would hurl me toward the sky before I felt any more out of my element than I already did. Giovanni just sat there and stared into my eyes with such tenacity, a confidence that I almost always had, but right now, for whatever reason I didn’t. Instead, I pointed at one of the paintings on the wall and said, “Which one is your favorite? They’re all so different from each other.” Lame.

“All of them. I have a deep appreciation for art which I attribute to the fact that I cannot draw to save my life. And I’ve found that when I’m unable to do something, I either learn how to, or in this case, I gain a much deeper respect for it.”

“That’s the way I feel about books,” I said. “I never did any good in English class in school, and the grades I received on my essays were even worse, so it was easy for me to pick up a book and get swept away with how the words are articulated on the page. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. Reading brings me so much happiness. I can pick up a book and become so engrossed in the story, I forget everything that’s going on around me.”

“We have a great deal in common.”

“I think so too,” I said.

“We should talk about what happened to you today.”

I sat back and crossed my legs and took a sip of my tea.

“It was him,” I said. “Sinnerman.”

His face turned from playful and soft to grim in an instant.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded.

“He approached me from behind with a needle, and we’ve already determined that he sedates his victims when he takes them,” I said. “It’s his M.O.”