Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

I thought about his grandmother and how it would affect her when she found out.

“I have a request.”

The chief rolled his eyes.

“Why am I not surprised?” he said.

“I’d like to talk with the grandmother for a moment before you guys get started.”

“Not a good idea,” Agent Luciana said.

“Look, I’ve already spoken to her once, and believe me when I say the news of her grandson being a killer isn’t going to be easy for her to take. It would be better coming from me, and then you can take over and ask her all the questions you want. It won’t get you anywhere, but if that’s the way you want to go—it’s not like I can stop you.”

“We’ll go easy on her. It’s not necessary for you to be there,” Agent Luciana said.

The inside of my body felt like it was in a tepid room and someone had just cranked up the heat as high as it would go.

“Neither of you would be where you are on this case if it wasn’t for me; maybe you both should take that into consideration. If anyone can get through to her it’s me. So let’s not sit here and waste more time going round and round with this.”

Breathe Sloane, breathe, I told myself. Count to fifty if you have to, but don’t lose it!

Agent Luciana turned to the chief who threw his hands up. I’d won.

“Sloane, I don’t understand what this is all about—why have they called us here?”

I sat in the chair opposite Sinnerman’s grandmother and just looked at her for a moment. Now that we were face to face, all of the sudden I didn’t want to be the one to tell her any longer. I wanted to be anywhere but in that room at that moment. But I’d asked for this, and they were watching. There was no other choice, I had to do it.

I took one of her hands and wrapped my fingers around it. “It’s about your grandson,” I said.

Her eyes lit up like she’d just screwed a shiny new light bulb into a dim-lit light.

“What—have they located him at last? Please tell me you’ve found him. But if we’re here, it must be something bad. Oh no, is he’s dead?” She retracted her hand from mine and thrust both of them toward her face and flicked her head back and forth. “Please tell me he’s not dead.”

“I believe he’s alive and well,” I said.

Or alive anyway—well wasn’t the best choice of word for someone with his degree of instability.

She pulled her hands from her face and relaxed a little.

“Thank goodness. And I’m sure we owe it all to you. Tell me where he is—can we see him?”

“I don’t know where he is,” I said.

“What do you mean? I thought—”

“It’s so hard for me to tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“I can see it in your face,” she said, “and in your eyes. Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“That day I was at your house, I took something from Samuel’s room.”

“What—why?”

“There was a notebook he’d kept wedged between the bed and the dresser, and I wanted to read it.”

“You should have said something.”

We were way past all that now. I leaned in closer.

“The writing in the book matched up with some of the notes your grandson sent me.”

“There’s something you aren’t saying,” she said. “I can feel it in these old tired bones of mine. What is it?”

“How much do you know about the Sinnerman murders?”

“You mean the person responsible for the lives of all those women?”

I nodded.

“I just know what I’ve read in the papers,” she said, “or saw on the news.”

“We have a lead on a suspect and believe we know who he is.”

“That’s great, but why are you telling me all this, dear?”

I took a deep breath. Slow and steady, you can do this.

“The man, Sinnerman—he’s your grandson.”

Her eyes glazed over liked she’d just won the lottery, only to find out when she arrived to claim her millions she hadn’t scratched that last number off right and that winning number six on her ticket was actually an eight.

She spoke, but not to me—to the air around her.

“This can’t be, not my Samuel, surely they’re mistaken. He’s a good boy. He’s had his problems like every other boy, but this? No, I don’t believe it. Not a word of it. You’re wrong, you have to be.”

“Please, I know this is a lot to take in, but I wouldn’t have ever told you this if I wasn’t sure. And believe me when I say I’m sorry.” I placed my hand on her wrist. “I’m so sorry.”

She was silent for a time during which her face changed from a soft pink to dull and ashen, like the life had been sucked out of her.

“When you were at my house, you said you thought my grandson knew your sister—that he was the last person to see her alive,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“How did she die?”

It was the question I hoped she wouldn’t ask, but she had every right to know the answer.

“I’m sure this has been hard on you. I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You can’t say that to an old woman,” she said. “Not after all this.”

“Alright then. My sister was murdered. She was the last woman killed in the first series of attacks a few years ago.”

“And you believe my grandson did it?”

Up until now I’d looked her in the eye, faced her, and told her the truth. I thought about the pain I’d already caused, and I couldn’t do it any longer. My eyes were so filled with liquid I couldn’t see her properly if I tried. I looked away and nodded.

A few seconds went by and we both remained silent. I felt her hand slip from mine, and when I turned to look at her, I noticed her eyes weren’t open anymore and she’d slumped down in her chair. I reached over and felt for a pulse—it wasn’t there. I raced to the door but Coop had already witnessed the commotion through the mirrored glass, and he flung the door open. He looked at the woman and then to me and said, “Way to go, Sloane. Nice job.”

CHAPTER 53

Samuel’s grandmother was transported to the hospital. She’d suffered a heart attack but was expected to get through it. The fact that I was responsible was too much for me. I needed to get out, to breathe. I put on my Band of Horses playlist on my iPod which Maddie called my “sad music” even though I disagreed, and drove to the one place I felt a connection to family.

The cemetery was quiet as usual with all its residents engaged in their eternal sleep. Some of the stones cast shadows on the grass around them. I found Gabby’s grave and positioned my body in front of it and sat down. I grasped both sides of her headstone with my hands and buried my head in the center of it and opened my mouth and let the words flow out of me.

I wish I could talk to you, Gabby—even if for a single moment. I wonder if you’re alive somewhere, living in peace in some type of afterlife, and if you’re happy. I’ve spent the last few years thinking only of you, and I don’t think I can do it anymore. I haven’t felt like myself in such a long time, and I need to move on, live my own life. I know that now. But what I don’t comprehend is how I’m supposed to do that. Here’s my promise to you: I’m going to find Samuel Reids, the person who did this to you, and then I’m going to start my life all over again. You’ll always reside in my heart, and I won’t let a day go by that I won’t think of you. But it’s time for me to let you go and for you to do the same, and maybe that way both of us can find a sense of peace.

Once I’d finished my talk with Gabby, I went back to my car. The slight chill that came with the tail end of August swept past me and reminded me it was almost long sleeve season again. Something moved in the tree next to me, and I halted and pulled my gun from its holster on my hip.